Andie

[epiphanyrogers]

⋆ ʊ ⋆ STEVE ROGERS AND THE WINTER KID

⤷ outlaws!stucky x fem!reader

⸝⸝ SUMMARY ─ ❝ as an outlaw, steve rogers has two rules: keep moving, and don't go back. but for you he's broken the second one more times than he can count. he comes when he can, leaves before dawn, and you don't ask what he gets up to in between. until one night it's not just steve at your door, but his partner, bucky barnes, with your outlaw bleeding through his shirt and bounty hunters four days behind them. ❞ ⧽ 23k

！SMUT, like seriously there is so much smut in this (3 separate scenes lol), dry humping, cock grinding, p in v, fingering, handjob, voyeurism/exhibitionism, masturbation (m), slight pervy!bucky?, oral (m & f receiving), threesome (reader goes to paris!), m/m content, praise kink, hair pulling, soft doms!stucky but lowkey switch!steve!, heavy yearning, three idiots in love, kinda one bed trope?, slow burn, shameless flirt bucky, bisexual awakening!stucky, angst, probably very medically inaccurate wound treatment, probably also historical inaccuracies, frontier/wild west AU, 18+ MDNI ⤷ from mads: this is my contribution to the Captain Americana film festival collab for steve's birthday (happy belated birthday stevie!!). i decided to base my fic off the film "butch cassidy and the sundance kid", because the first time i watched this i was just like... oh this is my stucky cowboy AU fr. plus, i thought steve deserved both you and bucky as his birthday present. half of this was written sleep deprived so sorry for any errors » cowboy edits of steve and bucky made by me with canva, pinterest and a dream please be kind and don't look too closely xx » MASTERLIST

Frontier towns always think they can tell a good man from a bad one.

A good man does honest work with honest hands. A good man comes to church on Sundays. Most importantly, a good man is known - by his name, his family, and his business. In a town like this, familiarity passes easily for virtue. A bad man, then, is the one nobody can place. And the town, never fond of a question, fills it with the worst thing it can imagine.

The law has a simpler system still. 

One that decrees who is a man and who is a wanted man. It prints the latter on paper and nails it somewhere decent folk can see. Ink drawings of men with shadowed eyes and a jaw made harsher by the hand that drew it. Beneath that is the list of wrongs they have done, and a number in dollars that someone is willing to pay to see him answer for them.

Fifty dollars for a fool. Five hundred for a danger. Five thousand for a dead man walking.

Women, of course, have their own sorting. Just like bad men, women have a value. Only women are rarely granted the dignity of being weighed by their own choices. Instead, they too are valued by a bad man’s wrongdoings. 

What he has done to her. Or what he is rumoured to have done with her. Or what he wanted badly enough to lie about. That is how a town makes its ladies. That is how it makes its whores, too.

There are no other kinds of women. Not in this town, or anywhere else for that matter. A third kind would require people to admit women have lives beyond the reach of men’s hands, and no one is in any hurry to go inviting that sort of trouble.

By all accounts, the town had decided kindly on you. A credit to the schoolhouse and a blessing to the children you teach. They would say that you are a fine young lady, and that any good man would be lucky to have you.

No good man, so far, has come and asked. Perhaps that should worry you more than it did. After all, a woman could only remain a fine young lady for so long before the title began to sour on her. A woman in your position was expected to want a steady hand, a clean name,and a ring bought with honest wages. A good man, by the town’s binary judgement.

Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.

So that’s why tonight, like every other night, your walk home is made alone. Save for the company of crickets keeping up their endless racket, and the watchful hum of a town that likes to sleep with one eye open.

Your skirts hush against the dry grass as you walk further beyond the last few houses, where the town thins to prairie. There waits your little house at the edge of it all, porch sunk crooked in the middle and windows dark as shut eyes. Except the window over the washstand that’s still open; it never sits quite right in its frame. It swells in the summer heat, shrinks in the winter cold, and no matter the season, refuses to latch unless you lean your weight against it. 

You’ve been putting off fixing it for months. A respectable man might have fixed it for you by now, had one ever made himself useful.

By the time you step through your front door, the night has drawn close around the house. Moonlight slips through the narrow gap in the curtains, laying a soft glow across the floorboards. Enough to not bother with a lamp.

The schoolbooks go on the table. You set your hat beside them. Your boots are worked off by the bed, left where they fall. Then your fingers find the buttons of your dress.

The first slips free at your throat, then the second follows. The dress loosens by degrees, surrendering the shape of the schoolteacher the town knows so well, until all that remains is the woman beneath it. You drag in a deeper breath, eyes falling shut for a moment as the pressure eases. There is no sweeter mercy than taking off the day. No greater pleasure than unlacing yourself from what the world expected you to be.

With one hand still at your bodice, you turn towards the washstand. 

Your eyes catch on a shadow in the chair by your bed. A shocked gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it, sharp and uselessly small in the dark of your room. 

At first, he is only a shape amongst shapes. 

But the shadow is too still for a drunk, too quiet for a fool, and too comfortable for any man with honest business in a woman’s bedroom after dark. The chair complains beneath the size of him. One boot is planted flat against the floorboards, the other stretches lazily before him. A hand rests on his thigh, and something metallic in it glints in the moonlight.

It points straight at you.

Your breath stalls somewhere high in your chest, trapped behind the open buttons at your throat as your vision adjusts slowly to the dim light. His coat hangs open over a shirt that used to be white, now marked with trail dust and the stain of something you hope is mud.

The gunman tilts his head, and only then does the dark give up the glinting blue of his eyes - fixed on you with the possessive satisfaction of a man finding what he came for. They drop slowly to where your dress has come loose at your throat, exposing the delicate slope beneath your collarbone, and the first soft swell of your chest. Enough skin to make a decent man look away and a worse one very glad he didn’t.

An appreciative rumble hums low from his lips, before his thumb draws back the hammer of his gun with a pointed click.

“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”

For a moment, you’re frozen. Just standing there with your fingers still curled in the loosened front of your dress, breath held tight beneath your ribs. The room narrows to the man in your chair and the gun pointed steady in his hand. He watches you without speaking, patient as a hunter, until he gives an expectant nod of the head.

Slowly, your fingers move again, buttons slipping free beneath your touch. His eyes fixate on the reveal, tongue dipping out the wet his bottom lip in anticipation.

By any measure the town would use, he is a bad man. By the sheriff’s ledger, or by the schoolmaster’s careful catechism about the sorts of men a young lady ought to avoid, the man in your chair is exactly the kind of ruin women are warned against.

You have never much cared for the schoolmaster’s catechism.

Instead your gaze drags over him in return, less innocent than the gasp you might have given. Over the breadth of his shoulders where his shirt pulls tight beneath his open coat. Over the narrowness of his waist and the careless sprawl of his body in your chair, as though he belongs there. Over the powerful thighs spread wide as he sat, revealing the hard, unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. Indecent in its honesty and all the more shameless for the way he makes no attempt to hide it.

He watches you notice it, too. Watches your eyes catch and linger, watches your throat work around the breath you have not quite managed to take.

The last button slips free.

Your dress gives way, sliding from your shoulders and falling in a soft heap around your feet. It leaves you in your chemise, though the thin cotton does such a poor job of covering you that the word feels generous. Moonlight passes through it almost cleanly, turning the fabric pale and sheer over the shape of your body: the curve of your waist, the shadow between your thighs, the soft weight of your breasts barely hidden beneath it. 

Your nipples tighten into hard little points against the cloth, visible enough that you know he must see them. The knowledge makes your skin burn hotter than any shame ought to allow.

A deep, pleased groan escapes his chest.

The gun stays steady in his hand, but the other shifts against his thigh, fingers flexing into the worn fabric before his palm slides higher. He presses over himself through his trousers, just enough to ease some of the ache there. Just enough to make no secret of what the sight of you has done to him.

“Good girl,” he drawls, “prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

Your stomach pulls tight at the praise, and your thighs press together beneath the thin fall of your chemise before you can think better of giving him any satisfaction.

But the satisfaction arrives in the slight curve of his mouth before he rises from the chair. God, he’s tall, taller than he looks sitting down. And broader too.

If the dark had made a threat of him, the moonlight makes something worse. It loves him. There’s no other word for the way it lingers on him as he steps closer. 

It slips first over the dirty blond hair that has fallen loose beneath the brim of his hat. Then it catches on his face, and there’s no mercy for you in how gently it treats him. Long lashes cast low shadows under his eyes, and whatever blue hasn’t been swallowed by desire or the dark gleams too bright. His mouth is plusher than it ought to be on a man with a gun in his hand. Soft in a way the beard can’t rough out, though it tries.

It decorates his jaw, dragging a little danger back over a face that might have been too pretty without it.

The kind of face you know.

It’s nailed up outside the mercantile for decent folk to study and condemn. Some sheriff’s artist had done his best to make a villain of him in ink, darkening the eyes, sharpening the jaw, flattening the mouth into something easier to fear. Anything, perhaps, to keep a lady from looking too long and noticing what the moonlight gives away in your bedroom. 

Better, then, to look beneath his name at the hefty four figure sum printed there. And remember what kind of man earns a price like that.

A careful one, you would think.

A man worth that much should know better than to stand so close. And he should definitely know better than to let his defences drop. Most of all, he should know better than to let desire soften the hand with the gun in it. 

You move quickly. A sharp twist, a shift of your weight, and the revolver is in your hand instead of his. Then your palm hits the centre of his chest and you shove your weight against his chest.

He falls a little too easily back onto the bed with a rough laugh, his hat knocked loose and tumbling somewhere behind him. You follow before he can sit up, climbing over him with one knee pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. The chemise rides high on your thighs as you settle your weight over him, and his hands instantly find a home there. 

You the press barrel up under his jaw with enough pressure to make him tilt his head back against the quilt, exposing the long line of his throat. All that arrogant ease goes still beneath you. Then his Adam's apple bobs beneath the rough gold of his beard, and the ridiculous blue of his eyes go wide.

He looks stunned. Worse, even, he looks delighted, as though some wicked part of him had been hoping all along that you would do exactly this.

You lean down until only inches remain between you, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate further, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“You’re late, Rogers.”

He doesn’t reply straightaway. Instead, his eyes move over your face as though the rest of the room has fallen away, as though the weeks and the miles have all narrowed done to this - to you. Sat above him in the moonlight, furious and half-naked and close enough to touch. There’s something in his expression far too soft for the size of him, too tender for the outlaw laid out beneath you with a revolver pressed to his throat.

Something that looks almost like disbelief, as if he had spent the whole ride dreaming of you and even still, you looked sweeter than his dreams. Like he can’t quite believe the world has been kind enough to put you in front of him again, and now that he’s here, he means to drink down every inch of you before it can change its mind.

Then the tension eases out of him all at once.

His body goes loose beneath yours, the last of the game slipping from his shoulders as his hands slide higher up your thighs. They wrap around your ass, warm and possessive. The corner of his mouth curves, slow and devastatingly boyish beneath the ruggedness of his beard. Entirely too pleased for a man currently pinned beneath his own gun.

“Missed me?” he drawls, already sure of the answer

You press the gun harder into the soft skin beneath his jaw in answer. His fingers tighten on your thighs, as his hips shift beneath yours. It’s only a small, helpless grind, but it’s enough for you to feel the hard line of his cock twitch against the heat between your legs. The satisfaction of feeling his need for you is almost enough to make you forget you’re angry. 

Almost.

“You were supposed to be here three days ago,” you remind him, intending to be stern, but not convinced you achieved it.

“Train was delayed,” Steve replies, his blue eyes bright with the kind of trouble men get hanged for.

Your eyes narrow. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Train was delayed ‘cause I robbed it.”

His thumbs trace slow circles over your hipbones, familiar and possessive, like he has any right to soothe you after being the source of your concern. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”

You scoff, “I was debating whether, if the bounty hunters didn’t put a bullet in you, I ought to do it myself.”

It would’ve sounded better if your voice hadn’t come out breathier than you intended. If his body were not so solid and warm beneath you, his thighs hard muscle under your spread legs, his hands moving against your skin as though he had been starving for the feel of it.

“Gun’s not loaded,” His voice goes quieter there, the teasing easing at the edges. “Never is. You think I’d point a loaded gun at you?”

You hate him a little for that. For the empty gun. For the fact that some stubborn, tender part of him had crossed God knows how many miles with a bounty on his head and still remembered to make his filthy little performance safe. 

You hate him more for making you care enough to count the days. For making the nights stretch mean when he doesn’t come when he’s meant to. For making you understand, with an anger that burns too hot to be good, what sort of woman waits on a bad man.

“Don’t mean I’m not angry with you,” you whisper, though there’s no bite in your voice.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Yeah?” His hands slide back along your thighs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten, high enough to make the thin cotton of your chemise feel like no barrier at all. “Want to show me how angry?”

Your throat tightens. The revolver drops from your hand onto the quilt beside his head. Steve’s eyes lift to yours, and there he is beneath the outlaw. Tired, alive, and yours for the few hours he has no right to give you.

You kiss him hard, pouring all that fear and anger and need into his mouth.

Steve takes it with a groan, his head dropping back against the quilt again. One hand leaves your thigh to catch the back of your neck and drag you closer. This isn't a careful reunion. He bites your lip and the sound you make against his mouth ruins whatever patience he had left.

His tongue pushes possessively into your mouth, licking into you until your fingers twist in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold. When you rock down against him, grinding the damp heat of your pussy over the hard line of his cock through too much fabric, his answering sound catches high and helpless in his throat.

“I ought to punish you for makin’ me wait,” you breathe against his mouth, though the threat loses some of its dignity when your hips roll down again and your own breath breaks at the friction.

Steve’s hand tightens on your neck, keeping you close enough that his lips brush yours when he answers. “You ought to.”

Your hands shove at his coat, dragging it off his shoulders with more force than grace. Steve only helps enough to get free, too busy chasing your mouth again, greedy and open, his tongue sweeping against yours like he’s trying to taste every desperate sound he’s pulled from you. You tug at the buttons of his shirt next, fingers clumsy on the open collar before patience fails you entirely and you pull hard enough to strain the buttons.

You need skin. Need the warmth of him under your palms and the pulse of him beneath your mouth.

“I ought to send you back out the window you came in.”

His grin returns at that, mischief bright in his eyes despite the way his cock twitches under you. “You ought to get that fixed,” he rumbles, one hand sliding possessive over your waist. “Who knows what kind of bad men could get in?”

You punish him for the clever little comment with another roll of your hips. Steve’s fingers clamp around your waist and the sound he makes is almost a whine, mouth falling open against yours.

His chest rises hard beneath your hands, broad and golden in the moonlight, warm muscle shifting under your palms with every rough breath he takes. Scars litter his skin - some you know the stories of and some he has never given you. You touch them anyway, touch him anyway, needing the proof of him beneath your palms. Then your hips grind down again, and his stomach flexes, abs pulling tight as he lets out a rough groan.

“I ought to make you beg,” you whisper, mouth dragging down over his jaw, his beard rough against your lips as you kiss the place where his heartbeat pounds beneath his skin.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve breathes, hands holding you tight over the thick, straining shape of him. “You ought to.”

Your chemise has ridden high over your thighs, and every drag of your body over his makes the ache in you sharper.

“Start with sorry,” you instruct.

Steve’s breath catches when you slow the roll of your hips, turning the grind into something almost cruel. His hands flex at your waist, big enough to move you if he wanted, strong enough that he could flip you easily. But instead he lies there beneath you, shirt open and cock hard under your weight, letting you make him wait. Letting you have this dizzying power over him and looking up at you like he would let you ruin him if you asked sweetly enough.

His throat works beneath your mouth.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, raising an expectant brow. His thumbs stroke once over your hips, softernow.

Steve’s eyes flick over your face, softening at whatever he finds there. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Satisfied with his obedience, you lean down to kiss him again in reward. But Steve catches the breath between your mouths, his lips brushing yours when he adds, quieter, “I’m sorry I have to leave again at dawn.”

You still completely. Steve’s eyes find yours beneath his mussed hair, and there is and ache there so open it makes your chest hurt. Too honest for a man who’s worth more dead than most men will ever be alive. You can’t bare it for long. Your mouth finds his again, harder this time, before the feeling can name itself. That foolish hope of keeping a man who only ever comes to you with one foot already out the door.

“Then don’t waste my night, cowboy,” you breathe against his lips, rolling your hips down until his cock jerks beneath you. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”

Steve answers with his hands. A sudden greed of them at your waist, then sliding further up beneath your chemise. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. Then he’s tugging the fabric higher, impatient now, and you lift your arms before he has to ask. 

He drags the cotton over your head, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes until the night air has you bare above him.

His gaze rakes over you with such naked want that your stomach clenches. Over the tight peaks of your nipples, and lower still till to where you are spread over him in nothing but your drawers and stockings, already damp enough that the fabric clings between your thighs.

Steve’s hands tighten at your hips, his thumbs dragging once over the bare skin above your drawers. 

“You missed me somethin’ awful, didn’t you?” he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching, though his voice comes out rougher than the smile deserves.

You should scold him for that. You mean to, truly. But then his mouth closes over your breast, and the words break apart in your throat.

His beard scrapes over your skin as he sucks your nipple between his lips, tongue dragging over the tight peak before his teeth catch, sharp enough to make you dry out. Your hands fly to his hair, and you tug - meaner than you intend - but Steve groans against your tit, delighted.

“Love it when you’re mean,” he pants against your skin, mouth moving to the other breast, leaving the first wet with his spit in the moonlight.

His head tips beneath your grip, golden hair sliding through your fingers. He lets you guide him, all that size and strength beautiful under your hands. Because for all his sins, Steve is clever enough to know there’s power in obedience when it comes to the right woman.

His hands shove your drawers down over your hips, hurried and clumsy for the first time all night. They catch at your knees before you kick them away, leaving you naked above him, trembling with the kind of want no decent woman was ever supposed to admit by name.

Your fingers go to his trousers, but the buttons take too long. You curse them for it, and Steve gives a breathless little laugh that dies the second your hand slips inside and wraps around him. His cock springs free, slapping heavy against your thigh, already leaking at the tip. Precum smears against your skin as he twitches there, hard enough to make your mouth go dry.

It’s like you forget just how big he is until he’s in your hand again, fat and veined and heavy enough to make you wonder if he’ll still fit. But your cunt clenches desperately around nothing like it already knows the answer.

You sink your teeth into your lower lip and drag yourself over him, sliding the wet heat of your pussy along the length of his cock. He groans at the first slick pass, at the way your folds part around him, coating him in creamy white wetness until every rock of your hips makes an obscene, sticky sound between you.

The fat head catches against your clit with each pass, enough to make your hips stutter and your head tip back with a needy little whine. But Steve’s arms clamp over your hips, muscles flexing as he keeps you humping his cock. His precum mixes with the mess dripping from your needy hole, smearing over his shaft and down onto the golden muscle of his stomach under you.

“Fuck, ‘atta girl,” he rasps, head falling back against the quilt. “Get my cock nice and wet. Make yourself feel good, use me.”

So you grind down harder, slicking his cock with the mess he’s made of you, feeling his abs flex beneath your hands every time his tip nudges your tight entrance.

“Steve,” you whine, nails digging into this skin hard enough to leave marks. “I want it. I want your cock in me.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, and the little edge of a grin he tries for doesn’t last. Not when you reach between you, wrap your hand around the thick, wet length of him. “Then take it, ma’am. It’s yours.”

You push up on your knees, thighs trembling on either side of him, the thick muscle of Steve’s biceps bunching as he holds you steady. His cock pulses with anticipation in your grip, veins standing out beneath your palm as you line him up with your entrance. 

You’re both wet enough that it should be easy, your cream smeared down his shaft, his precum sticky on your fingers. But the first push of the mushroom tip stretches you open with a burn so sweet and full it feels like being split in half. Your mouth falls open the same moment his does, both of you moaning at the sensation after weeks without each other. 

Your pussy flutters around him, tight and greedy, sucking him in with little needy clenches that make his hands dig harder into your hips. 

“Missed this,” he groans, every muscle in him straining with the effort not to thrust up and take more than you give. “Missed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkin’ about it.”

The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt, sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping around him as you sink lower. Your head tips back, his name spilling from your lips in broken little sounds as you take him inch by inch.

Steve’s eyes fix on where you’re joined, watching the slow, wet slide of himself disappearing inside you. His jaw clenches beneath his beard, every muscle in him pulled taut like the sight of your tight pussy struggling around him might make him spill inside you before you’ve even taken all of him. 

When your hips finally meet his, the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix and it empties your head clean of any coherent though. You feel him twitch inside you as your walls give a wet squeeze around him, your cunt clinging tight like it needs a second to believe it’s taken all of him. 

“Fuck, Steve,” you whine, nails dragging over his chest. “You’re so big.”

You slowly try and find a rhythm, rolling your hips down until the tip of his cock hits deep enough to make your whole body jolt. The first few strokes are messy, your thighs trembling as you lift and sink. But Steve’s palms stay firm at your hips, helping you find the rhythm, holding you steady while you fuck yourself down onto him.

“But you’re takin’ it, sweet girl,” he groans, helping you down harder, pulling you into each stroke until your tits bounce and the room fills with the slick slap of your body meeting his. “Takin’ my cock so pretty. Always do.”

The bed complains beneath you, wood knocking softly against the wall, but it’s nothing compared to the wet, shameless sound of your pussy taking him over and over. 

“Steve—” Your voice breaks into a cry when he hits that deep spot again, “Need—fuck—”

Your pace turns desperate, hips rolling and lifting, chasing the thick slide of him inside you. Every time you sink down, your cunt grips him tighter, cream slicking the base of his cock in a white ring that smears against his skin and drips lower, making a filthy mess of his heavy balls.

Steve’s eye’s darken at the sight. “Pretty cunt’s makin’ such a mess on my cock, can feel her squeezin’ me. Feel you gettin’ close.”

You nod, pathetic and needy. “I need you,” you gasp, “Steve, please, I’m—”

His hand leaves your hip and slips between you, thumb finding your swollen clit. Your rhythm breaks, hips jerking as a needy moan catches in your throat. You try to keep riding him, but it turns sloppy fast, more grinding than bouncing now, your body chasing his hand while his cock stays buried deep inside you.

“That’s what you needed, sweetheart?” Steve rasps, watching you fall apart above him. “Then let me feel that tight pussy come on my cock.”

The pressure snaps tight in your belly, sharp enough to steal the air from you. One more stroke of his thumb, one more dirty grind down on his cock, and your orgasm crashes through you.

Your cunt strangles his cock, pulsing around him in tight, wet flutters. “Fuck,” he grunts out, hands grabbing for hips as his restraint finally snaps. “Fuck, ma’am, can’t—”

One second you’re on top of him, shaking through it, and the next his strength is under you and around you, flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing at all. Steve settles between your thighs with a groan as he drives back into your soaked cunt in one deep thrust that punches the breath from your lungs.

“Steve!” You sob his name, oversensitive and helpless under him, but your legs hook around his waist anyway. Steve fucks into you harder, deeper, mouth catching yours in a messy kiss.

“There you go,” he grits out, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh high against his hip. “‘Atta girl. Fuck, you feel too good, this cunt’s tryin’ to keep me.”

You can’t answer, not properly. Not with him pounding into you like this, all that leashed strength finally let loose, his cock dragging over your oversensitive walls while your legs shake around him. All you can do is cling to him and babble his name, too ruined to do anything but take it.

His thrusts turn rougher as his cock throbs inside you. At the last second, Steve pulls out with a broken groan, his hand wrapping around his slick cock as he spills hot over your stomach. Hot white ropes spill across your skin while his hips jerk into his fist, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making of you like it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in weeks.

Steve’s strokes slow, his fist still wrapped around himself as the last of his release spills over your belly. His eyes drag from the mess on your skin to your face, and his expression softens instantly. 

“Good girl,” he rumbles, thumb smearing through the mess he’s made before he seems to remember himself. His mouth finds yours once, beards scratching softly over your skin as you make a tired little sound against his mouth. “Took me so good, sweets. So fuckin’ good for me.”

His lips move over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, murmuring praise between each kiss, until the words sink under your skin. Then he forces himself away with a rough breath, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off before shoving his trousers down his hips. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the rest of his clothes.

Naked, he crosses to the washstand with all that golden muscle and road-worn swagger, shoulders broad in the moonlight, hair mussed from your hands. He comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you himself. 

One big hand rests tenderly at your hip while the other wipes his come from your stomach. His gaze flicks up to yours once when you shiver, mouth curving beneath his beard, but he doesn’t tease. He only drags the cloth lower, gentle between your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess from your skin.

“So perfect,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath your ribs when he’s done. “My best girl.”

Tossing the cloth aside, he climbs into bed beside you, greedy for your warmth. His arm hooks around you waist instantly, dragging you back against him like even the few inches between your bodies are more than he can spare. His chest presses warm against your back, his thigh slides between yours, and his mouth finds your shoulder before you’ve even settled.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Steve keeps kissing you anyway, and his hand rests heavy over your stomach, fingers spread wide like he means to keep you against him forever. But his thumb moves gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. A quiet apology against your skin. You’re half asleep by the time your voice finds him again.

“Missed you Stevie,” you mumble, so low he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for every breath. “Was worried.”

Steve goes still behind you for a moment, then his thumb starts moving again, slow over the bare skin of your stomach like he can soothe the ache he put there. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to leave you countin’ days.”

“What really happened?”

Steve exhales slowly behind you, mouth pressing to your shoulder before he answers, like he can feel the tightness gathering there already. “Train job got messy. Payroll car was heavier than we heard, and the guard had more friends than sense. Had to ride south after, lose a posse near the creekbed.” His hand tightens when your brow pinches in worry, though your eyes stay closed. “No, honey. Not like that. They got a shot off, but it only grazed me.”

Your eyes crack open. “Only?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” he breathes, trying for that crooked little arrogance and not quite managing it. “Takes more than that to put me down.”

You make a sleepy, displeased sound and press back harder into him, grumbling something unkind into the pillow

Steve huffs a quiet laugh and presses his smile to your shoulder. “Mean little thing,” he whispers, but his arm tightens around you, and his lips linger. “I’m alright. Truly. Just took longer than I wanted.”

After that, the room settles around you. His hand stays where it is, warm and broad over your middle, and his breathing slows behind you.You’re almost asleep when the thought slips out of you, small and wounded.

“Don’t wake me when you leave.”

His chest stops moving against your back.

“I mean it,” you add, fingers finding his where they rest over your stomach. “I can’t watch you choose the door.”

That one hurts him. You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist like some selfish part of him wants to promise he won’t go at all. For a second, you think he might argue. But Steve Rogers has never been cruel enough to promise something so foolish.

“Alright,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’ll leave quiet.”

You nod once, already drifting, but your fingers tighten around his. Steve turns his hand beneath yours and holds on. “But I’m here now,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin. “Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”

Morning doesn’t wake you kindly.

One moment you’re warm enough to feel the man behind you, and the next your hand is sliding across the mattress, reaching for a body that is no longer there. Still, you lie with your hand pressed to the place where Steve had been, as if there might still be enough of him left in the sheets to count for something.

The scrape of his beard still burns faintly along your shoulder. Your thighs ache when you shift. Proof everywhere, and still no man beside you.

The day doesn’t care. It waits for no woman, least of all one foolish enough to miss a man with four figures under his name. So you get up.There is no use in grieving a man who is not dead, and no sense in missing a man who warned you he would go.

You go about your morning routine and pull on your dress, fastening every button back into place until the schoolteacher returns piece by piece. Nothing to suggest what an outlaw had done to her in the dark. By the time your books are gathered, your hands have almost stopped shaking.

You check the stove before you leave. The door latch. The chair by the bed, sitting innocent in the morning light, as if it hadn’t held an outlaw the night before. Last, out of habit more than thought, you cross to the window over the washstand.

Your hand is already braced to force it closed when you freeze. The window is shut.

Not forced down, not wedged in crooked, not sitting stubborn in its swollen frame. Shut. Properly shut. The latch sits clean in its catch, holding firm beneath the careful press of your fingers.

It’s silly, really, to stand there with your throat gone tight over a fixed window. But it’s what almost does you in. Your bad man, making sure no worse men can get in.

Weeks pass with no word from your outlaw.

You tell yourself that’s likely for the best. Good news rarely travels fast where men like Steve Rogers are concerned; bad news, however, travels like wildfire. Still, each morning you find yourself scanning the newspaper columns with a sour twist in your stomach, looking for his name with morbid compulsion and praying not to find it. It’s the same grim, self-torturous routine every day, waiting for the one where some column out west reports Steve Rogers and the Winter Kid dead, captured, or hanged.

By night, the worry is worse. It follows you into bed and slips into your dreams, filling up the space Steve left empty. You sleep poorly when sleep comes at all, one ear tuned toward the road like a fool, listening for hoofbeats you’ve no good reason to expect, yet hope for all the same.

But it isn’t hoofbeats that pull you from slumber tonight.

It’s the violent thud of a fist hammering on your front door, hard enough to shake the frame and send you bolting upright with your heat already halfway up your throat.

“Hello?!” a man shouts through the door, breathless and frantic. “Miss! For God’s sake, tell me you’re in there!”

He swears under his breath, his voice comes again, but lower this time. “Goddammit, Rogers, if you gave me the wrong damn house—”

His fist hits the door again, harder now, rattling the latch in its frame.

“Open up! Please, open the door!” he yells. “Name’s Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I’ve got Rogers with me, and he’s shot real bad!”

Steve. Shot badly.

The words make your blood run cold, but fear is not enough to make you foolish. Graveyards are full of women who opened up because they believed bad men with good stories.

“Miss!” Barnes shouts, followed by a strained grunt and the scrape of boots dragging over your porch boards. “Please! I ain’t got time to stand here proper, he’s slippin’!”

Steve had spoken of a Bucky Barnes before, of course he had - Buck, usually, said with the kind of rough fondness he tried to hide and never quite managed - but knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing a voice through the door in the middle of the night.

You move for the shotgun. A lady might have felt shame keeping such a thing so close to her bed. A woman who lives alone knows better.

You cock it loud enough for the sound to carry through the door.

The knocking stops. When you speak, your voice is steadier than the rest of you feels. “If you’re lyin’, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know I’ve got a shotgun pointed at this door.”

“Lady, you can shoot me after if you’re still of a mind to,” he shouts back. “Right now I need you to open the damn door before Rogers bleeds out on your porch!”

Before you can answer, a low groan drags from the other side of the door, followed by Bucky swearing under his breath. Then you recognise Steve’s voice, frailer than you’ve ever heard it, trying to make your name out of what little strength he has left. It makes the shotgun feel useless in your hands.

You flip the latch up before you can think better of it, though you keep one hand on the shotgun as you pull the door open - barrel tipped down but ready. 

Bucky Barnes is braced on your porch, with Steve Rogers sagging against him.

His jaw is clenched from the strain of the weight, one shoulder shoved beneath Steve’s arm, with his own locked tight around Steve’s waist. Steve’s boots scrape uselessly over the boards when Bucky shifts him higher. It is clear, terribly clear, that Steve is only standing because Bucky has decided he will.

He’s bent nearly double, folded into the wound, hanging off Bucky with no strength of his own. His head dips heavy towards his chest, and he might almost look drunk if his skin were not so pale beneath the dirt, or if every breath didn’t seem to pull through him with effort. 

One hand rests low on his abdomen, fingers spread over a blooming red patch that has soaked through his shirt and keeps smearing beneath his palm. But the hand is slack. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping it over the wound, slipping through the blood rather than stopping it. Every breath drags through him shallow and uneven as though his body has begun bargaining over what it can afford.

“Steve!”

The shotgun clatters to the floor in an instant, forgotten in your panic. You reach for him instantly, palms cupping his face because you need to see his eyes. Need some proof behind the boneless sag of him. His skin is damp beneath your hands and it’s too cold for a man sweating so badly. When you lift his head, it comes slowly, with too much weight in it, his neck offering almost no help at all.

He looks worse than any newspaper ever managed to make him.

His mouth hangs open around each thin pull of breath, lips dry and parted beneath the rough gold of his beard. Dirt clings to the sweat along his hairline. There is a smear of blood near his lip, and his jaw has gone loose under your hands, all that stubborn Rogers grit worn down to something frighteningly human.

His eyes slide over you without settling, and that scares you more than the blood.

“Steve,” you repeat, thumb brushing his cheek. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”

Recognition gathers slowly, blue eyes dragging themselves back from somewhere far away. Then the worry comes with it, because even like this, Steve Rogers is sorry. His brows draw together as if he has been carrying one thought all the way to your porch and means to set it down before his body gives out beneath him.

“Told Buck not to wake you,” he slurs, stopping after it to drag in another shallow breath. “Told him you needed sleep.”

Bucky grunts a disbelieving laugh next to you. 

“Alright, Romeo, that’s real touching,” he snaps, shifting Steve’s weight higher with a grunt, “but you’re bleeding on the lady’s porch. Miss, I need him flat, I need light, and I need clean cloths. Now.”

The kitchen table is where Bucky wants him. There’s no time to argue about the indecency of it, or the blood, or how Bucky’s supposed to get him up there without injuring Steve further. 

Bucky pulls Steve through the door with one brutal shift of his weight, dragging him over the threshold whilst Steve’s boots scrape and stumble over your floor. The wound pulls with the movement, wrenching a raw, bitten-off sound deep from his chest.

“Clear it,” Bucky orders, jerking his chin toward the oak table. 

And you move only because your body takes over. A book hits the floor. Then the bowl you left out after supper, shattering somewhere near your feet. You don’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

Bucky gets one hand under Steve’s arm and the other braced hard at his back. “Alright, Stevie,” he mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “Up we go.”

The lift tears a brutal cry out of Steve.

You’ve never heard that sound from him before. Pain has pulled groans from him, curses too, all stubbornly swallowed before anyone could make much of them. But Steve’s too far gone to care about that now.

“I know,” Bucky says at once, voice gone tight as he arranges Steve onto the table. “I know, I know. M’sorry, Stevie. I’m sorry.”

Steve is too far under to hear him properly. His head rolls against the wood, lashes fluttering, mouth open around another broken sound when Bucky drags his legs up after him. The table creaks beneath his weight. Blood smears across the pale grain in a dark, ugly sweep. Then Bucky plants one hand low on Steve’s abdomen and presses down hard.

Steve’s whole body jerks.

“Shit,” Bucky grunts out, leaning his weight into it when Steve tries to curl away from the pressure. “I know, pal. Ain’t got a choice.”

You just stand there, frozen.

That’s the shame in it. You stand there with your hands curled uselessly at your sides and your bare feet near broken crockery, staring at your outlaw bleeding out across your kitchen table. There is some part of you, in the back of your head, that understands the urgency of the scene, begging you to move. But the rest of you is somewhere else entirely, watching from a distance as the biggest, most capable man you have ever known lies pale as linen and fights for the next breath.

“Lady,” Bucky snaps. “I need you with me.”

But you don’t answer, eyes fixed on the slow rile and fall of Steve’s chest. The terrible wait between each shallow pull of air and the next. The horrible stillness after every breath, when your heart seems to stop with his and only starts again when his chest moves.

Bucky’s bloody hand slams against the table. “Miss!”

Your eyes jerk to him, though the rest of you stays frozen in place. He looks furious - terrified too, but masked beneath the practical need to keep moving. His jaw is set, his breathing hard, one hand still pressed down over Steve’s wound while the other points at you like he can drag sense back into you by force.

“You can stare at him dead or you can help me keep him livin’,” he says. “Pick quick.”

The words snap you back to reality. Your throat tightens, and you take a steadying breath, “What do you need?”

You scramble through your own house, trying to remember everything Bucky lists as fast as he names it. 

Lamps first, hands shaking hard enough that the chimney glass knocks against the metal. Then cloths from the press. The clean sheet from your bed, yanked free with one sharp pull and bundled under your arm. Thread from the sewing box. Needle. Whiskey from the cupboard that you only keep in for Steve. You put water on the stove and nearly drop the pot before you get it settled.

Behind you, Bucky cuts Steve’s shirt open. The sound of Steve groaning under the movement turns your stomach, but Bucky only mutters a low apology and keeps working, dragging ruined cloth away from ruined skin before reaching for the whiskey and one of the clean rags you brought him. He wipes around the wound with brisk, careful pressure, until the blood smears thinner and the shape of the damage begins to show.

You wish at once that he hadn’t. 

It looks smaller than it should for all the red it has made, one ugly hole low on Steve’s abdomen, close to his hip, and swollen angry at the edges. Blood keeps welling steadily no matter how quickly Bucky clears it. Steve’s stomach jumps beneath every touch, muscle pulling tight before giving out again.

“Bullet’s still in,” Bucky confirms, mouth grim. “Ain’t deep. That’s the good news. Bad news is you’re takin’ it out and sewin’ him up.”

“No!” You’re shaking your head before the word has even finished leaving your mouth. “You crazy, mister? I can’t do that!”

Steve makes a rough sound, half breath, half pain, and Bucky glances down long enough for something scared to flash over his face.

“Well, little lady, unless you reckon you can hold down two hundred pounds of half-delirious cowboy when he starts thrashin’ while I go fishin’ through his guts, then yes, you can.” Bucky’s hand clamps harder over Steve’s middle when Steve shifts with a broken sound, his shoulders lifting from the table before the strength goes out of him again. “Because if he comes off this table, he’ll tear himself up worse than he already is, and I can’t hold him and dig the bullet out at the same time.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing follows.

The lamp catches the sweat on Steve’s throat and the red glistening on Bucky’s hands. Too much of it. Too much on the table, too much soaked into Steve’s shirt, too much slipping between Bucky’s fingers no matter how hard he presses.

You nod once, firm, forcing the fear down into something more useful. Some of the harshness leaves Bucky’s face, not enough to soften him completely, but enough for you to see the man Steve must have trusted with all the worst parts of himself. 

“Good girl, I’ll talk you through it,” Bucky says, already reaching for the whiskey. “Steady hands is all I need from you”

So you give him steady hands. Or try to.

You wash them until the water in the basin clouds pink from blood. Bucky talks all the while, voice firm enough to keep you moving from one instruction to the next. He pours a splash of whiskey over the wound and Steve flinches from the table with a staggered cry, only for Bucky to catch him hard across the chest and shove him back down.

“I know, I’m sorry, pal,” Bucky murmurs, hands firm at Steve’s shoulders. “But you gotta try and stay still Stevie, please.”

The softness in his voice does nothing to gentle his grip. If anything, that’s what makes it worse: the way he bends close to Steve’s ear and coaxes him like a wounded horse whilst holding him down with enough strength to bruise. He gets the belt from his own waist and folds the leather between Steve’s teeth, fingers careful at his jaw.

“Bite down,” he instructs. “Before you break your damn teeth trying not to make noise.”

Steve’s lashes flutter, eyes too glassy to find either of you properly, but his teeth close around the leather. Bucky’s hand lingers one second at the side of Steve’s face before he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small roll of oilcloth, the kind of thing only carried by men on the wrong side of the law with no doctor waiting.

Inside is a short knife, and a pair of narrow steel forceps. He snatches those up first and presses them into your palm.

You take a steadying breath. It doesn’t help much

The first touch of metal to torn flesh makes Steve cry out around the belt, the sound muffled and awful. His hand slams against the table hard enough to rattle the bowl, but Bucky catches his wrist and pins it down without looking away from the wound. He murmurs something too low for you to catch.

Apology, prayer, curse; with men like them, there may not be much difference.

Under Bucky’s instruction, you search for the bullet, stopping every time Steve’s body bucks beneath Bucky’s hold. It feels endless, a handful of seconds stretched cruel by the sound of Steve’s breathing and the red shining over your fingers. Then the forceps catch on something hard, something that does not belong inside a man, and Bucky’s voice cuts through the room at once.

“That’s it. Easy now. Pull straight.”

The bullet comes free slick with blood and drops into the bowl with a dull little clink. For all the damage it has done, it looks far too small.

Bucky lets out a breath, but he doesn’t let go of Steve. “Good,” he praises, rough. “That’s real good, darlin’. Now stitch him.”

Threading the needle takes three tries and a muttered curse before the thread finally slips through. Cloth never prepared you for this - it stays put under your hands. Flesh has a give to it that turns your stomach, but you swallow it down and focus on the path of the needle, in one side and out the other, the thread slowly drawing the wound closed.

Bucky watches the first one go through, then the second, and whatever he sees must satisfy him enough to turn more of his attention back to Steve.

“Doin’ good, Stevie,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. There you go. Tough bastard like you don’t get to die in a schoolteacher’s kitchen.”

Steve makes a sound around the belt, weak now, worn down by pain and blood loss until even agony seems to cost too much effort. Then the needle catches wrong, just enough to make his body twitch beneath Bucky’s grip.

“Fuck—I’m sorry Steve,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, pulling the stitch through with a shaking hand. “I’m nearly done, promise.”

Bucky glances at you, then back down at him. “Hear that, Rogers? Lady’s apologisin’ to you while saving your sorry hide. You better live long enough to thank her proper.”

By the time you tie off the final stitch, your back aches, your hands are cramped, and your nightdress is ruined past saving. Bucky binds the wound tight with strips torn from your clean sheet, wrapping them firm while you hold Steve’s hand and try not to notice how loosely his fingers curl around yours now.

When Bucky finally steps away, the room seems to take its first full breath since two outlaws crashed into your evening. He wipes his hands on the edge of the sheet, eyes tracking over Steve, watching for any fresh red spilling through the bandage. He nods once to himself when none does.

“Alright,” Bucky says at last. “Now we keep him warm, and thank God he’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

With the worst of the work done, the night settles into a long, sleepless vigil.

Steve is covered with every blanket you own, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from him long enough to do much beyond tend to him. His body has finally given itself over the exhaustion, sleeping so deeply you watch for his breaths to make sure he’s still alive. You clean what you can from him with a wet cloth - the dirt on his cheek, the sweat from his brow, the blood on his hands.

Bucky stays in the chair by Steve’s head.

He looks half-dead himself, shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion, eyes shadowed, jaw slackening each time sleep nearly takes him before he drags himself back from it. Every time Steve’s breathing changes, Bucky’s head lifts. Every time Steve shifts, Bucky’s hand is already there, soothing him back to stillness. Small, tender brushes of his hand through damp blond strands. He does it without thinking, with the ease of habit, and you get the feeling you’re seeing something usually kept from view.

It’s a strange thing to witness from a man with his name on a wanted poster. It’s a strange thing to witness from a man at all, really.

‘The Winter Kid’ the papers call him - always printed near Steve’s name like one shadow following another. He’s younger than the posters make him look, or maybe just more human. Handsome too, though that thought feels poorly timed and unwelcome. But true all the same.

Maybe he can feel you looking, because his eyes lift to yours a moment later. They’re unfairly blue against the tan of his skin and the dark fall of his hair,and for one strange second you feel caught in them the way you do in Steve’s.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

You shrug, a little embarrassed, but you hold his gaze. “You don’t look much like your picture.”

“Yeah, well.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and for the first time you feel that charm Steve warned you about, battered but not dead. “They charge extra for likeness.”

A small laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Bucky hears it, and the corner of his mouth seems to twitch a fraction further up, pleased with himself. The air between you seems a little lighter after that, still ruled by Steve’s breathing, but less like two strangers keeping watch over a dying man and more like two people bound, against all better judgement, to the same stubborn fool. “I expected you shorter,” you admit, causing Bucky to raise a brow. “You know, from the name.”

Bucky groans like this is a wound all its own, head tipping back against the chair for half a second. “Christ. Not you too.”

“Well, it does give a certain impression,” you add, just to goad.

“It gives me a headache is what it gives me.” He drags a tired hand down his face, though the shape of a smile keeps threatening at his mouth. “You know how hard it is to be taken serious by women when half of ’em start grinnin’ soon as they hear Kid?”

“From what Steve tells me,” you say, glancing down at the man asleep between you, “you seem to manage just fine.”

His expression shifts slightly at that. Surprise first, then something warmer he tries to hide by leaning back in his chair and letting the charm crawl into the corner of his mouth. Worse now you know to look for it.

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, voice smoother than it should be after all his shouting. “And what exactly has Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlin’?”

You reach for the damp cloth beside you and wring it out over the basin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Careful, Mr. Barnes. I’ve still a mind to pick my shotgun back up.”

Bucky seems more pleased by your threat than scared, but lifts his hands in surrender all the same, “Of course, Miss. I’ll behave.”

After that, the conversation drifts into exchanging stories about Steve. It feels odd to speak of him like this whilst he lies pale beneath your blankets, yet necessary too, as if each foolish little detail sets another small weight on the side of the scale that says living.

Eventually, though, you can’t avoid the question anymore.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s smile disappears instantly, replaced by a grimace. “Rumlow.” 

Just the name is enough to fill the room with dread.

Brock Rumlow has a reputation that travels ahead of him. Bounty hunter, most folk call him. Brutal killer, if folk were feeling honest. But a good man by the town’s measure because he kills with the sheriff’s blessing. 

“He caught our trail two days west,” he explains. “We thought we’d shaken him after the river crossin’. But Steve said the tracks were too clean, and of course he just had to be right.”

His mouth twists, though there’s no humour in it now.

“Rumlow had men waitin’ by the ridge. More than we counted on. First shot took my horse out from under me, and Steve came back for me like the damned fool he is.” Bucky’s hand goes to Steve’s hair again before he seems to notice it, fingers combing once through the damp strands before he pulls away. “I told him to ride. He didn’t.”

Of course he didn’t.

That is what hurts most, perhaps. Not the recklessness - you made your peace with that, or tried to. No, it’s the unfortunate fact that no part of you can imagine him doing anything else because you know by now that Steve has never had much sense when someone he cares for is in danger. He might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.

“He drew their fire long enough for me to get my rifle,” Bucky continues. “I managed to drop one man, maybe two. Then Rumlow put a bullet in him from the rocks. Steve stayed in the saddle after, somehow. Long enough to swear at me for fussin’.”

“That sounds like him,” you say quietly, reaching for Steve’s hand beneath the blankets. His fingers are cool when you fold them into yours and loose in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Yeah.” Bucky huffs through his nose. “Stubborn bastard made it near six miles telling me it was only a graze. Then he went white as flour and damn near pitched off the horse.”

Your hand tightens around Steve’s before you can stop it. Bucky’s eyes catch it - for all his exhaustion, there is very little the man seems to miss.

“Kept off the road after that, muddied the trial in the creek too.” Bucky says. “Lost ’em for tonight, I reckon.”

“For tonight?”

His eyes lift to yours, and they give you the answer before his mouth does. “Rumlow’s still breathin’, ain’t he?”

That answers enough.

Bucky leans forward and peels the edge of the blanket back just far enough to check the bandage. With gentle fingers, he presses near your stitches, watching for fresh blood, and you find yourself holding your breath until he lets the blanket fall back into place.

“Stitches are holding,” he confirms. “You did good, darlin’, real good.”

Then his gaze drops to Steve, hand resting on his shoulder.

“Course,” he adds, murmuring almost to himself. “Rogers always did know how to pick good people.”

That makes you look back up at him, at the two of them together. And for a second you see it all playing out: Steve riding back into gunfire, Bucky dragging him through the dark, the two of them printed side by side on every wanted paper like the world has always known they come together.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, holding his gaze. “He does.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts without any of the charm from before. This smile is smaller, more honest. Grateful in a way neither of you can bear to acknowledge. 

The next couple of days pass in pieces for Steve.

Pain consumes most of it, sharp enough to drag him sleep sometimes. But he always wakes to company and the cool drag of a cloth over his face when fever leaves him damp and restless. Sometimes the hand at his brow is yours. Sometimes it’s Bucky’s calloused palms, not a soft but no less careful for it.

When he shifts too quickly, one of you is always there to press him back down. Your voice comes sweet near his ear, telling him to to rest and stop being difficult. Bucky has less patience about it, muttering, “Quit bein’ a jackass, Rogers,”but the softness in his voice gives him away.

By the second day, he starts catching more of the world around him. Mostly, he catches the two of you speaking over him like he’s some troublesome piece of work you have mutually agreed to keep alive. He hears you show Bucky how to change the sheets without jostling him, and Bucky grumbling that you’re a bossy little thing. Your quiet snicker follows, easy enough by then to tell Steve you’ve already learnt not to be scared of Bucky’s bark. And it settles him enough to fall back into another slumber.

Yet, when Steve wakes properly, the house is quiet. His mind goes straight trouble - you and Bucky hurt, or worse, taken.Then he sees the fresh cloth waiting on the washstand, the cup of water set near the bed, the plate of food left within reach. Someone has even pulled the blanket back from the edge of his bandage so it won’t catch when he moves.

Still, his gaze flicks back to the empty chair, a little more wounded at being left alone than he’d admit. 

But then he hears voices drift in from the window. Yours first, bright enough to pull his eyes open properly. Bucky answers beneath it, rougher and far too pleased with himself, and Steve rolls his eyes fondly at the ceiling. He knows Bucky in that mood, and exactly the kind of trouble he thinks he’s charming his way out of.

The sound of you both laughing together is too sweet to resist, and it pulls at Steve before he can think better of it. So he presses one hand to his side, grits his teeth and pushes himself upright with a low grunt. 

By the time he makes it to the doorway, he’s sweating through his shirt, and lightheaded enough that he has to lean against the frame for support. But when his vision focuses on the two of you, the pain pulsing from his side seems to subside. 

Bucky’s leaning against the fence with his sleeves rolled to his elbows - an unabashed display of his toned forearms if Steve’s ever seen one - hat tipped back and a loose board braced beneath his boot. He must have been fixing it before he got distracted. Or before you distracted him. Either way, he’s smiling at you like he knows just how handsome he is, which, Steve thinks fondly, he does.

“You call that fixed?” you ask, eyeing the board.

“It’s standin’, ain’t it?”

“It was standin’ before.”

“Well, now it’s standin’ better.”

Your mouth opens in disbelief, and Bucky’s grin widens like he has been waiting all morning to earn that exact look from you. He shifts the hammer in his hand, letting it hang loose at his side. “You this particular with all the men who do chores for you?”

“Only the ones who do half a job and then stand there lookin’ pleased with themselves.” You jibe, mouth curving before you can help it. “Steve never gives me cause to complain.”

Bucky presses a hand to his chest, wounded clean through. “Darlin’, I am beginnin’ to think you don’t appreciate the quality of my help.”

Steve watches your face as you say it, the way your smile tugs despite your best efforts to keep stern. You’re standing closer than you need to. Close enough to swat his arm when he mutters something about schoolteachers being as scary as he remembers. Bucky catches your wrist before your hand drops, letting his thumb skim once across the inside of it before he lets it go.

Too friendly, some part of Steve thinks. He should mind that. He knows himself well enough to expect the old ugly twist, the hard little claim in his chest that has no manners and less patience. His girl. His Buck.

“You remember I have a shotgun, right? Any more excuses from you and I’ll get it back out and see if it motivates you proper,” you warn, though there is too much warmth in it to do much harm.

Bucky looks far too pleased by that. “How could I forget?” He dips his head, absolutely unrepentant. “Pretty thing like you pointin’ a gun at me ain’t a picture a man forgets easy.”

He really should mind that. 

Only the longer he watches, the more it just seems… right. That’s the simple answer. The more complicated one is that there’s a want in him he hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now. 

Then Bucky says something softer, and whatever it is makes your expression change. The teasing slips. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, gentle at first, then tighter when Bucky folds around you in return. His hand spreads over your back, yours presses between his shoulders, and he rests his chin on your head.

Something in Steve’s stomach twists hot, and it’s not the bullet wound. 

Oh.

Well.

That explains a few things.

When you pull back, your fingers drag lightly down Bucky’s sleeve before falling away. And then your eyes catch Steve in the doorway.

The smile drops straight off your face.

“Steve!” you chide. “Good lord, you shouldn’t be standin’ up yet!”

Bucky turns fast, all charm gone in an instant. “You stupid son of a—”

“Why aren’t you in bed?” you demand, already crossing the yard towards him. “You’re meant to be resting. You’ll tear the stitches, you’ll—”

“What’re you doin’?” Steve asks.

His voice is rough from sleep and disuse, but it cuts through your panic all the same. You stop a few feet short of him, caught between scolding him like one of your schoolchildren and reaching for him. Bucky has followed you, but that damn mouth of his curves back into his signature smirk.

“Stealin’ your woman?” he replies.

Steve huffs a laugh at that, breath catching a little in his chest from the pull of it. He shakes his head, looking between the two of you with something warm and wry beneath the exhaustion.

“Take her,” he shrugs, turning back towards the house, pretending with little success that every step doesn’t pull at his side.

You both go quiet behind him. Steve pauses at the doorway just long enough to glance back, tired eyes moving between the two of you.

“What?” he says, mouth twitching as he makes his slow way back to bed. “Take her.”

Bucky watches him go, grin crooked and eyes a little too soft. “Well, you’re a romantic bastard, I’ll give you that.”

You climb into bed that night tentatively, careful to keep your distance from Steve so you can’t accidentally hurt him.

He watches you fuss with tired amusement, flat on his back beneath the blankets. He’s been patient all day because he’s had no choice in the matter, but now, with you so close, what little patience he has left wears thin.

His arm reaches for you beneath the quilt. “C’mere.”

“But you need to be careful—”

He tugs you closer before you can finish, stubborn as always, and though the movement pulls a faint wince from him, it also draws a low, pleased rumble from his chest when you end up pressed along his side.

“Steve,” you hiss, braced on one elbow, already trying to take some of your weight off him. “You’re going’ to hurt yourself.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs.

You open your mouth to argue, but his lips find your shoulder first. He kisses over your skin lazily, as if he has all the time in the world and no bounty hunter breathing down the road. Then moves to side of your throat, where his beard scrapes softly enough to make your breath catch. Any protest thins in your mouth and dies there, useless, and the ease with which you melt for him makes Steve smile against your skin.

“Missed you,” he hums, pleased with himself.

The words catch somewhere tender, and before you can stop it, the fear you’ve been holding back for days slips free. “I thought you were going’ to die.”

Steve’s mouth stills against your skin. For a moment, he says nothing, then his jaw sets with all the stubborn bravado of a man determined to make the thing smaller than it was. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

You stare at him, eyes burning, and Steve’s bravado doesn’t survive it. His expression softens before he pulls you closer despite the faint wince it costs him, burying his face against your neck.

“No,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “Make a big deal out of it.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Steve kisses your temple and lets you hold him as hard as you need to, though you can feel the care he takes with every breath. 

“You’re a fool,” you grumble against his chest.

“I know,” he agrees easily.

“And stubborn.”

“I know that too,” he adds, the hint of a smile returning to his voice.

You lift your head enough to glare at him through the last sting behind your eyes. “Don’t sound so smug.”

“Can’t help it.” His hand slides from your waist, broad palm warm through the thin cotton of your nightdress. “You get awful sweet when you forget to be cross with me, ma’am.”

You should scold him. You mean to. Instead your head tips, giving him more room, and Steve’s breath warms where your pulse has already started tripping under his mouth. Then his fingers drift lower, gathering your nightdress up slowly so his hand can hand slip between your thighs, and what comes out of you isn’t an answer at all. It’s too soft, too needy, your hips shifting before your pride can stop them.

Steve only hums, like that tells him everything he needs to know.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked already.”

You make a small sound of protest, breath catching as your hips shift against his palm. “You should be resting.”

“I am resting,” he counters. “You’re the one making all that noise.”

Heat rushes straight through you. “Steve.”

He grins, because he knows what that tone means. His fingers drag through your pussy, spreading the slick of you over your skin until you can’t hold back the needy little moan that escapes. “Buck been winding you up all day, huh? Flashing those pretty eyes at you, running that mouth, standing too close every chance he got.”

You bite your lip hard, but Steve knows your body too well by now. The little tremor that goes through you when he presses two fingers to your entrance, and the way your knees loosen when he rubs his thumb over your clit.

“Mm. Saw the way you looked at him.” His thumb presses a little firmer, drawing another helpless sound from you as his voice drops rougher by your ear. “Saw the way he looked at you too. Like he was wondering how sweet you’d sound if somebody got a hand under your skirt.”

You turn your face into his shoulder, scandalised and burning, but the heat pooling low in you stomach tells a different story. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Seems I just did.”

His fingers push into you then, thick enough to make you clutch at his shirt, his name leaving you in a soft, broken sound. Steve goes still for a breath, jaw tightening as your pussy clenches around him, warm and slick and greedy enough to make him curse the wound in his side for keeping his cock out of you.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice rough at your ear. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs part around his hand, your body taking him with a helpless little roll of your hips. His cock twitches heavy against your leg, and the moan that slips out of you is louder than you mean it to be, needy enough to make heat rush to your face.

“That’s my girl,” Steve coos. “Been so good taking care of me, haven’t you? Let me take care of you now.”

“Wait—fuck—Stevie, he’ll hear us.” you protest weakly, eyes flicking toward the door, where Bucky is sleeping on the couch on the other side.

Steve’s fingers slow, but they don’t stop. If anything, his touch turns crueller, pumping in and out of your pussy with an unhurried drag as his thumb circles your clit.

“Good,” he says at last.

Your eyes widen.

Steve curls his fingers inside you, pressing just right, and your whole body jerks against him. “Let him.”

Your pussy tightens around him before you can pretend to be scandalised. Steve feels it and smiles, filthy and pleased, as another moan slips out of you. You try to swallow it down, but his thumb keeps stroking your clit and his fingers keep fucking you open, slow enough to make every wet sound feel obscene in the quiet room.

“S’okay, honey,” he encourages, kissing beneath your ear. “I don’t mind. You make those pretty noises for me and let Buck hear what he’s missin’ out on.”

“Steve,” you whimper into his neck, overwhelmed by the heat of it, by the way he says Buck’s name with no jealousy at all. Like it turns him on too. Like he knows exactly what he is doing to you.

His mouth brushes your jaw. “Poor bastard probably spent all afternoon thinkin’ about what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you,” he rumbles, fingers driving deeper until your breath catches sharp. “Now he’s out there listenin’ to me do it.”

Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt, hips moving against his hand now, chasing more. Steve makes a rough sound like the sight of you fucking yourself on his fingers might kill him faster than any bounty hunter ever could.

Then your hand slides lower before you can think better of it, finding the hard line of his cock through his drawers. He curses under his breath, hips twitching once into your palm before pain catches at him and makes his jaw clench.

You pull back instantly. “Steve—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, stubborn even now, even with sweat at his temple and breath caught in his chest. “I’m fine, pretty girl, promise. Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.”

Your answering moan is too wanton to stifle, and out on the couch, Bucky hears it. 

He’s been awake for a while, one arm thrown over his eyes, every sore port of him arguing with the hard springs beneath the couch cushion. At first, he told himself he was just listening for Steve - that’s reasonable enough. A man has a right to keep an ear out for his best friend when said friend has nearly bled dry on a kitchen table. And if said friend is in bed with his pretty little woman, well, that’s hardly his fault, is it?

He knows should roll over and try to sleep. Or do literally anything other than listen to the needy catch in your breath when Steve’s fingers must find something good. Heat pulls through him before he can talk sense into himself. It’s been crawling under his skin all day. And now Steve’s voice is torturing him in the dark, coaxing the prettiest noises out of you like he means for Bucky to hear everyone.

His hand slides down over the hard ache in his trousers before he can pretend better of himself. His hips jerk into his palm at the first firm press. 

Bucky shuts his eyes as his lips part around a groan of relief. 

He should feel worse about it, probably. A gentleman might. Then again, he’s never made much of a claim to being one, and there’s nothing gentlemanly about Steve is talking to you through the door. Low and rough, sweet in all the wrong places, telling you how good you are for him whilst you make those soft ruined sounds that go straight to Bucky’s cock.

His fingers work the buttons of his trousers open, and he’s so wound up that the first touch to his throbbing length makes his hips jerk up. He’s already hard enough to hurt, thick and hot in his grip, precum slicking the head as he strokes once from base to tip. He has to force himself slower so he doesn’t spill too fast, listening to the shift of the bed in the next room and the wet sound of Steve’s fingers fucking you.

“Don’t hide from me,” Steve rumbles, voice carrying just enough. “Want him to hear how pretty you get when you come”

The needy moan you cry out in response, makes Bucky’s hand tighten and his eyes squeeze shut. He can picture it all wall for a man who hasn’t a right to see any of it. Your thighs spread under Steve’s hand, nightdress pushed up, tucking your face into Steve’s neck as you try and fail to keep quit. Steve, wounded and recovering, still generous enough to make sure Bucky knows what he’s missing. 

“Stevie,” you gasp, and Bucky’s cock jerks in his fist.

He drags his thumb over the swollen head with enough pressure to make his stomach pull tight. The couch springs creak beneath him when his hips jump into his hand, and he freezes momentarily, listening. But neither of you stop. If anything, Steve laughs, low and filthy, like he heard the sound and knows eaxctly what it means. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans. “Bet Buck’s got his hand around his cock right now, listenin’ to you. Bet he can’t help himself.”

Bucky presses his forearm over his mouth, a helpless grin pulling at him even as pleasure burns through his gut. Bastard. Mean, beautiful bastard. He strokes himself harder, giving up on pacing himself, fist slick and tight around his cock as your moans slip through the thin bedroom door and wrap around every filthy picture Steve puts in his head.

“Wish he could see you right now,” Steve goads, and Bucky nearly spills right there. “So wet for me. Sweet little pussy takin’ my fingers so good. He’d lose his fuckin’ mind.”

His hips buck desperately into his first, breath coming harsh through his nose as Steve keeps talking like he knows every dirty place Bucky’s mind has gone and means to walk you through all of them. Your moans pitcher higher, thinner, more desperate.

“Please Stevie—so close,” you whine, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful. 

“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” Steve coos. “Come for me. Let him hear.”

The sound you make as you fall apart under Steve’s hand is obscene. You pleasure spills out into the dark as Steve praises you in that honey-deep register like he’s got his fingers buried in the best thing he’s ever touched. Bucky strokes himself harder, cock slick in his fist, teeth digging into his wrist to keep his own noise down.

Then Steve groans low around a curse, and God, Bucky knows that sound. Learnt on cold nights under open sky when bedrolls were laid a polite distance apart and neither of them ever spoke of what they heard in the dark.

But hearing it now, with you, is enough to finish off what your moans started.

His hand works faster, rougher, chasing it until he spills over his own knuckles. He strokes himself through it, hips jerking up into his fist, hot cum slicking his fingers while the last of Steve’s filthy praise drifts through the door.

Head falling back against the couch, he throws his free hand over his eyes again as if that might make a decent man of him after the fact. But the other is still loose around his sensitive, softening cock. From the bedroom, Steve mutters something too low for him too catch, but you laugh in response, breathless.

Bucky smiles up at the ceiling, completely and utterly fucked. Both of you tucked under his skin, deep as a wound and twice as troublesome. 

“Romantic bastard,” he scoffs into the dark.

 You wake reaching for Steve, hands sliding over the sheets in search of the warmth that’s usually gone by the time daylight finds you. For one awful, familiar second, your heat braces for emptiness, and then your fingers meet his chest. Still there.

The joy it brings is so small and foolish it almost hurts. Steve’s still beside you, warm beneath your palm, alive beneath your hand, his breath moving slow and steady. You don’t mean to smile as hard as you do for something that won’t last, but you feel it happen anyway. 

Steve’s eyes crack open, tired blue finding you through the grey morning light. His mouth curves faintly. 

“Mornin’,” he rasps. 

He lifts a hand with more effort than he lets show and brushes his knuckles along your cheek before drawing you close enough to kiss your forehead. It is gentle. Domestic, almost, in a way that feels absurd given the blood dried somewhere in your kitchen and the wanted posters nailed up in town.

But then Steve starts trying to get up. He looks pale enough that you threaten him twice before he gets both feet on the floor. 

“You are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers. Sit still.”

His brows lift, innocent as sin. “Jus’ thinkin’ about breakfast is all, ma’am, swear.”

He takes your continued scolding with a faint curve to his mouth, one hand shielding the wound slightly, as you get up to help him dress. He even lets you fuss over him, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see no red blooming on his bandages. 

By the time you get him into the kitchen, his jaw his set hard enough to make you narrow your eyes. Steve takes your silent warning and lowers himself into the chair before bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of it. Just a brief, warm brush of his lips, eyes lifting to yours in quiet apology for every minute he’s made your heart suffer these last few days.

The door opens before you can say anything soft enough to embarrass you both. Bucky steps inside with a sack under one arm; he’s been gone since first light, having ridden into town for coffee, cartridges, and whatever else two outlaws and one increasingly compromised schoolteacher might need. You’re expecting some crooked remark as he kicks the door shut behind him. Maybe something about Steve looking less like a corpse, or you running the kitchen like a jailhouse.

Instead, his face is grim.

Steve clocks it immediately, and his shoulders straighten. Pain forgotten under the old readiness that lives dormant in him until needed. “What?”

Bucky sets the sack on the table. “You feel well enough to ride?”

Steve frowns. “If I have to.”

“Good.” Bucky’s eyes flick over you, brows tightening, then back to Steve. “Rumlow’s in town, asking questions at the mercantile. Offered coin for anyone who knew anythin’ about Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid.”

Steve face flattens, jaw setting into that hardened mask he uses to cover whatever else he’s feeling. Nodding once, he pushes up from the chair.

“Steve—” you start at once.

He bends and kisses you before you can finish, once hand gentle at the side of your face. It tastes too close to a goodbye kiss for your heart to bare, and the panic rises in your throat.

“We’ll draw him off, honey,” he murmurs, clearly misinterpreting your worry. “He won’t know you had anything to do with us.”

Then he turns to Bucky. “Get the horses ready. We’ll cut south - maybe this time we stop talking about Mexico and actually head there.”

Mexico?

You look from Steve to Bucky, at the silent communication already passing between them, and the speed with which they become men leaving. Men packing their lives into saddlebags. Men deciding what they can carry and what must be left, including, apparently, you. 

“Take me with you.”

Both of them immediately stop.

Steve turns firs,t protest already written across his face. “Sweetheart, you can’t seriously —”

Bucky interrupts, sharper. “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t askin’,” you counter firmly, mustering up the same voice you use in the schoolhouse when a child thinks they might try their luck.

Steve’s brows pull together. “You don’t know what you’re suggestin’.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.” Bucky cuts in, which only makes you angrier. “This life ain’t—”

“Ain’t what?” you return. “For a lady?”

That closes his mouth. For once, Bucky Barnes has no clever answer ready, and Steve looks no better. The two of them stand there, each searching for the combination of words least likely to upset you further and finding none fast enough.

“After last night, I think any claim I had to bein’ a lady has been thoroughly mishandled.”

A flush climbs through the rough gold of Steve’s beard at once, and he drops his eyes to the table as if the wood grain has become a matter of deep interest. Bucky looks toward the window with equal dignity, which is to say very little, given what he had so clearly heard through your bedroom door. But you feel a little wild with it now. Freed by the strange relief of having already stepped over the edge in your own mind.

“I’m a schoolteacher in a town that’s been dyin’ for years,” you continue. “Folk still smile at me like I’m still respectable, but every year I stay unmarried, they look a little closer for the rot. And every night I come back to this house alone, and wait to hear news of Steve’s death.”

Steve’s face falls, and he looks at you with such earnest guilt that you have to look away or you’ll lose the nerve to finish. Your eyes sting badly enough that you have to blink hard and focus on staring at the floorboards.

“I’m no fool,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. Long days. Cold nights. Men with guns behind us. I know it won’t be some grand adventure out of a penny paper.” You lift your head again. “But I want a life I choose. I want more than waitin’ in this house for grief to come find me. And I want to be with you.”

Bucky looks at Steve then, and Steve returns it. They do that thing again where a whole conversation seems to pass without either of them opening their mouth, and you can already tell this is a feature of them that will get on your nerves. Still, you stand there and wait. You can see them weighing the right choice. You can also see, with a painful twist of hope, that neither of them likes the thought of leaving you behind.

Steve exhales through his nose. “You’d have to listen.”

“To both of us,” Bucky adds. “When it counts. If Steve says run, you run. If I say stay put, you don’t move a muscle.”

“You’ll ride until you ache,” Steve says, eyes searching your face for the first sign of regret. “Sleep under open sky. Eat beans out of a tin when there’s nothing else. Go without a proper bed more often than you’ll have one.”

Bucky leans his hip against the table, arms folding, his expression hard despite the tired edge of him. “And you’ll keep that shotgun close. Learn a pistol too, whether you like it or not. Pretty face won’t do much good if Rumlow catches up.”

“I’ll do it,” you agree, looking at Steve first, then Bucky, making yourself hold both their gazes long enough for them to see there’s fear in you, plenty of it. Just none useful enough to change your mind. “I’ll do it all, I promise.”

They seem satisfied enough to move again, almost. Steve’s hand twitches toward the supplies, Bucky’s eyes flick to the door. But you stop them before the moment can run away from you.

“The only thing I won’t do,” you continue, quieter, “is watch either of you die. I’ll skip that scene, if you don’t mind.”

Steve’s hand closes around yours before you can busy yourself with anything else, or turn away and pretend the words weren’t all too honest.

“Once we go,” his eyes hold steady on yours, “we go.”

There’s warning in it, but there’s promise too. You squeeze his hand in confirmation. 

“Then let’s go.”

You leave before the town has finished waking, with no grand farewell to your little house. Just five minutes to pack the essentials, and everything else left behind for the town to make stories about two bad men and the lady they corrupted.

For the first couple weeks, you ride with Bucky. At first, Steve enjoys watching the two of you grow closer. But a few days pass without your arms around his waist and the man starts acting abandoned. Nothing dramatic, of course. Steve Rogers is far too dignified for that. He only gets quieter, pouts into his coffee, and looks at you from under those ridiculous lashes with his pretty blue eyes, utterly wounded.

But there’s only so much sympathy you can give him when every jolt of his horse leaves his face tight and grey - having you pressed against his side would pull at the wound no matter how carefully you held him, so you sit behind Bucky instead. Your arms wrap around his middle, sometimes resting your cheek between his shoulder blades when the road stretches long.

He’s always warm - despite the nickname - and complains when your cold hands slip under his coat in the mornings, but never makes you move them.

It’s on one such morning that the question slips out before it’s even fully formed in your head. Absent in its curiosity. 

“Bucky?”

He turns his head back slightly, catching your face in the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

Your chin is hooked over his shoulder, the brim of his hat shading your eyes from the sun. Steve is riding a bit ahead, far enough to pretend he’s not listening and close enough you know he is.

“Do you ever wonder, if I’d met you first, that we’d be the ones the get involved?”

Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, as though this is a matter requiring serious study. “But we are involved, sugar.”

You lift your head. “Are we?”

“You’re ridin’ my horse with me.” His hand covers yours where it rests against his stomach, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. “In some countries, that’s the same as being married.”

Steve glances back over his shoulder. “Name one.”

“Plenty, Stevie,” Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. “Just ‘cause you ain’t a romantic don’t mean it ain’t true.”

“That mean you don’t know any?”

“Means I’m a man of mystery, Rogers. Let me have that.”

You laugh into Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve turns forward again, shaking his head. Even from behind, you can see the curve at the corner of his mouth.

That becomes one of the biggest pleasures of the road, the two of them bickering like an old married couple with loaded guns and a shared talent for pretending they are the sensible one. Steve corrects Bucky’s directions. Bucky mocks Steve’s caution. Steve tells him caution is the reason he’s still alive, and Bucky retorts, “Barely,” with a pointed look at the bandage under his shirt. 

You learn to sit between it and smile into the back of Bucky’s coat, warm with the strange comfort of being folded into something that clearly existed long before you and somehow has made room for you anyway.

The weeks begin to fold into one another after that, measured less by days than by how far Steve can ride before pain makes him stubbornly quiet. He never says when it’s too much - of course he doesn’t. But you both learn the signs, so that when that happens, you or Bucky find an excuse to stop. Steve accepts each excuse with the grateful dignity of a man who knows precisely what you’re doing and lacks the strength to protest.

Some nights you find a town small enough to risk, and the three of you take one room under a false name while Steve lies stiff on the bed and Bucky sleeps in the chair with a gun across his lap. Other nights, there is only open country and the fire between you, Bucky’s coat under your head, Steve’s hand tucked around your waist, pleased now he can finally pull you close.

You learn quickly; you have to. 

How to ride until your thighs ache and keep your complaints mostly to yourself. How to drink bad coffee without making a face. How to keep your hair pinned under a hat when passing through towns where a woman travelling with two men draws more attention than a pair of wanted faces.

Bucky teaches you to shoot a pistol at a row of bottles outside an abandoned line shack, and Steve stands behind you, correcting your grip until Bucky accuses him of distracting you. 

Rumlow stays behind you like bad weather you can’t outride, always somewhere on the edge of the horizon. Some days there’s no sign of him at all. Other days Bucky comes back from a supply run with his jaw tight, or Steve sees something in the dirt that makes both men go quiet. Neither of them likes fear on your face, so you learn how to hide that, too.

By the time Steve’s stitches come out, the three of you have already become a kind of routine.

Steve reads the land ahead. Bucky watches what follows. You keep track of the food, the clean cloth, and all the small human things the two of them would forget in favour of keeping moving. You sleep between them when the nights turn cold, Bucky pressed at your back and Steve careful against your front, one arm laid over your waist like even in sleep he means to keep you safe. Nobody ever says much about it in the morning.

But the trouble with Mexico is that it keeps costing money. By the third month, the coins in Bucky’s purse have started to sound lonely, and Steve has taken to rationing his own portions to make sure you have enough. You always protest that he needs it more, but it falls on deaf ears.

“We need money,” Bucky says one evening, poking at the fire with a stick.

Steve doesn’t look up from the map. “I know.”

“We need quite a bit of money.”

“I know.”

You look between them. “Why do I get the feelin’ neither of you is about to suggest honest work?”

Bucky grins. Steve sighs.

A plan is soon in place, and you quickly realise you aren’t just being given soft work. They aren’t just tucking you safely away and asking you to wait pretty by the horses. No, you’re the distraction. Steve watches your face intently whilst they explain your part, searching for fear, and Bucky watches your hands to see if they shake. They do, a little. You tell him they shake less when people stop staring at them.

“Mean little thing when you’re nervous,” Bucky murmurs.

“You’d know better than to test me, then,” you snap back, much to his delight.

And that’s how you find yourself in your best dress two mornings later, walking into a town that has never heard your name and smiling sweetly at the bank clerk while Steve and Bucky do what Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid apparently do very well.

Soon, there’s a saddle under your hips, stolen money in Steve’s saddle bag and Bucky laughing as the town bell starts clanging behind you. Steve rides quietly beside you, one hand low on his reins, hat pulled low against the flare. He looks more pensive than you’d expect for a man who just planned and executed a successful robbery. 

“You know,” he considers, tilting his head. “When I was a kid, I always figured on bein’ a hero when I grew up.”

“Too late now,” Bucky shoots back instantly.

Steve turns in the saddle, mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout that almost looks genuinely hurt by the insinuation. “You didn’t have to say that—What’d you have to say that for?”

“Because we just robbed a bank and you’re gettin’ wistful about virtue. Felt like someone ought to keep you on track.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks betrayed for all of half a second before his own mouth gives him away.

“I could still be heroic,” he argues.

“Of course, Stevie,” you soothe, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “And if heroism ever starts includin’ bank robbery, you’ll be the first man I nominate.”

Steve shakes his head, but there’s warmth in it. There’s warmth amongst all three of you now. The money will carry you further south. Rumlow, for the moment, is behind you. And for one bright stretch of road, with the sun high and the horses steady beneath you, the three of you ride easy.

When you reach the next town just before dark, it’s mercifully large enough to have a hotel, though only just. The main building fronts the street, while a handful of squat lodging cabins stand behind it beside the stable yard, each containing little more than a bed, a washstand and a door that locks.

You’ve already separated from Bucky two streets over - two men and a woman trying to book one cabin would draw eyes. A man and his wife, tired from the road and keen to be left alone, draw far fewer.

Bucky will return after dark with supplies and come through the open window like any decent outlaw.

By now, the routine is well worn. Steve keeps his hat low and asks for a room for himself and his wife. Your stomach gives a foolish little turn at the word, which is unhelpful given the circumstances, so you tuck yourself closer into his side and play your part.

The clerk turns the ledger around. “Name?”

Steve takes the pen and writes one of the names agreed between the three of you, this time settling on Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale.

The clerks eyes move over Steve as he writes, a little too closely for your liking. Steve’s hat shadows most of his face, though there is only so much a brim can do against a jaw like his. Then the clerk’s gaze drops to you, lingering on the plain dress, the tired hem, the cheap ring on your finger where your hand rests neatly against Steve’s sleeve.

“Long road?” he asks.

“Long enough,” you answer before Steve can, sweet and harmless. “My husband’s been poor company since noon.”

The clerk’s mouth twitches. “That so?”

“I get hungry,” Steve says.

“He gets sulky,” you correct.

The clerk looks amused now, his suspicion giving way to the easier pleasure of watching a married couple prod at each other. He reaches for a key from the row behind him.

“Cabin four,” he says. “Out and to the right.”

Steve takes the key with a polite nod, your hand still tucked around his arm, and the two of you make your way to the cabin to wait for Bucky and whatever trouble he tends to bring back with him.

But exhaustion claims you before said trouble arrives. You barely manage to loosen your dress before crawling beneath the covers, telling Steve you only mean to close your eyes whilst he checks the room. The bed feels strangely wide after so many nights spent wedged between two warm bodies beneath the open sky. Even when there had only been Steve beside you, his arm always fond your waist before sleep did. 

Tonight, the empty space at your back bothers you more than it ought to, and you drift off feeling faintly abandoned by both outlaws. 

Until finally you stir to the mattress dipping behind you and warmth settling along your back. It’s broad and familiar enough that your half-asleep mind doesn’t ask questions. Instead, you arch back into him, pleased to have your outlaw close, fitting your ass against his hips. 

Impatiently, and a little pointedly, you reach back for the arm that has failed to wrap itself around you. You drag it over your waist and hold is hand beneath yours. 

“Took you long enough,” you mumble into the pillow, a little pout tucked into the words. After all those weeks of Steve looking wounded whenever you rode with Bucky, he might at least have the decency to act pleased now that he can pull you close whenever.

His body goes stiff, and you take the teasing for what it is, grinding back again. Slower this time, rolling your ass over the shape beneath his trousers until his cock begins to harden against you. A strained breath warms the back of your neck. Then another, rougher, when you press closer and keep moving, sleepy need gathering fast between your thighs.

Still, his hand remains where you put it.

Your brows pinch. Steve has never needed this much encouragement where you;re concerned. Usually, one soft sound from you is enough to have him pushing up your skirts and getting greedy with whatever he finds beneath them.

“Stevie,” you whine, catching his wrist again. “Quit makin’ me ask.”

You guide his hand down over your stomach and between your thighs, pressing his palm against the heat gathered beneath your drawers. His fingers flex once. The groan that leaves him is low and delicious beside your ear, and you answer it with a needy little roll of your hips, trying to coax his hand into giving you what you want.

“That’s it, honey.” You hear Steve drawl, but his voice doesn’t come from behind you. “Keep grindin’ that pretty ass over Buck’s cock, he’s been waitin’ weeks to feel how sweet you are.”

Your eyes snap open. 

Steve is sat in the chair near the window, one ankle hooked over the other, watching the two of you through the low lamplight. His hat rests on the table beside him, hair pushed back from his face, and the hard shape beneath his trousers leaves little doubt as to how much he’s been enjoying the view.

Behind you, Bucky has gone completely still. His hand remains trapped between your thighs where you placed it, fingers flexing once against the damp cloth of your drawers before stopping again.

Steve catches the hesitation on your face.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he coos, voice dropping softer. “You’re alright. Ain’t nobody cross with you.”

His gaze stays warm and steady on yours, settling some of the panic before it can take hold. Bucky makes no attempt to claim what you offered him in your sleep, leaving the choice entirely with you now that you’re awake, and the restraint loosens something in your chest.

You sink back against him again, and a quiet, needy “Steve” slips from your mouth. 

“Well, quit teasin’ him then, sweetheart. You dragged Buck’s hand down to that needy pussy yourself.” His eyes stay on yours, smile turning wicked. “You want him to touch you, don’t you?”

You nod, “Yes, Stevie, please.”

Approval rumbles from Steve across the room at the same moment Bucky groans against your shoulder. His hand finally moves, slipping beneath the damp cloth between your thighs and dragging two rough fingers through the slick gathered there.

“Christ,” Bucky breathes, the word warm against your neck. “You’re soaked through darlin’.”

Your hips chase his hand before you can help it, opening wider as his fingers circle your clit. He parts you slowly, gathering the mess of you over his fingertips before circling your clit. And God, does he learn quickly. Taking each broken breath and twitch of your thighs as instruction, until your body is rolling against him with shameless impatience.

“That feel good?” he murmurs. “Been wondering how sweet you’d get for me.”

You whine and press back against him, already impatient, already desperate for more than the teasing drag of his fingers. Bucky laughs softly into your neck, pleased by how quickly you come apart for him.

“Yeah, I can feel that.” One finger presses into your pussy, drawing a thin moan from you as he works it deeper. “Taking me so easy. Such a good girl for us.”

Bucky pushes a second finger into your pussy, and the stretch of them pulls a broken moan from you. His hand is rougher than Steve’s, the calluses catching at tender places as he works you open, but he watches every reaction with the same focused attention he gives everything. One curl of his fingers makes your thighs tremble, and he does it again immediately.

Steve watches from the chair with one hand resting over the hard shape in his trousers, his eyes fixed on the way you grind down over Bucky’s knuckles.

“That it?” he asks against your skin. “Right there, sugar?”

“Yes—God, Buck—”

Bucky curses when your walls tighten around him. “She’s so damn sweet, Stevie.”

Steve’s mouth curves.

“If you think she’s sweet around your fingers,” he says, voice low enough to make your stomach clench, “wait till you get a taste of her.”

The thought pulls a desperate sound from you. Bucky answers with a groan of his own, his fingers curling inside you as his gaze drops hungrily between your thighs from over your shoulder. Your hand is already reaching back, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you twist toward him and tug with very little patience left.

Bucky goes willingly, laughing once under his breath as he lets you pull him down the bed, tugging down your drawers as he goes.

“That eager, darlin’?”

“Yes,” you gasp, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. “Please.”

Steve leans back in the chair, hand now palming over his cock as he watches.

“Go on, Buck,” he drawls. “Show her that mouth’s good for something besides bein’ a clever jackass.”

The first slow drag of Bucky’s tongue through you tears a cry from your throat. His hands close around your hips at once, holding you open while he tastes you again, deeper this time, mouth working with none of the caution his fingers had shown. He licks through every slick fold, groaning against your pussy.

Then his tongue circles your clit, and your hips jerk sharply into his face.

“There,” Steve rumbles, hand pressing harder over his thick length, still trapped beneath too much fabric. “She likes it right there. Don’t rush her, Buck. Keep your tongue flat and make her grind on it.”

Bucky follows the instruction immediately. He spreads his mouth over you, tongue broad and slow beneath your clit while his grip shifts lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath your thighs to pull you closer. Your back arches, breath breaking into a helpless whine as you begin to move against him, too desperate to stay still and too overwhelmed to find any rhythm beyond chasing whatever his mouth gives you.

“That’s it,” Bucky praises against you. “Good girl. Use me.”

His words vibrate through your pussy and leave you clenching around nothing. He feels it, answers with another hungry groan, then slips two fingers back inside you while his mouth returns to your clit.

The room seems to tilt.

“Buck—Steve—God—”

Their names tangle together as Bucky curls his fingers into the place that makes your thighs shake. Steve keeps talking from across the room, telling Bucky when to press harder, when to keep his mouth where it is, every quiet command proving how well he knows your body and how willingly Bucky is learning it.

Pleasure builds so quickly that instinct has you trying to squirm away from it. Your hips twist even as they buck toward him, hands scrambling over the sheets while Bucky holds you firmly in place and refuses to let the distance grow.

“Easy, darlin’,” he soothes, breathless against you. “I’ve got you. Let me have it.”

But you can’t. You need more. Need both of them.

Your hand reaches blindly toward Steve even though he’s still too far away, fingers stretching uselessly through the space between you as his name leaves you in a broken plea. “Stevie.”

He’s out of the chair before the word has finished. Steve comes to the bedside and catches your reaching hand, pressing it against his chest as he bends over you.

“I’m here, pretty girl,” he coos. “You close?”

You nod frantically, one hand clutching his shirt and dragging him lower because words have abandoned you. Steve lets himself be pulled into the kiss, mouth covering yours just as Bucky’s tongue flicks hard over your clit again.

You moan against Steve’s lips as his hand slides into Bucky’s hair.

“Closer, Buck,” Steve pants into your mouth, pushing him more firmly between your thighs. “She’s trying to run from it. Don’t let her.”

Bucky groans and buries his face deeper, lips and tongue turning greedy while Steve kisses you through every broken sound. The hand in Bucky’s hair holds him just where you need him, and Steve’s other palm cups your jaw, keeping your mouth against his as your body begins to lose all control.

“That’s my best girl,” Steve praises between kisses. “Lettin’ me share this sweet pussy with Buck. Look how greedy you’ve got him.”

Your fingers knot in Steve’s shirt as your hips rise hard against Bucky’s face, chasing the relentless pressure of his tongue. Bucky holds you there and eats you through it, groaning when your thighs close around his head and the first desperate pulse of your orgasm rolls over his mouth.

You come with Steve’s name breaking against his lips and Bucky’s muffled beneath it, your whole body shuddering as slick spills over Bucky’s tongue and chin. Steve kisses every cry from you while Bucky greedily laps at everything you give him, refusing to stop until you are trembling and breathless between them.

Only then does Steve ease his hold in Bucky’s hair.

Bucky lifts his head slowly, mouth shining and eyes dark with satisfaction, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel. He’s knelt between your thighs, one hand warm against your hip, whilst Steve is still leant over you. It leaves them close enough that Steve’s gaze has nowhere else to fall but Bucky’s mouth.

“Fuck Stevie,” he breathes, wiping his thumb beneath his lip only to suck the taste from it. “Can’t believe you kept her to yourself for so long. Greedy bastard.”

But Steve’s gaze is too focused on Bucky’s swollen lips, glistening with your arousal, for his brain to think of a response. His tongue flicks out absently, sweeping over his lower lip as though he can already taste you there. The hunger in his face is so plain that your hand rises almost instinctively, fingers curling around his jaw and drawing him toward Bucky.

Their mouths meet hard enough to pull a startled sound from Bucky, and for one suspended second neither man moves. Steve’s hand stays curled around his jaw. Bucky’s fingers bunch in the front of Steve’s shirt. The rough scrape of stubble and the unfamiliar shape of another man’s mouth seem to catch them both off guard.

But then Bucky pulls him closer.

Steve takes hold of the back of his neck and kisses him properly, tongue pushing into Bucky’s mouth with a low groan, greedy for every trace of you left on his tongue. Bucky answers with all the hunger he had just spent between your thighs, opening for him as though this is something they have been circling for years without ever daring to name.

The sight of them together sends fresh heat curling low in your stomach.

Steve’s tongue pushes deeper into Bucky’s mouth, licking over his lips and teeth as though Bucky has become another place from which Steve can take his fill. Bucky groans, one hand sliding around the back of Steve’s neck while the other tightens possessively on your thigh. Every reckless rescue, every night spent back to back beneath the open sky, every time one of them chose the other without hesitation finally makes sense for what it has always been.

Your slick still glistens on Bucky’s chin. Steve’s mouth smears through it as the kiss deepens, and neither of them seems to care where one taste ends and the other begins. Years of rough affection and stranger devotion turn filthy in front of you, Steve holding Bucky by the jaw while Bucky bites lightly at his lower lip before drawing him back in, as if now they have finally started, neither of them knows how to stop.

Then Bucky’s hand drops between them. His palm settles over Steve’s straining cock, and Steve groans into the kiss. Bucky rubs him slowly through the fabric, swallowing each low moan Steve gives him while Steve keeps one hand firm at the back of his neck. They look made for this, rough hands and parted mouths, years of devotion finding a new language right in front of you, and the thought leaves you aching all over again.

Your thighs shift restlessly beneath them. One hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit while you watch Bucky palm Steve’s cock through his trousers. A moan escapes before you can smother it.

Their kiss breaks, both men looking down at you, though their foreheads remain pressed together. Bucky’s mouth is red and wet, Steve’s no better, and neither of them moves for a moment as they watch your fingers circle desperately between your thighs.

“Well, look at her,” Bucky murmurs, his hand still cupped around Steve. “Got herself all worked up watching us.”

You whine softly, pressing harder against your clit.

Steve’s eyes darken. “Poor pretty thing.”

Bucky gives Steve’s cock another slow squeeze, making his jaw tighten. “Reckon we ought to find that mouth something to do besides whine.”

Steve’s smile turns wicked. “Reckon you’re right.”

He shifts farther onto the bed and settles on his knees near the headboard, giving you room to turn beneath him. You move eagerly onto your hands and knees, facing Steve with Bucky still kneeling behind you, close enough that his thighs frame yours and his chest brushes your back when he leans over.

Bucky reaches around you before you can, fingers working open Steve’s trousers slowly at first, then surer when Steve does nothing to stop him. His hand closes around Steve’s cock as it spills free, heavy against his palm, the skin flushed deep at the head and drawn tight over the thick ridge beneath it. The vein you know so well runs dark along the underside, disappearing into Bucky’s fist when he gives one cautious stroke.

Steve’s head tips back on a broken groan.

The sound seems to delight Bucky, eyes dropping to watch his hand move again, slower this time, thumb dragging over the wet slit before sliding back down the length of him. Steve’s broad chest rises sharply beneath his shirt, every muscle in his shoulders pulled tight with the effort of holding still while Bucky learns how easily he can make him come apart.

Something needy catches inside you at the sight. You’ve heard that sound beneath your own hands too many times to let Bucky keep it all to himself.

You lean forward and press your lips to the swollen head, kissing it once before your tongue slips out to taste the slick Bucky has spread there. Steve’s breath breaks again, rougher now, and you follow the thick vein beneath his cock with a slow drag of your tongue, smiling when his hips twitch toward your mouth.

You kiss the tip again, softer this time, letting your lips linger around the crown. Steve’s hand braced against the headboard curls hard enough that the wood gives a quiet complaint beneath his grip.

Behind you, Bucky makes a low sound of disapproval.

“Now that ain’t kind,” he murmurs, gathering your hair away from your face with one hand. “Stevie’s been real good, lettin’ me have my fill of you, and here you are making him suffer for it.”

Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out rough and unsteady when you trace the underside of his cock with the tip of your tongue, following that thick vein until his hips jerk helplessly toward you again. Bucky’s fingers tighten in your hair.

“Think you oughta thank him proper.”

The push is slow but firm, guiding you down Steve’s length before you can tease him again. Your lips stretch around him as inch after inch slides over your tongue, Bucky holding your hair clear while he eases you forward until the swollen tip presses into your throat. You gag softly around him, eyes watering as your hands catch at Steve’s thighs, and the sound Steve makes is loud enough to fill the room.

His forehead drops against Bucky’s.

“Fuck,” he groans straight into Bucky’s mouth, breath breaking between them while your throat works helplessly around his cock. “Sweet girl, always so damn good to me.”

The praise goes straight through you. You moan around him, and Steve curses as the vibration rolls over his cock.

Bucky’s grip settles more firmly in your hair, guiding you back until Steve’s cock slips from your throat and then forward again in one slow, measured stroke. He controls the pace with an ease that makes your stomach tighten, keeping you steady while your lips drag over every inch of Steve. Each pass pulls another sound from Steve, his restraint coming apart piece by piece as the two of you work together to ruin him.

Bucky watches it happen with open satisfaction. His fingers tighten whenever Steve’s hips twitch, holding you in place long enough to make him feel the wet heat of your mouth before easing you back again. When your throat tightens around him and pulls another helpless groan from his chest, Bucky closes the distance and kisses him, swallowing every broken breath you pull from Steve as you bob on his cock.

 Then Steve seems to decide he’s had enough of Bucky being the only one left with any composure. His hand drops between you, fumbling once at Bucky’s trousers before dragging them open. Bucky’s breath breaks into the kiss when Steve wraps a fist around his cock, giving him an experimental stroke.

“Stevie,” Bucky groans against his lips.

Steve’s mouth curves against his. He pumps him again, firmer this time, and the sound Bucky makes rolls straight through you. It leaves you suddenly, painfully aware of the hard weight of him behind you, of how close his cock is to the slick heat between your thighs while his hand remains tangled in your hair.

Your knees edge farther apart without thought.

The movement opens you beneath him, your hips rocking back in a needy little invitation even as your mouth continues working over Steve. Bucky feels it immediately. His free hand slides down your spine and cups your ass, spreading you wider as his thumb traces through the slick already coating your inner thighs.

“Goddamn, sugar, look at you,” he breathes , looking down at the wet heat waiting behind you. “Spread wide and drippin’ all over yourself for my cock.”

Steve follows his gaze.

His fist slows around Bucky’s cock, drawing the swollen head through the mess between your thighs. You whimper around Steve as Bucky’s cock slides over your clit and nudges against your entrance.

Bucky presses forward slowly, teasing you with every inch of his cock. He isn’t as thick as Steve, but he is longer, the stretch different enough to wrench a muffled cry from you around the cock already filling your mouth. Your pussy opens greedily for him, slick walls fluttering as he sinks deeper until the head of him kisses your cervix and leaves you shuddering between them.

“Fuck me, Steve,” Bucky groans, driving in until his hips meet your ass. “You been fillin’ this pussy every chance you get and she’s still tight enough to choke my cock.”

Steve’s cock pulses over your tongue at the words. You barely have enough strength left to hold yourself upright, arms trembling beneath you while Bucky draws back and fills you again, each long stroke knocking the breath from your lungs. Steve’s hips begin to move with him, pushing into your mouth as Bucky fucks into your pussy, and soon there is no rhythm left for you to keep, only the one they make between them.

You let them have you.

Steve’s hands settle on either side of your face, keeping you steady as his cock slips wetly over your tongue. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and spills down your chin. Every thrust from behind rocks you farther onto Steve, leaving you whining and gagging softly around him while Bucky’s cock reaches so deep your legs threaten to give beneath you.

“Look at her, Buck,” Steve rumbles, watching your lips stretch around him. “Can’t decide which cock she wants more, so she’s takin’ both like the greedy little thing she is.”

Bucky groans and drives in deeper, his hips pressing flush to your ass, causing your mouth to jolt forward around Steve. “She loves it, Stevie. Can feel her squeezin’ me every time you push down her throat.”

Your walls clench hard around Bucky at the filth in their words, milking his cock as another broken moan vibrates around Steve’s. 

“Think she likes hearing us talk about her.”

Steve’s gaze drops to you again, dark with affection and something far less gentle.

“Course she does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing through the spit shining on your chin. “Our filthy girl likes knowing she’s got both her outlaws pleased.”

Bucky’s thrusts begin to turn rougher behind you, each one driving you further onto Steve’s cock whilst Steve keeps one hand cradled against your jaw, thumb catching the drool that slips from the corner of your mouth. They feel your orgasm building, your pussy gripping Bucky and your moans breaking around Steve, and they chase it without mercy.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on yours. “Come for us. Let Buck feel what that greedy pussy does when she gets everything she wants.”

Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair as his hips snap into you again. “Go on, sugar. Come all over my cock while you choke on his. Show us how good we make you feel.”

It’s the words that push you over. Pleasure tears through you so hard your arms nearly buckle beneath it. You come with both of them filling you, Steve thick over your tongue and Bucky buried deep enough to empty every though from your head. It’s both too much and exactly what you need - the two of them wrapped around you, with the truth of what they are to each other finally laid out between you.

Your walls clamp down around Bucky in frantic, pulsing waves. “That’s it darlin’,” Bucky growls as your pussy milks him, hips stuttering against your ass. “Keep choking me like that and I’m gonna paint this pretty back with my come.”

He pulls out just in time. His fist closes around his cock, stroking fast as the first hot spill lands across your lower back, followed by another thick stripe over your ass. Bucky groans your name as he empties himself over you, watching his seed streak your skin while your body still trembles beneath him.

Steve stares at the mess his best friend has made of you, and his cock jerks at the sight of you marked by Bucky’s cum. It’s enough to break him, spilling down your throat with a broken groan, hand tightening against your jaw as pulse after pulse fills your mouth. You swallow greedily around him, taking every drop while Bucky’s palm smooths over your hip.

“Such a sweet little thing,” Bucky murmurs behind you, still breathless. “Think your girl likes being shared, Steve.”

Steve’s thumb strokes tenderly over your cheek as you swallow the last of him, eyes glassy and looking up at him with such devoted affection it pulls his heart.

“Our girl.”

The next morning, you stir to Steve trying to leave the bed without disturbing you. He almost manages it. But the mattress shifts beneath his weight, and the warmth pressed against your front begins to disappear before you make a soft, petulant sound and reach for him beneath the covers. Steve catches your searching hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaning down to brush another against your forehead.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You answer by tightening your fingers around his wrist, unwilling to surrender the place you have spent the night tucked between your two outlaws. Steve’s mouth softens, but Bucky solves the problem without properly waking. He makes a rough, sleepy noise behind you and pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm cinching around your waist until your back is fitted to him and there is no room left to complain about being abandoned.

“There,” Bucky mumbles into your hair. “Quit fussin’.”

You melt into him happily enough, eyes drifting shut again while Steve dresses nearby. Buck’s body is warm and heavy behind yours, his breath slow against your neck, and for a few precious moments the room feels safe enough to forget where you are. 

But then Steve’s curse cuts through the quiet.

“Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t move immediately. “Mm?”

“Get up.”

The tension in Steve’s voice does what the words alone can’t. Bucky’s arm disappears from around your waist as he pushes upright, sleep falling away from him in an instant. You sit up with the blanket clutched to your chest and find Steve beside the window, peering through the narrow gap he has made in the curtain. His gun belt is already fastened. One revolver rests in his hand while he checks the chamber of the other.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, reaching for his trousers.

Steve lets the curtain fall back into place. “We’ve got company.”

Bucky crosses the room barefoot, keeping himself close to the wall as he looks out. His expression hardens. “How many?”

“Too many.”

Your heart begins to pound. You drag the sheet around yourself and slip from the bed, though Steve catches sight of you moving and immediately shakes his head.

“Stay back from the window.”

“What’s happening?”

Neither answers quickly enough.

You look from one man to the other, watching the quick efficiency with which they arm themselves. Bucky pulls on his shirt without bothering to button it before buckling his holster. Steve gathers the ammunition from the table and divides it between them, his movements calm in a way that frightens you more than panic would have.

“Steve,” you push, and when Steve glances back at you, the desperation on your face is enough to make him stop pretending.

“Street’s surrounded,” he finally admits. “Sheriff’s got men covering the front, both ends of the alley and the stable yard. More on the roofs across from us.”

The words make you freeze. “How did they find us?”

Steve looks toward the door, jaw working once. “Maybe the clerk didn’t buy our performance after all.”

Bucky looks through the curtain again, studying the street below. “Back window?”

“Two men in the alley, three more watching the yard. We’d need to draw them round the front first.”

They continue to move through possibilities quickly, cutting each one down almost as soon as it’s spoken. There are too many men. That’s the truth beneath every low exchange, though neither of them says it aloud. Bucky begins loading his rifle. Steve watches him for a moment, then glances toward you. The look passing between them is brief, but you understand it anyway.

“No.”

Steve’s face closes. “Sweetheart—”

“No.”

Bucky sets the rifle down. “Sugar, listen.”

“I know that look.” Your voice shakes despite every effort to steady it. “You’re working out how to get me clear.”

Steve crosses to you, hands finding your cheeks and tilting your face to his. “Buck and I will draw them towards the front, and once they’re focused on us, you slip through the yard and take the first horse you can reach.”

Your eyes burn as you look between them. “And what chance does it give you?”

Neither man answers.

Months ago, when they let you ride away with them, you told them there was only one part of their life you wouldn’t share. You would endure the cold, the hunger, the long days in the saddle and every bullet sent chasing after them, but you wouldn’t stand by and watch either man die. Now they mean to hold you to it.

Bucky comes to stand beside you, one hand settling at the back of your neck. His thumb moves once over your skin, the touch unbearably gentle from a man preparing to walk into gunfire.

“You take the horse south,” he says. “Don’t stop in the next town. Just keep goin’ ‘till you can’t.”

You search their faces for another answer and find none. They’re terrified - you know them well enough now to see it. But they’re simply more frightened for you than they are for themselves. So you nod. 

Steve’s hands linger against your cheeks for another second before he releases you, and Bucky’s thumb brushes the back of your neck once more before both men turn away, returning to plan as they let you dress. 

Your fingers feel clumsy fastening your stays, though you force them through each familiar movement, pulling on yesterday’s dress and tying your hair back with shaking hands. Bucky crouches beside the bed and spreads their remaining cartridges across the floorboards, counting beneath his breath until a thought makes him pause with one round still caught between his fingers.

“Wait a minute - you didn’t see Rumlow out there, did you?”

Steve glances over from the rifle. “Rumlow? No. Why?”

“Thank God for that.” Bucky exhales and drops the cartridge onto the pile. “For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.”

Steve’s expression flattens while a startled laugh escapes you despite everything, and the crooked grin Bucky sends your way suggests that was precisely what he’d been aiming for.

Steve returns to checking the rifle with a quiet shake of his head. “Idiot.”

Bucky’s smirk lingers only a moment before the boys begin getting ready in earnest. 

Steve fastens the last of the ammunition at his belt and checks both revolvers one final time, while Bucky gathers the remaining cartridges into his pockets and slings the rifle over his shoulder. You stand beside the bed with your coat half-buttoned and look between them, both armed now, both trying to pretend as though this is merely another bad plan they will laugh about by nightfall.

It’s Steve who comes to you first. He cups the back of your neck and kisses you hard, all the tenderness in him sharpened by the knowledge that he cannot afford to linger. You clutch at his shirt anyway, trying to hold him there, but he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Promise me you’ll run,” Steve begs against your lips.

Before you can respond, Bucky adds “And don’t look back.”

You turn toward him, already crying despite the effort you’ve made not to. Bucky’s expression softens. He reaches up and wipes beneath one of your eyes with his thumb before drawing you against him and kissing you with none of his usual teasing left in it.

“You promise us, sugar,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You hear the gunfire, you run.”

Your bottom lip trembles, tears spilling freely, but you manage to keep you voice steady enough to reply “I promise.”

They lead you to the back window and ease it open just enough for you to slip through when the time comes, before heading back to the front door.

“Sheriff’s moved two more men toward the front,” he observes, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Looks like they’re expecting us to make a grand entrance.”

Steve cocks his gun. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”

Bucky turns from the window with a faint smile, and just for a minute, the years between them seem to gather there in the quiet. They stand beside the door with their weapons ready, drawing one steadying breath before looking at each other.

“Till the end of the line,” Steve says.

Bucky’s answer comes without hesitation. “Always.”

Then they burst through the front door.

Gunfire erupts immediately, deafening in the close quarters, answered by the heavy crack of Steve’s revolver and the sharper report of Bucky’s rifle as they force the fight toward the front of the hotel. Every instinct in you screams to turn, to look, to run after them instead of away, but you cling to the promise you made and climb through the rear window once the coast is clear.

Then you run. Across the yard, past the stable wall and toward the first horse you can reach, every step carrying you farther from the two men you love. The law may have their names and faced printed on posters, may call them thieves and bad men, but you know better now.

Wanted men they may be, but they’re the best men you have ever known.

more mads: sooooo, i am so so sorry for how late i am for posting this. half of this was written in a sleep deprived, frantic haze so apologies if any of it gets confusing at any point, especially the ending. i had a different plan for it at first, but then i want to stay more loyal to the film, and i also needed to just get this fic done considering how late i already was to posting it. so this is what i landed on and i'm worried it hasn't quite worked :/ idk, this could be the sleep deprivation talking but i just started to hate this fic as i got closer to the end. hopefully you guys still enjoyed - if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @buckybsdoll @gilwm @venigrantrogers @mrsevans90 @rainyapricotcreatorparty @midnightramyeoncravings @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @tangledllaces @thatisamericas-ass @mrsmhaddock @supercoolswagicornxd

[andyss-world]

Love love love

[miasvelvetvoid]

mans best friend - the masterlist

pairings: bucky barnes x fem!reader, steve rogers x f!stark reader, tony stark x fem!reader, matt murdock x fem!reader, frank castle x fem!reader series synopsis: You fall in love too easily and stay longer than you should, mistaking attention for commitment. You learn the hard way that being wanted is not the same as being valued. In the end, you stop chasing and finally choose yourself. warnings: no use of y/n, sexual tension, angst, jealousy, pining, bickering, toxic relationship, fluff, reader has long hair (sometimes blonde, sometimes brunette), age gap, miscommunication & smut, each part will have it’s own warnings. total word count: 74.5k mia’s love note: i’ve somehow managed to make such sad fics out of such a girly pop album. multiple different stories in one series, i hope you enjoy my lovies

now playing, mans best friend!

♥︎ — manchild steve rogers x f!stark reader

After weeks of silence and distance, you settle for the common manchild because wanting more feels too risky. Steve’s jealousy simmers quietly when he sees it, exposing the cost of choosing easy comfort over the man who unknowingly set your standards.

♥︎ — tears steve rogers x f!stark reader

The week after you and Steve finally sleep together, he becomes impossibly thoughtful, attentive, and gentle in ways you never realized you were missing. His quiet acts of care and old fashioned manners leave you flustered, smiling, and embarrassingly turned on. He doesn’t make you cry. He just makes tears run down your thighs.

♥︎ — my man on willpower bucky barnes x fem!reader

Bucky used to be clingy and sweet and very openly obsessed with you in the most endearing way. Then out of nowhere, he pulls back. He’s busy, he’s working, and apparently he’s far too occupied to be glued to your side like he used to be. Not when he’s off on his big, slightly dramatic journey to rediscover his sense of purpose and add a little zest to his life, leaving you there in your slutty pajamas alone and crying.

♥︎ — sugar talking matt murdock x fem!reader

Your boyfriend Matthew was an expert at making you cry and then smoothing it over with pretty gifts or long, carefully worded voicemails. But when he misses your anniversary dinner because he’s out on patrol, he finally realizes that this time, not even his best sugar talking is going to be enough to save your relationship. Except not even you could prepare for how that relationship ends.

♥︎ — we almost broke up again last night frank castle x fem!reader

Your relationship with Frank has always been messy and intense. He’s an emotionally unavailable ex-Marine, you’re an always-talking, outgoing burst of sunshine, and somehow you keep colliding instead of balancing each other. Lately, the fights have been nonstop, but neither of you is very good at fixing things with words, especially when every argument seems to end the same way, tangled up in his bed instead of actually resolving anything.

♥︎ — nobody’s son matt murdock x fem!reader

Reeling from the collapse of your relationship with Matthew, you’re stuck crying in bed while your phone won’t stop buzzing with friends inviting you to be their newly appointed third wheel. You struggle to accept that Matt Murdock is just like the rest, heartbreakingly attractive and painfully deceiving. Eventually, you’re forced to face the truth that there may be no one left to believe in, nobody’s son waiting to prove you wrong.

♥︎ — never getting laid tony stark x fem!reader

You thought your relationship with Tony Stark was going amazingly. You were happy, settled, and completely blindsided by how easily he walked away, especially when just the night before he was telling you how much he needed you. You’re not even angry, just quietly shaken, until it sinks in who Tony Stark really is and how, at any given moment, he could already be charming someone else with the same lips that you love so much.

♥︎ — when did you get hot? bucky barnes x fem!reader

Bucky’s willpower was nothing compared to yours. You managed to avoid the super soldier like the plague while he took his time figuring himself out. It isn’t until the Stark Expo that you’re suddenly reintroduced to this new version of Bucky, and you’re left wondering when exactly he got so much hotter than you remember.

♥︎ — go go juice steve rogers x f!stark reader

An unexpected situation forces Steve to end your relationship to keep you safe. Left heartbroken and furious, you fall back into your old college habits, get a little too drunk, and start dialing numbers you probably shouldn’t. You’re not even sure who you’re calling, John, Larry, Dylan, it all blurs together. What you don’t expect is Steve showing up at the club you’re in, right when you’re least prepared to see him.

♥︎ — don’t worry i’ll make you worry steve rogers x f!stark reader

You weren’t angry at Steve for trying to protect you, but you’ve endured enough heartbreak to know you can’t fully open your heart again without certainty. Even though the sex the night before left you hazy and conflicted, you understand that the future of your relationship rests on the choice you make now. You make sure Steve knows that if he isn’t completely all in, then the emotional lottery is the only part of you he’ll ever get. And Steve knows, without a doubt, that no other girl will ever worry him the way you do.

♥︎ — house tour bucky barnes x fem!reader

You offer to give Bucky a house tour after leaving the Stark Expo together. Your playful promises of naked Twister and an endless supply of Chips Ahoy fall on very eager ears, and somehow, by the time you’re home, it’s Bucky who ends up giving you the house tour instead.

♥︎ — goodbye tony stark x fem!reader

Your sadness quickly turns into anger when Tony suddenly decides he wants back into your life. You lean fully into pettiness, telling him goodbye in many… many different languages. He refuses to let it go, insisting he can fix what he broke, and you make it clear that goodbye doesn’t mean a break. It means he’s losing you forever.

bonus track!

♥︎ — such a funny way frank castle x fem!reader

Frank Castle has always been funny. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Funny in the way he makes you laugh just enough to forget what he never says out loud. Funny in the way he keeps you at arm’s length, like wanting you too much is somehow a joke you’re both in on. And he has such a funny way of saying “I love you,” one that never actually uses the words. And it’s funny, too, how you just know he’s out drinking with his friends while you’re at home, convincing yourself that this ache in your chest is just another punchline you’re supposed to laugh at.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ doctor asshole.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett's not jealous. he's simply standing across the room, watching a med student make the girl who's definitely not his girlfriend laugh. warnings – jealousy, situationship drama, strong language, sexual references, possessive behaviour notes from me – lots of ppl asking for jealous garrett... so here we are! for context, this takes place before patient zero. enjoy!! word count – 4.8k

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Garrett is fine. That feels important. Foundational, even. A fact he would like entered into the record before Dean opens his mouth again and says something so irritatingly accurate Garrett has to either pretend not to hear it or commit a small act of violence near the beer pong table.

He’s fine.

He’s standing in his own living room with a beer in one hand, Logan half-draped over the back of the couch beside him, Tucker leaning against the wall with his arms folded, Dean doing that thing where he looks like he’s listening to the conversation but is actually watching Garrett with the shiny-eyed focus of a man who has found entertainment and intends to feed it until it grows legs. 

The house is packed in the usual post-game way, bodies everywhere, music too loud, the kitchen already sticky in a way that suggests someone has spilled something sugary. There are girls in Briar sweatshirts and guys from the team yelling over each other and the front door opening every five minutes to let in another gust of cold air and another cluster of people who definitely were not invited but have arrived with beer, so the legal issue is blurry.

It should be a good night. It is a good night, technically. They won. He scored. The whole left side of his body aches in a familiar, satisfying way from a hit in the second period that would probably look worse tomorrow and feel better never, and he has no morning skate, which means there’s no rational reason he should be standing here grinding his molars into powder because some guy in a clean sweater and very serious watch is making her laugh near the dining room doorway.

A real laugh. The kind where her head tips slightly back and her hand comes up like she’s trying to stop herself from being too loud, even though Garrett knows for a fact she’s capable of being much louder than that and has several recent memories his brain really doesn’t need to supply right now while Dean is standing two feet away.

The guy says something else. She grins. She’s talking with her hands, one of them wrapped around a beer, the other moving as she explains something to him with the sort of focused, lively expression she gets when she’s discussing hospital drama or some disgusting ward story Garrett’s ninety percent sure he doesn’t want to hear but always asks about anyway because she lights up when she knows what she’s talking about.

The guy leans in. Garrett’s fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle.

“Careful,” Tucker says mildly. “You paid for that.”

Garrett doesn’t look at him. “I’m holding it normally.”

Logan snorts. “Yeah, man. Super normal. Real relaxed grip you’ve got there. Like a man seconds away from inventing glass dust.”

Dean, delighted, shifts closer. “What are we looking at? Oh, wait. Are we looking at the doctor?”

“He’s not a doctor,” Garrett says automatically.

All three of them go quiet for half a second.

Then Dean’s face does something horrible. “Oh.”

Logan makes a sound. “Oh, he knows lore.”

“I don’t know lore.”

“You absolutely know lore,” Tucker says. “That was immediate.”

Garrett finally drags his eyes away from the dining room doorway to glare at him. “She said he’s a med student.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, nodding with grotesque sympathy. “And when did she say that, buddy?”

Garrett hates them. All of them. Deeply. With history and texture.

He looks back across the room before he can stop himself. She’s still there. Still smiling. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, a little messy from the cold outside and the party heat inside, and she’s wearing the top she wore last night under his hands when he had her pressed into his mattress with her thighs shaking around his hips. A different pair of jeans. Same mouth. Same mouth currently curving at Jeremiah or Jason or whatever the fuck his name is like he’s said something worth the amount of teeth she’s showing.

Which is fine. It is.

Garrett’s not stupid. He knows what this is. He knows what they are. They’ve been extremely clear. Painfully clear. Repeatedly clear, usually while naked or half-asleep or in the aftermath of some situation that makes clarity feel less like emotional maturity and more like both of them holding up a cardboard sign that says this is casual while standing in the ashes of casual’s house.

She’s not his girlfriend. She’s said this. He’s said this. The whole thing works because of it. She’s busy. He’s busy. 

She has clinicals and labs and exams and shifts that wreck her enough that sometimes she sits on the edge of his bed in silence for five full minutes after taking off her shoes. He has hockey and captain shit and games and classes and the kind of schedule that turns eating lunch into an event if he manages it before three. They don’t need complicated.

Except he picked her up from the hospital two nights ago because she’d texted him something like might fall asleep in the elevator lol, and the thought of her taking the bus half-dead at midnight had made his body move before his brain finished pretending not to care. 

He drove her home, got her into bed, put a glass of water on her nightstand, and told her to stop trying to answer her group chat because none of those people could force her to discuss wound care at 12:46 a.m. 

Then this morning he drove her to clinic because it was raining and she had looked at the weather app and whined softly under her breath and because he’d wanted an excuse to see her in scrubs with her hair claw-clipped up and sleep still sitting sweet and heavy in her face.

So, who the fuck is this dickhead?

Who’s this future-doctor douchebag with his neat hair and his clean shoes and his little hospital-placement proximity, making her laugh at a party Garrett’s hosting in a house Garrett pays rent in, near a kitchen where she’s eaten his leftover pizza at one in the morning while wearing his hoodie and his boxers and complaining that Dean keeps buying the wrong orange juice.

Not his girl. Sure.

She was his girl last night when he had his mouth against her stomach and her hands in his hair, when he’d made her come twice before they even got under the covers properly because she'd arrived stressed and sharp and vibrating out of her own skin. 

She was definitely his girl around the third time, when she got so loud Dean had thumped on the wall and yelled, “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!” which had made her hide her face in Garrett’s shoulder and shake with laughter while Garrett, saint that he is, hadn’t gone across the hall and murdered him. 

She was his girl when she fell asleep with one bare knee hooked over his thigh, hair in his mouth, one hand flat on his ribs like she needed to keep him there even unconscious.

But now, apparently, she’s standing by the dining room doorway with Doctor Sweater, laughing like he isn’t two comments away from making Garrett do something that will require an apology to the whole hockey program.

“Thought she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Logan says, because Logan has chosen death.

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “She’s not.”

Dean hums. “Right.”

“She’s not,” Garrett repeats, and hears how bad it sounds the second it leaves his mouth. Too fast. Too defensive. Like a man denying a crime while holding the stolen TV.

Tucker takes a sip of his beer, eyes on the scene across the room. “You look like you might kill him.”

“Not impossible,” Garrett says. “Still might.”

Dean’s laugh is immediate and bright. “Oh, he’s gone. He’s fully gone. Look at him.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“Physically, sure. Emotionally, you’re over there lifting your leg on her like a golden retriever,” Dean beams. 

Garrett turns his head slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A lot,” Logan says, nodding. “But he’s not wrong.”

“He is wrong.”

“Then why do you look like that?” Tucker asks.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to decide how much shit you’d be in if you body checked him right now.”

Garrett looks back at her again, because suffering is a hobby now. Jason is saying something with his hand raised slightly, like he’s making a point. Probably some hospital thing. Probably something about rounds or a consultant or whatever the fuck people who wear badges and make too much eye contact in break rooms talk about. 

She’s listening with her face all open and interested, nodding along, and Garrett knows that face too. The one she gets when someone’s saying something actually worth hearing. The one she wore in the library when she was explaining veins on his forearm, all focus and warmth and that little crease between her brows.

His stomach twists, because that guy gets that version of her in the hospital. That guy gets her in scrubs, gets her tired and competent, gets to know the ward stories before Garrett does, gets to stand beside her at the nurses’ station or wherever they’re placed and watch her do the thing she’s good at in real time. 

Garrett gets the after. The crash. The bad-day texts. The tears in his room. The pizza. The sex. The way she curls into him after pretending she isn’t sleepy. He likes the after. He likes it too much, probably. 

But the thought of some other guy existing in the middle of her actual day, in the part where she’s bright and capable and not half-dead against Garrett’s pillow, makes something ugly and hot move in his chest.

Which is stupid. He talks to women. Women talk to him. She’s never once made a thing about it. Well. She’s made faces, maybe. Little ones. But she’s never walked across a room and performed some caveman territorial bullshit because a girl laughed at one of his jokes.

Garrett’s bigger than that. He is 100%, completely and totally, bigger than that.

However, Garrett’s, unfortunately, not bigger than that.

“I’m gonna get another beer,” he says.

Logan looks at the bottle in his hand. “You have one.”

“This one’s annoying me.”

“The beer?” Dean asks.

Garrett gives him a look.

Dean puts both hands up. “Right. My bad. Totally the beer.”

He lasts another eight seconds. Eight. Which is honestly generous, considering Jackson laughs at something she says and then puts his hand briefly on her upper arm.

Briefly. A normal person’s touch. Barely contact. Probably nothing. It’s there and gone in less than a second, and still Garrett sees it so clearly that the whole room seems to sharpen around it. 

The guy’s fingers on her sleeve. Her not flinching. Her not even noticing, maybe. Her just smiling, still mid-sentence, because she’s comfortable enough around him that he can touch her arm and she doesn’t immediately step back. Garrett sets his beer down on the nearest surface with more force than necessary.

“Oh, here we go,” Logan says softly, like he’s narrating wildlife footage.

Garrett cracks his neck. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Dean’s practically glowing. “G, remember, she’s not your girlfriend.”

Garrett points at him without looking back. “One more word and I’m putting your mattress in the front yard.”

“You did that last semester.”

“And I’ll do it better this time.”

He crosses the room before anyone can answer. The party shifts around him automatically, people making room because Garrett is Garrett and because he’s moving with enough purpose that even drunk freshmen understand basic survival instincts. 

He grabs his letterman jacket off the back of a chair on the way, the one he’d thrown there an hour ago because the house was too hot and because he had not, at that stage of the night, known he was about to need a visual aid.

She sees him when he’s a few steps away. Her eyes flick over from Joseph’s face and land on Garrett, and something changes in her expression so fast most people would miss it. A tiny catch at the corner of her mouth. Amusement, like she knows. Like she’s known for at least five minutes that he’s across the room slowly losing his mind and has chosen, with incredible cruelty, not to rescue him from himself.

Garrett’s blood pressure becomes a team concern.

“Hey,” she says as he reaches them, voice light, eyes bright. Too bright. Oh, she’s absolutely going to be insufferable later.

“Hey, baby.” He says it easily. His own mouth hears the possessive little curve in it and decides to double down because shame has taken the night off. He swings the jacket around her shoulders, warm from the room and heavy enough that it covers most of her top at once. “Told you to bring a jacket.”

Her lips press together. Not a smile, not yet, but close enough that he wants to bite her.

“I wasn’t cold,” she says.

“You were going to be.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Was I?”

“Mhm.”

She looks up at him with that almost-smile still sitting there, and for a second the room behind her drops away. Just the two of them. His jacket on her shoulders. Her eyes on his face. The last memory of last night alive and well between them, horribly unhelpful and very smug.

Then James clears his throat. Garrett looks over at him.

The guy isn’t ugly, which is offensive. He has that med-student look, clean and tired and self-important in the socially acceptable way, like he could diagnose a cough and then use the word actually before explaining why everyone else in the room is wrong. He’s holding a beer he’s barely touched. 

Garrett hates him immediately and with some nuance.

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, making his voice pleasant enough to be legally admissible. “I’m–”

“Garrett Graham,” the guy says, his face brightening with recognition. “No, yeah, I know who you are. Big hockey fan.”

That should help. It does not.

“Oh,” Garrett says, nodding once. “Cool.”

She shifts beside him, and Garrett feels her trying not to laugh more than he sees it.

Jacob holds out a hand. “Joshua.”

Garrett takes it. Firmly. Not too firmly. Probably. “Justin?”

The guy blinks. “No– uh. Joshua.”

Garrett nods like this is brand-new and very important information. “Right. Totally. Joshua.”

Her shoulders shake once under his jacket.

Garrett looks down at her. “You good?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Mhm.”

His hand, which has somehow ended up at the edge of the jacket near her shoulder, tugs it more securely around her. It’s a stupid, small thing. A nothing thing. Except she lets him do it. She doesn’t shrug him off. Doesn’t roll her eyes in front of John. 

Doesn’t make some cutting little joke about him being ridiculous even though he is being ridiculous, spectacularly so, at a level that may require group review.

She just looks up at him and says, “Hold this?”

Then she hands him her beer, like he’s the sort of person who stands there holding her drink while she slides her arms into his letterman jacket. Garrett takes the beer because he’s domesticated now.

She slips one arm into the sleeve, then the other, the jacket swallowing her in the shoulders and falling too big over her hands. The sight of it does something so abrupt inside him that he almost forgets Joel is present and breathing. 

She looks like she belongs in it. That’s the problem. Worse, she looks like she knows what it does to him. She tugs one sleeve down, fingers appearing just past the cuff, then reaches for her drink again.

“Thanks,” she says, all sweet and casual and deadly.

Garrett hands it back. “Don’t mention it.”

She lifts the beer to her mouth, and her eyes stay on his for half a second over the rim.

Oh, she is evil. Beautiful, evil woman.

Jayden says something about the game, and Garrett answers. He thinks he answers normally. There are words involved. Something about the third period. Something about special teams. 

He’s only half aware of it because she’s turned slightly back toward Joshua but is still close enough that Garrett can feel the edge of his jacket brushing his knuckles when she moves. Close enough that when she laughs softly at something Jasper says, she glances up at Garrett first, like she wants to see what it does to him.

It does plenty.

He drops his hand to the back of her shoulder, thumb pressing once through the thick jacket fabric. It could pass as absent. It’s not. She knows it too, because her eyes flicker for one fraction of a second, and then she looks back at Jared with her smile still intact.

Garrett bends and kisses her temple. He doesn’t plan it, it just happens. One second he’s standing there trying to participate in a conversation with a man whose name he’s already intentionally fumbled, and the next his mouth is at the side of her head, pressing a quick, warm kiss into her hair like he’s done it a hundred times before in front of people.

She goes still for half a breath, then her fingers tighten around the bottle.

Garrett feels something in him settle, low and pleased and stupidly male. It proves that Garrett is losing his grip on a situation he keeps insisting is casual. But she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t correct him. She just stands there in his jacket with his kiss still warm near her temple and says, “Anyway, the ward coordinator was being insane,” like her voice hasn’t gone just slightly softer around the edge.

Garrett isn’t proud of the fact that he enjoys this. But he enjoys it a lot.

He lasts maybe another minute before the satisfaction starts to curdle into the awareness that if he stands here any longer, he’s going to either keep touching her or start asking Joe invasive questions about his placement schedule. Neither option is ideal. One of them may violate several social norms and possibly university policy.

So he squeezes her shoulder once and says, “I’ll be over there.”

She looks up at him. The grin finally breaks properly, tiny and private, tucked into the corner of her mouth like she’s saving it for later. “Okay.”

“Come find me if you get cold.”

She looks down at his jacket, then back up. “Sure.”

Garrett can feel Joshua watching the exchange with the stiff politeness of a man who’s just realised he’s wandered into a situation with no clean label and a lot of territory already claimed by someone who refuses to call it territory. Good. Let him wonder. 

Garrett gives him one last nod. “Jeremy.”

“Joshua,” the guy says weakly.

“Right.”

He turns before she can laugh in his face.

He makes it back to the boys and immediately regrets every friendship he’s ever formed.

Dean’s bent almost in half, one hand over his mouth, shaking with silent laughter. Logan has both eyebrows raised so high they’re basically in his hairline. Tucker looks like he’s trying to be kinder than the other two and failing because his mouth is twitching too hard.

“No,” Garrett says, pointing at all of them. “Absolutely not.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer, eyes still on Garrett. “Subtle jacket move.”

“That wasn’t subtle,” Logan says. “That was a billboard.”

“She was cold,” Garrett says.

Dean wheezes. “She’s indoors!”

“It’s drafty.”

“The thermostat is set to seventy-two and there are ninety people in here,” Tucker says.

“Drafty,” Garrett repeats.

Dean presses both hands together in front of his mouth like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t intend to use. “Baby, I told you to bring a jacket,” he says, pitching his voice lower in an atrocious impression that makes Logan immediately choke on his drink.

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “I will end you.”

“No, no, it was good.” Dean nods earnestly, fighting a grin so hard he looks pained. “Very casual. Extremely platonic. I actually put my varsity jacket on all my non-girlfriends before intimidating their male classmates.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

The words are automatic. They also, judging by the faces in front of him, are not helping.

Logan pats his shoulder. “Yeah, man. We know. You’ve said it a lot. Usually while looking like you’re going to put someone through the wall.”

Garrett looks away, which is a mistake because he sees her across the room, still in his jacket. She’s talking to whatever-his-name-is, but her body has shifted slightly, angled more toward Garrett than before. 

The jacket sleeves hang over her hands. She lifts her beer, says something, laughs again, and this time her eyes flick over to him like she knows exactly where he is. Like she’s known the whole time.

His stomach does that stupid little swoop again. A quick drop, like missing the bottom stair. Because she’s wearing his jacket without complaint, because she let him kiss her temple in front of some guy from her hospital placement, because she’s going to tease him later and he already knows he will let her. 

Worse, he’ll probably enjoy it. He’ll probably stand in his room while she shrugs the jacket off and says something sweetly evil like were you marking your territory, Graham? and he’ll tell her to shut up and kiss her against the door because the answer is yes and he’s not ready to put that in words.

“Look at him,” Dean says softly, with the reverence of someone witnessing art. “He’s doing it again.”

Garrett does not turn. “Doing what?”

“Staring at your not-girlfriend in your jacket.”

“She looks cold.”

“She looks smug,” Tucker says.

“She looks like she knows she owns you,” Logan adds.

“She doesn’t own me.”

All three of them stare at him. Garrett drinks from his beer and discovers it’s empty. This is disappointing because he was hoping it would give his mouth something to do besides continue lying.

Dean leans closer, voice bright. “Hey, G?”

“No.”

“You gonna ask the future doctor to leave or just silently audition for a jealous boyfriend role all night?”

Garrett gives him a look. “You really want your mattress on the lawn.”

“I’m serious. I need to know how far the delusion goes. Like, she’s not your girlfriend, but you pick her up from clinical, right?”

Logan starts counting on his fingers, because apparently he has prepared evidence. “Drives her places. Makes her eat. Lets her sleep in his bed. Gets weird if she doesn’t text back.”

“I don’t get weird.”

“You once came downstairs and asked if the Wi-Fi was working because she hadn’t replied in fifteen minutes,” Tucker says.

Garrett points at him. “That was a reasonable question.”

“It was raining,” Logan adds. “You said maybe the weather was messing with reception.”

Garrett shrugs once. “I was making conversation.”

“You were pacing.”

Dean looks toward the dining room doorway, then back at Garrett, his grin sharpening. “And now you’re about to fight a med student because he made her laugh.”

“I’m not about to fight him.”

“Because you already gave her your jacket and kissed her head, so you think the point’s been made?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Nothing useful comes out.

Dean’s smile widens with the slow horror of a man being proven right in real time. “Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You do think the point’s been made!”

Garrett drags a hand over his jaw. It hurts because his jaw has been clenched for at least ten uninterrupted minutes. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Logan says cheerfully. “You need us. Who else is gonna tell you you’re acting insane?”

“I’m not acting insane.”

Tucker’s eyes move across the room again, and his expression softens slightly. “She doesn’t look mad, for what it’s worth.”

Garrett follows his gaze before he can pretend not to. She’s still talking, still smiling, still doing that animated hand thing, but now his jacket has slipped off one shoulder a little. 

She reaches up absently and pulls it back into place without looking down, like keeping it on matters. Like it’s not just fabric. Like she’s decided, for whatever reason, to let him have this.

Garrett’s chest tightens in a way that is harder to turn into anger. “No,” he says after a second, quieter despite himself. “She doesn’t.”

Dean, because he has a soul only in theory, immediately ruins the softness. “That’s because she likes seeing you suffer.”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “Yeah, probably.”

“She picked a med student on purpose,” Logan says.

“She didn’t pick him.”

“She’s wearing your jacket and making eye contact across the room while another guy talks about hospital stuff,” Dean says. “That girl is conducting research.”

Tucker nods solemnly. “Clinical trial.”

Garrett gives them all a flat look. “You’re done.”

“Double blind study,” Dean continues. “Except everyone can see it except you.”

Logan laughs hard enough to fold into Tucker’s shoulder. Garrett’s very seriously considering the mattress thing. Possibly not just Dean’s. Possibly all of them. A clean sweep. Character building.

Across the room, she looks over again. This time, she smiles at him properly. Just for him, small and pleased and warm under the edges of his jacket. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly how stupid he’s being and, worse, that she’s not entirely against it.

Garrett’s hand tightens around the empty bottle.

Dean makes a soft, wounded noise beside him. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett turns his head slowly. “What now?”

“You’re so fucked.”

For once, Garrett doesn’t immediately argue. Because she’s not his girlfriend. He knows that. He has the words memorised. He’s said them enough times that they should mean something by now. 

She’s not his girlfriend, and he’s not her boyfriend, and Joshua can laugh at her hospital stories if he wants because she’s allowed to have classmates and friends and whatever other normal people things Garrett has decided are personal attacks.

But she’s standing in his living room wearing his jacket. She had let him put it on her in front of another guy. She had let him kiss her temple. She’d handed him her beer like his hands were a natural place to put things while she settled into his clothes. 

She’s looking at him now like she knows exactly how jealous he is and has chosen, for reasons that are going to ruin his life, to be gentle with it until she can make fun of him somewhere private.

Garrett lifts the empty bottle to his mouth, realises again there’s nothing in it, and lowers it with a muttered, “Fuck.”

Logan claps him on the back. “There it is.”

“I’m getting another beer.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “Beer.”

Garrett ignores them and heads for the kitchen, taking the route that passes her, because he’s fully given up on pretending to be a rational person tonight.

As he passes, his hand brushes the small of her back through the jacket. Brief. Warm. Deliberate enough that she feels it, subtle enough that Jacob probably has to stand there and wonder if he imagined it. She turns her head slightly, eyes lifting to him.

Garrett bends just enough to murmur near her ear, “Still good?”

Her smile tugs again, private and dangerous. “Mhm.”

His fingers press once at her waist, hidden in the thick fabric. “Find me later.”

It comes out lower than he means it to. More instruction than request. A little too much of last night in it. A little too much of his hands, his bed, her voice muffled in his pillow, Dean banging on the wall. He hears it. She hears it too.

Her eyes flick to his mouth, then back up. “Maybe,” she says.

Garrett’s jaw tightens, but this time it’s not jealousy that does it. Or not only jealousy.

“Maybe,” he repeats.

She lifts her beer to her lips. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

Garrett stares at her for one second too long.

Then Joshua says, “Sorry, am I missing something?”

She looks back at him, sweet as anything. “Nope.”

Garrett almost laughs. Instead he gives Doctor Asshole one more polite nod. “Good seeing you, Jason.”

“Joshua,” the guy says, a little helplessly now.

“Right.”

He walks away before she can fully lose the smile. The boys are watching from the couch with expressions that make Garrett want to leave the country.

Dean lifts both hands in surrender before Garrett even reaches them. “Don’t worry, man. Super normal.”

Logan nods. “Barely possessive at all.”

Tucker, traitorously calm, adds, “Very not-girlfriend.”

Garrett drops onto the couch beside them, beerless, jacketless, pride in critical condition, and looks across the room one more time. She’s still laughing. Still in his jacket. Still not his girlfriend.

Garrett leans back, drags a hand down his face, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[epiphanyrogers]

o come all ye faithful pt. ii

husband!congressman!bucky x wife!diplomat!reader ⤷ matt murdock x reader

summary: one week. that's what you agree to. one week for bucky barnes to prove that your marriage can still work. it should be simple. it never is. because bucky starts taking up space in your life like he never left, and matt murdock never quite takes up enough. you already know how this should end. the divorce papers have been sitting in your drawer for two months, waiting. but you kept his side of the closet clear. you never put anything on his nightstand. and that, more than anything, is what gives you away. warnings/tags: SMUT, p in v, semi-public sex, fingering, praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), manhandling, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit kink, pussy pronouns, dacryphilia, soft dom!bucky, love triangle (no cheating), second chance romance, idiots in love, avoidant!matt, possessive!bucky, bucky being an emotionally repressed idiot, he's also kind of manipulative at one point but reader chews him out for it trust me, divorce babes, bucky grovelling til his knees are shredded, mutual pining, lots of yummy angst, hurt/comfort, alpine mention, bucky actually works on himself, a man who yearns is a man who earns, eventual happy ending, 18+ MDNI word count: 28.8k (i think i went crazy writing this) from maddie: hello and welcome back to yappers anonymous (i mean it, there's so much dialogue in here). anyway, i'm really sorry for taking so long on this. but it's finally here, and i hope the word count makes up for the delay. i have really struggled with writers block while writing this, and i lowkey kind of hate it. but i really really hope you guys don't <3 p.s. i realise the first part was set in december but i couldn't physically write about christmas in april/may so imagine that part one was set in early december and that's why there's no mention of christmas lol

masterlist | series masterpost

The last guest leaves at half past midnight, and then there are no more excuses.

For the past two hours since leaving your office and slipping back into the ballroom like you hadn't just comprehensively undermined eight months of careful separation, you'd had the party. The party, with its noise and its obligations and its endless, mercifully absorbing requirement that you be on. All of it demanding just enough of your attention to make thinking about anything else logistically impossible. It had been, if nothing else, somewhere to put your face. 

But now the guests are gone, the house has exhaled down to its bones, and the silence left behind is the kind that doesn't stay empty for long. You can already feel the thoughts beginning to squirm back in at the edges, insistently, like they've been waiting all evening with a numbered ticket and now it's finally their turn.

The whole room is still dressed and gleaming for an evening that was, by every external measure, a resounding success. But you are currently conducting a very focused internal audit of every decision you have made since approximately nine o'clock this evening.

The audit is not going well.

Returning to the party with your husband—ex-husband—Bucky, on your arm like you hadn't just left a significant proportion of your dignity scattered on your desk had been one thing. The way the evening had gone after was quite another. 

Bucky had been insufferable, obviously. Warm in the particular way that reads as devoted husband from twelve feet away but as I have won something and we both know it in closer proximity. His arm became a fixed and immovable constant around your waist, metal hand pressing at the small of your back with the patient, territorial certainty of a man who has decided something and seen no reason to discuss it.

Matt had gone. You'd felt his absence around ten minutes in. The particular negative space of someone who has quietly removed themselves without making it anyone's problem. The only remnant of his presence was his champagne flute left half-finished on a windowsill you'd passed on the way to the speeches. You'd stared at it for a moment longer than you should have.

Bucky had noticed your mind drifting, of course. His thumb smoothed over your back - just a small, deliberate pressure that meant I see exactly where you're looking, and I'm still here. Stay. And you had, because the alternative was making a scene at your own event. And also because—well.

Because somewhere between the dinner and the second round of speeches, something had started happening that you hadn't authorised and couldn't entirely stop. You'd caught Bucky's eye over a comment from the Belgian ambassador and he gave you that faint, private smile in return - the shared language you developed years ago. 

At one point he’d dipped his head to your ear to murmur something dry about one of the ministers, and you’d had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing. Bucky had looked down at you with those soft eyes he does when he's not thinking carefully enough about his own expression, and you'd looked away first. You were even finishing each other's sentences again without realising.

And by the time the last round of handshakes came, you'd stopped noticing the weight of his hand on your back and started noticing the absence of it when it left. If you clutched at straws, maybe you could convince yourself that this was just eight months of having nobody to lean into. That, and the fact your body had always been significantly stupider than your brain where Bucky Barnes was concerned. But truth of it was quieter and more inconvenient than any rationalisation you could construct: it had felt, humiliatingly, like home.

The audit is really not going well. 

“Madam Ambassador.”

Thomas, your chief of staff, materialises at the foot of the stairs. Silent, eternal, and entirely too perceptive. A man who has worked in diplomatic residences long enough to have seen everything and professionally forgotten most of it.

“The last of the staff will be finished within the hour,” he offers. “Will there be anything else tonight?”

You open your mouth.

“That'll be all, Thomas, thank you.”

Bucky's voice comes from somewhere behind your left shoulder, easy and warm in the way of a man who has slipped right back into the domestic machinery of your shared life.

Thomas nods, unperturbed. “Very good, Congressman Barnes. Wonderful to have you back, sir. I've had your things brought up.”

Of course he has.

Because why wouldn't he? Congressman Barnes is visiting his wife, and that is a thing that happens, and the residence's household operates on the reasonable assumptions, none of which were consulted past you.

“Great, thanks Thomas.” You reply, and your voice comes out perfectly steady, which feels like a small miracle. “Goodnight.”

Thomas retreats. And then it is just the two of you, on the landing, in this enormous, beautiful house, at the end of the most profoundly strange evening of what has already been a profoundly strange year. Neither of you speaks for just a beat too long.

“Right,” Bucky says finally.

“Right,” you agree.

You head upstairs, and he follows, and the house closes around you both like it was always going to.

── ⟢  ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹ 

The master bedroom is on the first floor, east wing, overlooking the gardens.

It's your favourite room in the house; twelve foot ceilings, original cornicing, sash windows that rattle faintly when the wind comes off the park. It even has an original, working fireplace and enough space that the four poster doesn't overwhelm it, which is saying something.

You have not, in the past eight months, shared it with anyone

The door closes behind you both with a soft, decisive click.

You set your clutch down on the dressing table. He's already shrugging off his jacket, moving through the room with the ease of a man whose muscle memory never got the memo that he left.

Like a man who has lived here. Like the months of absence were a minor administrative detail rather than anything worth adjusting for. Like a man who has decided - and this is the thing about Bucky, this has always been the thing - that simply resuming works better than discussing. That if he just continues, the awkward conversation about feelings never has to be raised.

He reaches up to loosen his tie, that automatic gesture you have watched a thousand times, and then just… stops.

The pause is small. Almost nothing. His hands still at his collar and there's the briefest flicker of something in his expression that looks almost like recalibration. Like a man who has been operating on instinct for the last several hours and has only just now checked in with his frontal lobe to ask if instinct is advisable right now.

You watch him start to process the situation in real time. The room. The two sides of the turned down bed. His coat already laid on his chair. His suitcase placed next to his left side of the bed, because your chief of staff doesn't forget anything, ever, including what side of the bed the Congressman sleeps on.

Bucky’s tongue drags briefly over his teeth. Then he looks up and meets your eyes in the mirror, and the silence that follows has the particular quality of two people clearly thinking about the same three or four things and not willing to be the first to name any of them.

“I can take the couch,” he offers carefully. Gesturing vaguely at the small sofa by the fireplace that is, objectively, six inches shorter than he is.

“Don't be ridiculous, you'll be folded in half,” you object. “I'll take it.”

“You won't fit either,” he points out.

“At least I'm smaller than you.”

“Well," Bucky sighs flatly, “I'm not letting my wife sleep on a fucking loveseat.”

There it is again. Wife. The word he keeps wielding like a claim, like it still means what it used to. And it still lands the same. You hate that it does.

You hate the warm, stupid, entirely unwelcome thing it does somewhere behind your sternum. Because he's being impossible - he's been impossible all evening - and yet here he is, immovable on the subject of your comfort even while being the singular architect of your discomfort. 

“Separated wife,” you correct, sharper than you intend, but one of you has to keep score here and it's clearly not going to be him.

He tilts his head, slow and deliberate, his eyes doing that thing where they get very still and very blue and very focused on your face.

“Didn't seem very separated a few hours ago when you were coming on my—”

“Don't.” You hold up a hand. “Do not finish that sentence in my bedroom.”

"Our bedroom,” he replies, and the audacity of it nearly makes you laugh.

“You haven't lived here in eight months,” you scoff.

“Yeah, well.” He looks around the room with something that might be fondness or might be smugness or might be both. “Doesn't seem to have changed much.”

And that's the problem, isn't it? Because he's right. You haven't changed anything. His nightstand is bare but still his; you've never put anything on it, never colonized that space. Even the closet still has the section you'd never quite gotten around to re-purposing, like some part of you had been keeping it warm. Keeping it ready.

The thought makes you feel pathetic and furious in equal measure.

“Well it's my bedroom now, and I'm telling you not to—” You stop yourself, jaw tight, because getting into this right now, at nearly one in the morning with him half-undressed, is absolutely not happening. “You know what? Fine. We're both adults. We can share a bed again without making it a thing.”

“I wasn't making it a thing.”

“You were absolutely making it a thing.”

“I was making an observation—”

“You were being an ass.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Yeah, well. You married an ass.”

“Separated from an ass,” you correct sharply, moving toward your dresser with more force than necessary.

The muscle in his jaw strains. Pops, like he's physically holding something back, biting down on whatever else he was about to say.

“Fine.” He reaches up, resuming the work on his tie, fingers pulling the silk loose with deliberate, practised movements. “We'll be adults about it.”

“Fine,” you echo.

You yank open your pyjama drawer with more violence than it deserves, pulling out the silk set you'd bought months ago in a fit of reclamation. Expensive, modest, and nothing like the worn t-shirts you used to steal from him.

“Great.” The tie slides free. He starts on the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements slow and methodical. You catch yourself watching his fingers work the buttons with that same deft precision they had a few hours ago when they were working you open instead. Christ.

“Fine.” And the second it leaves your mouth you know you've made a tactical error, because—

“You already said fine.”

There it is.

“Well I'm saying it again.” You turn toward the bathroom. “Because we're being adults about this. Mature, reasonable adults who can share a sleeping space without any complications,” you finish firmly.

“Right. No complications.” His voice is dry, but not quite enough to hide the edge underneath. Something that sounds dangerously close to hurt. “We're real good at uncomplicated, you and me.”

You don't bother with a response. Just gather your things and head for the bathroom with all the dignity of a woman who is, essentially, fleeing. There's no other word for it. You're running away from your own husband in your own bedroom, and you both know it.

“I'm taking the bathroom first before I smother you with a pillow,” you announce.

“See, that doesn't sound very adu—”

You slam the bathroom door before he can finish that sentence, and the lock clicks with a satisfaction that's entirely petty and entirely warranted. Behind the door, you hear him huff a laugh. Something that might be fondness disguised as frustration and that particular stubborn amusement he gets when you're both being impossible. 

He always claims not to get off on your verbal sparring. You know he's always lying.

Leaning back against the door, you finally let yourself breathe. Your reflection stares back from the mirror, still perfect from three hours of performance.

Except it's not really, is it? Because underneath the dress, you're still wearing the evidence of what you let him do. What you begged him to do.

You reach behind yourself for the zipper, fingers searching low on your back for the tab. The dress is one of those gorgeous, backless nightmares designed by someone who clearly never considered that women might need to undress themselves. Your fingers catch the zip and you pull, but it only moves an inch before jamming.

“Come on,” you mutter, twisting your arm lower. Your shoulder protests. The zip grudges down another half-inch before catching completely on some invisible fold of silk.

You try the other arm. Same failure, different angle.

“Fuck.”

You stare at your reflection. At the reality of your options, which is that you have exactly one and it's terrible. 

“Bucky?” You call, quieter than intended, opening the door just enough to suggest he's being granted entry, however reluctantly.

A pause, and for a moment you're not sure he heard you. “Yeah?”

“I need help with my zip. It's stuck.”

You hear him cross the bedroom before the door opens the rest of the way, but he doesn’t step in immediately. There’s a pause, like he’s giving you the chance to change your mind, and then he crosses the threshold.

“Turn around.” It’s not quite an order, but your body responds to it anyway before your brain has the chance to argue. You pivot, presenting your back to him, fingers braced lightly against the edge of the counter.

You feel him step in behind you, close enough that the heat of him registers before anything else does. Your breath stutters, traitorous, and you fix your eyes on your reflection. His hands come into view in the mirror a second later. One settles lightly at your waist, just enough to still the fabric, the other finding the zipper with careful fingers.

His breath grazes the back of your neck as the zip finally gives and slides down, and every nerve ending along your spine lights up. His hands still for just a moment, a beat that lasts slightly longer than it should, and the bathroom is very quiet. For a second, it feels dangerously like the easiest thing in the world to lean back that last inch. To close the distance without naming it. To let instinct run the show again, just for a moment.

But then his fingers flex, and he lets go. He steps back, and the air between you is breathable again.

“Got it.” He clears his throat.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” he replies, slightly unsteady, and then he's gone.

You stare at the closed bathroom door for a moment longer before finally forcing yourself to move.

The shower is too cold once you turn it on and step beneath it. But you linger under the spray anyway, letting it work down your shoulders, washing the evidence of the evening - of him - away until the water runs clear. At least your IUD means this is the extent of the cleanup. But sooner than you'd like the heat fades, the old pipes protesting. Damn old house.

You towel off. Perform your entire nighttime routine with robotic habit, because anything else means thinking, and thinking is dangerous right now. Toner. Serum. Moisturiser. You find a loose thread on your sleeve and fiddle with it. You reorganise nothing on the counter and call it tidying.

Eventually, you run out of tasks.

The bedroom is waiting on the other side of the door.

Bucky's sitting on his side of the bed - when did you start thinking of it as his side again? - in nothing but his boxer briefs, scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a man who is absolutely not reading anything.

He's kept himself in shape. Of course he has. Super soldier serum aside, Bucky's always been disciplined about training.But there’s more weight on him than last time you saw him - broader through the shoulders, softer in some areas. It suits him unfairly well. Fills him out in a way that makes him look less like a weapon and more like a man who’s taking care of himself. 

The thought makes something warm bloom in your chest, and your gaze lingers long enough to catch on the scars at his left shoulder, where metal meets flesh. The scars there are unchanged, a familiar map you’d once known by touch rather than sight.

He looks up when you emerge, and his gaze tracks over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Bathroom's yours,” you manage.

He slips into the bathroom without another word. You climb into bed, trying to stay as far to your side as physically possible. You shift. Adjust the pillow. Shift again. Can't find the position you normally sleep in, and you’re still awake when Bucky reemerges.

The mattress dips under his weight. You do your best impression of a woman who is already asleep, which would be more convincing if he hadn’t spent the better part of three years sleeping next to you. If he didn't know exactly how your breathing changes when sleep actually takes you. He doesn't call you on it. Just settles back against the pillows with a soft exhale that says he knows exactly what you're doing.

The residence settles around you both. The old Georgian silence, where the radiators tick, the pipes groan, and the old timber relaxes. 

You can hear him breathing. Feel the heat radiating off his body across the sheets, your whole right side hyper-aware of it. The bed that felt cavernously large when you slept alone suddenly feels impossibly small. Every nerve insisting on registering his presence with an enthusiasm you find deeply unhelpful.

“We should probably talk,” he states, though there’s not real conviction behind it.

“I'm tired, Bucky.”

A pause. You can practically hear him deciding whether to push.

“Yeah,” he concedes, something resigned in his voice. “Me too.”

He reaches over and turns off his bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The bed shifts as he settles onto his side, facing away from you. And then it's just the sound of his breathing, evening out into an easy slumber.

Which is something. Because for a long time, sleep was a thing Bucky Barnes did badly. You’d learnt that slowly, through observation, the way you did most things about him in the early months. Through the careful cataloguing of details he wouldn't offer freely. The nightmares. The insomnia. The tense stillness that only came from someone forcing themselves to lie motionless, hoping you wouldn’t notice. Which you always did, and pretended you hadn’t. 

Because pressing would've sent him retreating behind walls you were only just beginning to see past. So you'd just held him tighter and let him figure out you weren't going anywhere.

Over time his body learnt yours. Your warmth. Your weight beside him. The rhythm of your heartbeat. Something in him that had been braced for decades finally started to let go. He'd started reaching for you in his sleep without waking. Started sleeping past five a.m., then six. Once, memorably, past nine, and he'd surfaced so bewildered by his own rested state that he’d just stared at you like you’d performed some kind of miracle. 

It's particularly memorable, your heart unhelpfully supplies, because it’s the exact moment you knew you were in love with him.

He used to say you were the only place he didn't have to be on guard.

Used to.

You'd worried about that, those first few months after you separated. Whether he was sleeping at all in that sterile DC apartment. Whether the nightmares had crept back in without you there. Whether he lay awake at three a.m, every muscle held just a little too tight, waiting for something that never quite came. You'd tried not to feel guilty about it. Failed, mostly.

Beside you, Bucky makes a small sound and shifts.

It's drowsy, unconscious, seeking you out in a way his waking self wouldn’t authorize. His body curves toward yours, closing the distance between you with the same inevitability as a plant tipping toward sunlight. It’s like his nervous system runs through a quick inventory - familiar warmth, familiar scent, familiar body - and just defaults back to you like coming home. 

Which is deeply inconvenient knowledge to possess while you're actively trying to remember all the very good reasons you separated in the first place.

His face has even softened in that devastating way where it sheds the mask and just looks like Bucky. The real one. The version that doesn’t belong to the Congressman, or the ex-assassin. The one that you’ve probably spent more time with than anyone else alive.

You are absolutely not thinking about how much you've missed that face. You are not.

Instead, you think about Matt.

The thing is, you don't know exactly what you owe Matt, which is in itself a fairly damning summary of where you'd arrived. Two months. Easy, fun, uncomplicated in the way that things are when neither person is asking too much or offering too much and the arrangement suits them both. You'd liked him. You do like him. He's brilliant and funny and present, in the straightforward way that had felt so startling after months of press releases and assistant-mediated contact.

But he hadn't committed. Neither had you. That had been the point, or at least the operating premise.

So, the question of guilt.

Do you owe Matt anything that would make tonight a transgression? You'd not made promises. The terms, such as they were, had been deliberately unspecified, which had felt like freedom at the time and feels significantly more complicated now.

And, of course, there’s no way he hadn’t heard everything.

That is the part you keep arriving at and then shying away from like a horse refusing a jump, because there is no version of that in which you come off well. Matt Murdock, who can hear a heartbeat from across a room, absolutely heard every single thing that happened in your office tonight. Every word. Every sound. Every moment of two people who were supposed to be separated doing a fairly comprehensive impression of the opposite.

He'd left without saying anything. You don't know whether that makes it better or worse. You suspect worse.

You're going to have to talk to him. You're going to have to talk to him, and you're going to have to figure out what tonight was, and what the past eight months of separation actually mean in practice versus on paper. 

You're going to have to stand in front of Matt and have some version of a conversation you cannot currently outline because every time you try to construct the opening sentence your brain just goes quiet and offers you nothing except a replay of Bucky's mouth hot against your throat, and the rough edge of his voice when he called you his pretty wife.

Next to you, Bucky’s forehead comes to rest against your shoulder - tucked against you like something that simply found its way back to where it was always going to end up. Your chest does something you'd really rather it didn't.

You look at the ceiling for a long time, listening to your husband breathe, and try not to think about how natural this feels.

How terrifying that is. How much you've missed it. How angry you are that you've missed it. 

Eventually, because the ceiling has offered no solutions and your body has been quietly conspiring with Bucky's for the past twenty minutes, you drift off next to him.

── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹

You reach for him before you're properly awake.

Your hand finds cold sheets, and the humiliation of that is enough to finish the job of waking you up completely.

For a moment you just lie there, staring at the indent in his pillow, at the covers thrown back on his side. Processing the faint sense of abandonment that has absolutely no right to exist given that you spent half the night wishing he'd spontaneously relocate to a different continent.

The shower in the en-suite isn't running. The dressing room is quiet. He's not here. You lie there for a moment, taking stock of the specific variety of idiot you are. Then you get up.

Twenty minutes later you're dressed and heading downstairs with the grim determination of a woman about to reclaim her life and her sanity. The sound of voices reach you before you make it to the breakfast room. Two of them - your aide's quick, efficient register, and underneath it, lower, Bucky's. 

You stop in the doorway.

Bucky's sitting at the table looking unfairly well-rested, already dressed in one of his perfectly tailored suits. Your aide - Caroline - sits across from him, laptop open, notepad beside it, wearing the expression of someone who has been efficiently charmed into full co-operation and hasn't quite noticed yet. Papers are open between them. His handwriting is on some of them.

When you walk into the room, they both look up. Caroline smiles, bright and professional. Bucky's smile is slower, warmer, with an edge of something that makes your spine stiffen on instinct.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greets, and you immediately don’t trust his tone. “Sleep well?”

You manage a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. “Fine, thank you.”

“Morning,” your aide adds brightly, already turning the laptop toward you. “Perfect timing actuall—”

“What is all this?” you interject, a little sharper than you intend, crossing to the coffee pot because you need something to do with your hands.

“Just some press co-ordination,” Bucky shrugs, like it’s obvious. Like obviously your time belongs to him whenever he's in town. “We thought it made sense, while I'm here. The Times have been wanting a piece for a while, and with the summit coverage still running there's a window to get some good visibility.”

Your aide nods with the enthusiasm of someone utterly oblivious to the tension crystallizing in the air. “It's perfect actually, I've already reached out to a few contacts. We've got the charity reception Friday, a lunch Thursday that Lord Johnson’s been requesting for months, then the Atlantic Council meeting on Wednesday - that'll be good for photos if you both attend together - then tomorrow—.”

“Wait.” You set your cup down carefully. “Wednesdays I meet with our legal counsel.”

There's a small pause. Your aide's fingers hover over the keyboard. 

“Mr. Murdock?” Caroline glances at her notes. “That’s been pushed back,” she says, slightly carefully. 

You look at her. “To when?”

“These press things have tight windows,” Bucky interjects smoothly, with an expression of such reasonable, considered sympathy that you could scream. “Visibility with the right people, good for both our offices. You know how it is.” The faintest tilt of his head. “I'm sure Murdock will understand that these things take priority.”

There is a very specific register that Bucky uses when he has already made a decision and is presenting it as a collaborative discussion, and this is unmistakably it.

“Especially,” he continues, and you have to bite your cheek so you don’t say something you’ll regret, “given the transatlantic tensions recently. It's important we present a unified front. As husband and wife.”

The words land exactly how he means them to. A reminder. A claim. You know exactly what he’s doing because he’s not even trying to be subtle. 

He's monopolised your entire week, filled every available slot with joint appearances. Between your existing obligations and everything he's just loaded into your schedule, there isn't a single free hour left for the meeting with Matt that you both know isn't really about legal counsel.

“And tomorrow,” Caroline ploughs on, bless her completely oblivious soul, “you'd originally blocked out for paperwork, but the round-table is invitation-only and they specifically requested both of you, so—”

“So you've just... rewritten my entire week.” You hear yourself say. Your smile is so tight it might shatter.

“Optimized.” Bucky corrects gently. 

His eyes meet yours across the table, and the look in them is pure, undiluted victory. And the worst part? He's not even wrong. These are important events. You should attend them together. From any objective standpoint, his logic is flawless. Any attempt at protesting would make you look like you're prioritizing the wrong things.

Which is exactly what makes it so infuriating.

“Will there be anything else?” you ask, voice perfectly professional. “I have a meeting I’m already running late for.”

“I think that covers it,” Caroline says brightly. “Oh, the German Ambassador's office called about scheduling a—”

“Send me the details,” you interrupt. “I'll review them later.”

You pick up a croissant from the breakfast spread. Turn to leave.

“Sweetheart?”

You stop. Take deep breath. Don't turn around. “Yes?”

“I was thinking we could have lunch later. Just the two of us. Prep ourselves for the busy week ahead.”

The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.

You turn back, smile still in place. “Sounds perfect, why don’t you come by my office later?”

“Absolutely.” His smile widens. “It's a date.”

You leave the residence before you turn your private separation into a very public spectacle involving thrown pastries, taking your fury with you to the embassy where it promptly gets buried under the weight of your actual job.

The morning is a blur of meetings that run long and emails that multiply faster than you can answer them. Trade briefings that should take thirty minutes stretch to fifty. Security updates that require your signature on six different documents. A conference call with State that goes in circles for forty minutes before anyone agrees on anything. Your assistant has brought you coffee twice, and both cups have gone cold on your desk untouched.

You're mid-sentence in a response to the German Ambassador's office when there's a knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call, not looking up, assuming it's another briefing packet or someone from the communications team.

The door opens. You register the footsteps, the soft tap of a cane, before the voice.

“Busy morning?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

Matt's standing in the doorway, one hand on his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. His expression is pleasant and unreadable in that way he does when he's being very deliberate about not showing what he's actually thinking.

Fuck.

This would've been significantly easier with some advance notice. A text, or an email, or a calendar invite titled “Discuss Why You Disappeared Into Your Office With Your Supposed Ex-Husband”. Anything that would've given you more than zero seconds to figure out what the hell you're supposed to say right now. 

You've walked into treaty negotiations with less anxiety. Those at least came with agendas. Preparation time. The basic courtesy of knowing they were happening before you were actively in them.

“Matt.” Your brain scrambles for words, or literally anything useful. “Hi. I didn't—I wasn't expecting—”

“Noticed your calendar got significantly fuller since yesterday,” he observes mildly, tilting his head. There's no accusation in his tone, but you hear the question underneath it anyway. “Lot of joint appearances suddenly.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You're aware, abruptly, of how you must look - harried, distracted, still half-focused on the email you were writing. “Yes,” you manage. “I'm sorry. I wanted to—I meant to call, I just haven't had a second to—”

“It's fine.” He steps into the office properly, and your heart kicks harder in your chest, whether it’s dread or want, you’re not entirely sure. “It's your lunch break now though, isn't it? We could grab something. Talk about last night.”

Oh god. Suddenly the conference call that went in circles for forty minutes seems appealing by comparison.

“Matt,” you start, but you don't even know where that sentence is going. Because what can you even say? My husband is systematically cutting you out of my life and I'm clearly too much of a coward to stop him?

“I'm not—” He stops, and there's a light sigh before his lips press together in that particular way he does when he's choosing his words carefully. “I'm not trying to make this difficult. I just think we should probably talk about where things stand. Clear the air.”

You scramble find words that don't make this exponentially worse. “It's complicated.”

“Is it?” There's an edge to his voice now, however faint. “Or is it actually pretty straightforward and we're both just avoiding saying it out loud?”

You're trying to formulate something that resembles an answer when you hear the distinct cadence of footsteps you’d recognise anywhere, coming down the hall towards your office.

“There you are, sweetheart.”

Your stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.

Bucky appears in the doorway, looking between you and Matt with an expression of polite surprise that would be convincing if you didn't know him well enough to see the calculation behind it.

“Oh, Murdock,” he greets, as though he's only just noticed Matt standing there. “Didn't realise you were stopping by.”

“Congressman Barnes,” Matt turns slightly, angling toward Bucky's voice. “Just thought I'd see if the Ambassador was free for lunch, because it seems like her schedule's quite full.”

“Yeah, it's a busy week,” Bucky agrees easily, stepping into the office properly now. Not quite crowding, but definitely occupying space between you both. “We've got lunch plans actually. Lots to catch up on - isn't that right, doll?”

You're still sitting at your desk, frozen, watching this happen like you're observing it from outside your own body. The air in the office has gone thick and uncomfortable, the silence stretching just a beat too long.

Matt's expression hasn't changed, but you can see the slight tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens fractionally on his cane; he knows exactly what's happening here

“Right,” you manage finally. “Yes. We're—it’s a working lunch. Coordinating the rest of the week.”

“A working lunch,” Matt repeats, and you can't tell if there's an edge to it or if your guilt is adding subtext that isn’t there.

“You know how it is,” Bucky adds. “Just making sure we're aligned before all the joint appearances. Tedious stuff, really.”

Bucky’s still smiling. Matt's still standing there. You're still trying to remember how to breathe normally.

“Of course,” Matt says after a moment. “I should let you both get to it then.”

“We could reschedule,” you start, but the words feel hollow even as you're saying them. “Later this week, maybe—”

“Your calendar looked pretty full,” Matt interrupts. “But sure. Have your people call my people.”

The formality of it stings more than it should. Like he's already pulling back, already creating space between you that wasn't there before.

“Matt—”

“It's fine.” he assures, though it doesn’t sound fine. It sounds like a door closing. Or maybe you're imagining that too - there's nothing in his voice you can parse clearly. “Really, enjoy your lunch.”

You want to say something else. Want to explain, or apologise, or do literally anything to make this less excruciating. But the words stick in your throat, and Matt's already shifting toward the door into the hallway, and Bucky's just standing there, absolutely not trying to hide his satisfaction.

“Ready to go?” Bucky asks.

“I just need to freshen up,” you reply. “Give me two minutes. I'll meet you downstairs.”

It's a transparent excuse and you both know it. But you need air. You need thirty seconds where you're not feeling like you’re being pulled apart at the seams. You grab your bag and slip out after Matt, turning the opposite direction toward the bathrooms, leaving Bucky alone in your office. Which is possibly the worst decision you could have made, you realise, but you can't exactly turn around now.

Behind you, Bucky watches you disappear around the corner. Waits patiently until your heels clicking fades down the corridor. Then he moves. 

Matt's halfway down the corridor when Bucky catches up.

“Murdock.”

Matt stops mid-stride. There's a fractional hesitation where his shoulders stiffen before he turns. His expression has shed whatever careful pleasantness he'd been wearing in your office. What's left is cooler. Bucky stops a respectful distance away, hands loose at his sides. Everything about his posture says this is just two professionals having a friendly discussion.

“I think we should talk,” he begins. “Briefly.”

Matt's expression doesn't change. “About?”

“About boundaries.” Bucky asserts, though his tone is reasonable - almost apologetic, even. Like this is an awkward position he’s been forced into rather than something he’s orchestrating. “Look, I'm going to be direct here. My wife and I are working through things. Trying to figure out what we want going forward. And I think—Well, I think it would be easier if we had some space to do that without other complications.”

Matt tilts his head slightly, and there's something almost amused in the gesture. “And by complications you mean me.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick about this, I'm just asking you to back off for a while. Let us have the space we need as we get back to where we were.” It comes out steady, but Bucky’s heart rate betrays him. That telltale spike that means he’s not being entirely truthful. Matt catalogues the lie for what it is. “It's been a difficult few months, but we're in a good place now.”

“And she's aware of this? The working things out?”

Bucky's jaw tightens. “We're on the same page about what matters.”

“Wow,” Matt scoffs softly, a disbelieving smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what you’re telling yourself?”

Bucky goes still, but Matt hears the minute hitch in his breathing anyway. The slight shift in his heartbeat as he re-calibrates, trying to decide whether Matt actually knows something or if he’s bluffing.

When Bucky speaks again, there’s bite to his tone, the pleasantness veneer starting to crack around the edges.

“My relationship with my wife isn't really your concern.” 

“It is when I’ve been sleeping with her the past two months.”

Bucky’s mouth pulls into something mean immediately, his expression hardening as the last scraps of diplomacy finally burn off. Any pretence of this being a civil conversation is entirely gone.

“And yet those two months didn’t seem to mean much last night, did they? I hadn’t even been back three hours, that must sting a little.”

The barb lands. Matt's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait.

“You know, if push her into something she doesn't actually want—”

“I know my wife.”

“Do you?” Matt asks, and there's just enough lift in it to make it a real question but not quite enough warmth to make it a polite one. “Because despite what you think, two months ago she didn't seem like someone who was waiting around for you to come back.”

Bucky's hands flex. “Meaning?”

“Meaning she built a life here without you in it,” Matt states, matter of fact. “And sleeping with her and monopolising her calendar doesn’t undo that, no matter how much you want it to.”

That lands differently. Bucky's mouth presses into a thin line as he tries to find his footing again. Tries to figure out how to wrestle the conversation back under his control. But Matt's already turning away, done with whatever this was.

“Next time you want to have a conversation about boundaries, Congressman,” he tosses back over his shoulder, “maybe try having it with her first.”

Then he's gone, footsteps receding down the hallway, leaving Bucky standing alone with the distinct feeling that he didn't win that exchange nearly as cleanly as he'd intended. 

He stands there for a moment, trying to sort through what just happened. Matt's parting shot sits uncomfortably in his chest, because that’s what he’s trying to fix, isn’t it? Except maybe Murdock has a point about the method.

He straightens his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back. Whatever. He has lunch with his wife, and Matt Murdock can go back to whatever law firm he crawled out of. 

Bucky makes it down to the entrance hall,checking his phone more out of habit than any real interest in the messages accumulating there. When he hears your footsteps on the stairs, he looks up, and something in his chest loosens slightly. At least he has this. This week. That has to count for something.

He straightens as you approach, and there's something careful in the way his eyes track over your face, like he's bracing for whatever mood you're bringing down those stairs with you.

“Ready?” He asks, aiming for casual but it doesn't quite land.

“Do I have a choice?” The question comes with a raised brow. You don’t slow down as you reach him, just brush past toward the door.

“You always have a choice.” He falls into step beside you, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Funny,” you return, pushing through the door without waiting for him to open it. “Doesn't feel like it this week.”

Wisely, he chooses not to argue. Instead, he follows you out into the grey London afternoon, the kind of day where the sky can't decide if it wants to commit to rain or just make everyone miserable with the threat of it. 

The walk is silent - not the comfortable kind. Bucky keeps his hands in his pockets because if he doesn't, they'll instinctively search for your waist or the small of your back or some other familiar place they've been gravitating toward for years. And that Velcro instinct to maintain contact feels entirely unhelpful given the current temperature between you.

The restaurant Bucky chose is one of those discreet places where ministers go to have conversations they'd rather not have overheard. The kind with enough distance from other diners that you could have an argument without making it everyone's business. Not that you're planning to argue. You're planning to get through this lunch, get through this week, and then figure out what the hell your life is supposed to look like when your ex-husband stops playing whatever game this is.

You both settle into your seats. Pick up menus you don't really look at. You order a salad you won't finish, and he gets something with chicken. The waiter retreats, and you're left with the silence again, which is starting to feel like a third presence in your relationship. Bucky's doing that thing where he looks like he's about to say something, then doesn't, his jaw working slightly like he's testing out sentences in his head before committing to them out loud.

“Just say it,” you offer eventually, unfolding your napkin with more attention than the action requires.

His eyes snap up, sheepish. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you've been composing since we sat down.”

He huffs a breath that might be amusement. Looks down at his water glass, turning it slightly on the table, before looking back up at you through his lashes with that rare, almost boyish uncertainty. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than you're expecting.

“I know you're pissed about the calendar.”

“Observant.” The word comes out flat, edged with sarcasm. “What gave it away? The part where I barely spoke to you on the walk over, or the part where I'm sitting here looking like I'd rather be anywhere else?”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn't smile. “I should've asked first.”

“Yes. You should’ve.”

“I didn't think you'd say yes if I asked.”

The honesty of it catches you off guard. You look up, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite parse. Like he's trying to gauge how much damage control he needs to do, but it's coming off more hesitant than calculated.

“Would you have?” he presses.

“We'll never know now, will we?”

The waiter arrives with water. You both fall silent until he leaves. Bucky exhales through his nose. His fingers drum once against the table before going still, like he's physically stopping himself from fidgeting.

“Look, I know I've been—” He stops. Starts again. “The past year has been shit. And I know that's on me.”

You weren't expecting that. You were expecting deflection, or charm, or strategic redirection. Not this. 

“I let the distance grow,” he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. “Got buried in DC and the constant fucking politics of it all. And somewhere in there I stopped picking up the phone. Stopped making time. Started letting my assistant filter everything because it was easier than dealing with how far apart we'd gotten.”

“You suggested the separation,” you point out, voice flat. “You're the one who said no strings, no hard feelings.”

“I know.”

“You made it impossible for me to reach you and then acted like the distance was mutual.”

“I know,” he repeats, and there's something tighter in his voice now. “And I'm not saying that was fair. It wasn't. It was cowardly. But I'm here now.”

“For a week.” You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. “And you got here by hijacking my calendar instead of just asking me to talk.”

“We're talking now.”

You sigh, or maybe it's closer to an exhale of pure exasperation. Your gaze lifts to the ceiling for a brief moment like you're asking for divine patience.

“Bucky—”

“Okay,” he concedes, hands lifting briefly in surrender before he shifts forward, elbows coming to rest on the table. “I know monopolizing your schedule was a shit way to go about it, but I miss you.” He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “I miss us. I miss you being the first person I want to tell things to. And I want to prove that we can still do this. That I can be here, when it matters.”

The words settle in the space between you, complicated and messy and not nearly enough to fix everything that's broken. It's nowhere near enough.

You want to stay angry. Want to hold onto the fury that's been building since this morning, or since last night, or over the past year, really. But there's something in his voice that sounds like actual regret, and you're so tired of being angry all the time. It's more than he's said in months, and that matters more than it should.

“So this is what, exactly?” you ask, trying to stay firm. “An audition? A demonstration?”

“It's me trying.” It’s a simple confession, like he’s run out of polished answers, and this is all he has left.

The food arrives. You both go quiet while the waiter sets down plates and refills water and does all the small choreographed movements of service. Once he's gone, you pick up your fork without any real intention of eating.

“You hijacked my week, Bucky. You coordinated with my staff behind my back and filled my schedule so I couldn't—” You stop yourself before you finish that sentence, but he finishes it anyway.

“So you couldn't see Murdock.”

“So I couldn't make my own choices,” you correct sharply.

He has the grace to look slightly abashed. Slightly. “Fair enough.”

“Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the same pattern. You can't just show up and expect—”

“It’s not—“ He stops, looking for the right words. “Okay. Maybe. But just let me show you I can be present. That we still work as a team.” His voice is steady now, certain. “The rest of it, we can figure that out. Just give me this week, please.”

You should say no. You should tell him that orchestrating your life without your consent isn't how you rebuild trust. That half-apologies that don’t actually contain an apology don't undo eight months of distance. That you can't just paper over everything with joint appearances and pretty words.

But he's looking at you so earnestly that it makes you hesitate. And the treacherous truth is that you're tired. Tired of being angry, tired of navigating this alone, tired of lying in that too-big bed and pretending you don't notice the empty space beside you.

And it would be so much easier to just... let this be easy.

“One week,” you hear yourself say.

Something in his face softens. His posture shifts, only slightly, but you catch it. Relief, maybe. Or victory. Hard to tell which. “Yeah?”

“One week of actually showing up. And then we talk. Really talk. About all of it.” You hold his gaze. “And I mean everything, Bucky. The separation, the distance, why we're even doing this. No more avoiding the hard conversations.”

“Deal.”

The silence that follows is different. Still weighted, but less hostile. More like you're both feeling your way toward something that used to be natural and isn't anymore.

“So,” Bucky says, moving food around his plate. “How bad is Lord Johnson actually going to be on Thursday?”

Despite yourself, you almost laugh. “Unbearable. He's going to lecture you about trade policy superiority while asking for concessions.”

“So exactly like last time.”

“Mhm,” you agree, finally taking a bite of your salad. “Except now he's also upset about the tariffs, so add that to his list of grievances. Plus he's developed this tendency to touch people when he talks. Very hands-on.”

Bucky's eyebrow raises, fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “Should I be worried?”

“About Lord Johnson making a move?” You can't quite keep the smirk off your face. “I think your virtue's safe.”

“I meant about him pawing at you for two hours.”

There's an edge of possession in his tone that should irritate you. Instead it does something warm and stupid in your chest. You take another bite, buying yourself a moment. “I can handle Lord Johnson.”

“I know you can.” He pauses. “Doesn't mean you should have to.”

You shrug. “If he tries it with me, I'm elbowing him in the ribs.”

“I'll back you up. You sneezed, he was unfortunately in the blast radius, these things happen.”

You take a sip of water to cover the fact that you're almost smiling. This is the problem. This is exactly the problem. Two minutes of actual honesty and you're already slipping back into familiar patterns, already falling back into the easy rhythm of banter and knowing looks.

“Morrison might be at the Atlantic Council thing tomorrow,” you mention, trying to redirect to safer ground.

Bucky groans. “He's going to corner me about the infrastructure bill again.”

“Probably. He's been insufferable about it since the committee hearing.”

“Well, I've gotten very good at the diplomatic non-answer.” His mouth curves slightly. “Take it under advisement, appreciate the input, look forward to continued dialogue—”

“You learnt that from me.” You point your fork at him accusingly, though there's no real heat in it.

“I learnt most of the useful stuff from you.” He says it like it's simple fact, but something in his expression has gone softer.

The admission sits there between you, heavier than it should be. You look down at your plate, suddenly very focused on rearranging lettuce.

“You really think this will work?” you ask quietly, not looking up. “This week?”

“I think when we're together, we're still good at this. The partnership part. That has to count for something.”

It's not an answer to the bigger question. But maybe it's the only answer either of you has right now.

You eat in silence for a moment, but it's different now. Less hostile. Almost comfortable. Your phone buzzes. You glance down, it’s another email from Caroline about tomorrow's schedule. When you look back up, Bucky's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

You eye him suspiciously. “What?” 

“Nothing. Just...” He shakes his head slightly, but he's almost smiling. “I missed this.”

“Yeah,” you admit, quieter than you mean to. “Me too.”

And you have, you realise. Not just him - though that's there too, complicated and inconvenient as it is - but this. The ease of being with someone who knows you well enough that you don't have to explain every reference or thought. Who can read your expressions without words. Who makes you laugh even when you're furious with them.

It doesn't fix anything. Doesn't undo the eight months or the separation or the fact that you still haven't actually addressed any of the reasons you split in the first place. But for right now, sitting across from your husband in a quiet corner of a restaurant where nobody's watching, it feels like maybe, just maybe, you can remember why you married him in the first place.

Even if that's exactly the problem.

── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹

The week unfolds with a momentum you can't quite control, each day bleeding into the next in a blur of meetings that run too smoothly, dinners where the conversations flow too easily, and nights where he sleeps in your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By Wednesday you're laughing at his jokes again without the bitter edge. By Thursday his hand at your waist feels less like a claim and more like an anchor. The Times runs their profile on your relationship - ‘A Political Partnership That Works’ - pulling photos from the week's events. You're flipping through them absently when the pattern registers. Different events, different rooms, different contexts. But in every frame, Bucky’s eyes are always fixed on you.

Oh.

You save the photos to your phone, which is its own kind of problem.

Matt's name sits in your contacts with no new messages. Of course, you're not keeping score of his silence against Bucky's constant presence. That would imply there’s a competition between them. Which there definitely isn’t.

To be fair, Caroline did mention his office called about rescheduling. You said you'd handle it. You didn’t.

Matt hadn’t chased the issue after that. Which is, objectively, the respectful thing to do. Matt never demands more than you freely offer him, which had once felt refreshingly uncomplicated. Lately, though, you’re starting to wonder if there’s a difference between being understanding and simply never fighting for a place in someone’s life.

Maybe Matt only knows how to want you in situations where wanting you remains easy.

By Friday morning you're walking back from the Canadian delegation breakfast, Bucky's telling some story that has you laughing hard enough that your sides hurt, and for a dangerous moment you forget about the separation. About the ocean's width of distance - literal and otherwise - that usually sits between you. That Sunday he leaves and you have to figure out what any of this actually meant.

But that's fine. You're exceptional at compartmentalizing. You've had years of practice at keeping different parts of your life in separate boxes that never touch. The fact that the boxes are getting harder to keep closed is something you'll worry about later.

Or at least, it should be, because right now you have a meeting that got squeezed into your calendar this morning that you need to prep for. But you can't seem to focus on the sparse notes that Caroline left you because your brain keeps drifting back to the way Bucky’s hand found yours under the table this morning and you let it stay there.

A knock at the door pulls you from the spiral.

“Come in,” you call, straightening slightly in your chair, trying to look like you've been doing something productive instead of staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.

The door opens, and the distinctive tap of a cane against tile makes your stomach twist before you even look up.

Matt's standing in your doorway. Again. Appearing when you’re utterly unprepared to see him. Again. And you’re going to have to push him away. Again.

If the universe is trying to teach you something by replaying this week until you stop making catastrophically bad decisions, the lesson is lost on you.

“Matt.” You're already half-standing, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I'm so sorry, I have a meeting in—” you glance at your screen, at the calendar slot that's starting right now, “—I can't, I have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, and there's something almost amused in his expression as he steps into the office properly. “I'm your meeting.”

Your eyebrow raises slowly. “You faked a meeting to see me?”

“Well, since your husband's been so thorough about cutting me out of your calendar all week,” he returns smoothly, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, “it seemed like the only way in.”

There's a joke there, light and easy, but underneath it there's definitely an edge. A deserved one, maybe. The guilt that's been sitting low in your stomach all week flares hot and immediate. “Matt, I should have called. I meant to, I just—the week got away from me, and I didn’t mean to disappear—”

“You didn't disappear,” Matt corrects mildly. “You've been very visible, actually. Hard to miss when you're in three different political newsletters looking very much like the devoted political wife.”

The observation lands with enough weight that you have to look away. Matt moves closer, leaning against the edge of your desk with his arms crossed loosely, head tilted in that particular way that means he's cataloguing everything you’re not saying. Your elevated heart rate. The shallow breathing you can't quite control. The tension wound so tight in your shoulders you might snap.

“I know I should've—”

“Should've what?” He interrupts again, but his voices stays gentle. “Called the man you've been sleeping with while your husband's in town making sure everyone knows you're still married?” His mouth quirks slightly. “Can't imagine why that would feel awkward.”

The last part comes with just enough wry humour to take some of the sting out of it. An acknowledgement that yes, this situation is absurd, and yes, you're both aware of it.

“You didn't call either,” you point out, and it comes out more wounded than you intend.

“No, I didn't,” he admits easily. “Didn't want to crowd you when Bucky's been taking up so much real estate in your schedule. Thought maybe you needed space to figure things out.” His mouth curves, voice going warmer. “Besides, seemed only fair to give him a shot, sweetheart. I had you to myself for two months.”

It should feel mature, the way he keeps placing the choice back in your hands. But standing here now, watching him deliberately leave the distance between you intact, you can’t quite ignore the small, ugly part of yourself that wants someone to fight a little harder for you than that.

So you close the distance yourself, drawn by the same gravitational pull that's been there since the first time he walked into your office three months ago. Once again doing the reaching. The pattern recognition occurring here is frankly humiliating.

Your hands find his chest, feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under his shirt.

“I haven't figured anything out,” you admit quietly, because you suppose he deserves the honesty. “About what this week means, or what I want, or any of it.”

“No?” There's something almost teasing in the question. “The Times seemed pretty convinced you and Barnes are a political power couple for the ages.”

“The Times doesn't know we're separated.”

“Clearly.” His hand comes up, fingers finding your jaw with unerring accuracy, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a touch that's devastatingly familiar. “Though after this week, I'm starting to wonder if you remember that either.”

The words should sting. Maybe they do. But mostly what you're aware of is his proximity, the heat of his palm against your face, the way your body has started leaning into him without conscious permission.

“Matt—”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” His thumb traces lower, following the line of your jaw. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is this?”

“This,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, "is me reminding you that you have options.”

“I've missed you,” you whisper against his lips.

His free hand comes up to your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip through your dress. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You should stop this. Should step back and have the actual conversation about this week and where you stand and all the things you've been avoiding. Should deal with the compartments that are failing to stay separate instead of making everything more complicated.

But his mouth is right there.

You kiss him before you can think better of it, before the guilt can claw its way up your throat and ruin the moment. He makes a soft sound against your mouth, surprise giving way to hunger as he kisses you back.

It's different than kissing Bucky. Where Bucky takes, Matt asks - the tilt of his head a question, the press of his tongue a request. You grant it. Grant all of it. Pour five days of frustration and confusion into the kiss until you're both breathing hard.

“Missed this too,” you gasp between kisses, and he laughs against your mouth.

“Just this?”

“Missed you being a smartass,” you correct, tugging him closer by his tie. “Missed your hands on me—god, I just missed—”

He lifts you then, strong hands gripping your thighs as he spins you both and sets you on the edge of your desk. Papers scatter. You don't care. Your legs open, allowing him to step into the space between your thighs.

“Missed having a conversation that didn't involve diplomatic immunity,” you continue, breathless, as his mouth trails down your neck. “Missed not being scheduled within an inch of my life.”

His teeth graze your pulse point. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” Your head tips back, fingers threading through his hair. “It's—fuck, Matt—”

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. The drag of his palms against your stockings makes you shiver.

Your hands find his lapels, pulling him desperately closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and for a moment you forget about Bucky and the separation and every complicated thing you've been avoiding.

“You should've booked a longer meeting,” you manage, and it comes out almost playful despite the heat pooling low in your belly.

Matt's smile is absolutely wicked. “Please,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don't need long to make you come, sweetheart. Just need your legs open and the door locked.”

Heat floods through you at the promise in his voice, your thighs clenching involuntarily. Before you can even respond, his hands are sliding under your ass, lifting you in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, gasping into his mouth as he turns and walks you backward.

You don't break the kiss. Can't. Your fingers are in his hair, tugging probably too hard, and he makes this gorgeous rough sound against your mouth that vibrates straight through you. His mouth is hot and demanding against yours, tongue sliding past your lips to taste you properly, and you make a sound into his mouth that's embarrassingly needy.

Your back hits the door hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, the solid wood catching you with enough force that you gasp into his mouth. Matt pins you there immediately, hips rolling forward, and you can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing right where you're aching. Your hand scrabbles blindly behind you for the lock, fingers clumsy with want, and when it finally clicks he groans like the sound itself did something to him.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes against your mouth, and his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. When his fingers brush the inside of your thigh you shudder, hips canting forward, seeking more contact. “Been thinking about this all week. Thinking about getting you alone, getting my hands on you—”

His fingers find the edge of your underwear, slipping just beneath the lace to trace along the seam where it meets your thigh. The touch is light, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world and knows it's driving you insane. You gasp, hips grinding forward, trying to direct his hand where you actually need it, and your head drops back against the door. He laughs softly against your throat.

“God, you're impatient,” he teases, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Already trying to fuck yourself on my hand.”

“Shut up,” you whine, but there's no heat in it, just desperate need.

“Why?” His mouth trails to your jaw, leave wet kisses behind. “I like knowing you want me. Like hearing your pulse race when I touch you here—” His finger traces up the centre of your underwear, dragging slowly through the damp fabric from your entrance all the way up to your clit. The pressure is perfect and not nearly enough, and you can feel how wet you are, how the lace clings to you. “—and feeling you stop breathing when I—”

His fingers finally slip beneath the lace, and the second he actually touches you, feels how wet and slick you are, he makes this broken sound against your mouth that's half-groan, half-curse. Then he's kissing you again, mouth crashing back to yours. Tongue pushing past your lips deeper, harder, needier. Losing that earlier control. His fingers slide through the mess you've made and your hips jerk forward into his hand.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, fingers parting your folds and sliding through the wetness, spreading it deliberately before finding your clit. He circles it with your own slick, and you can feel how soaked you are, how easily his fingers move, and the wet sound of it makes your face flush hot. “You're fucking soaked for me.”

He's not wrong. You are soaked, aching, need clawing under your skin with an urgency that borders on painful. Whether it's because of him or because you've spent five days with Bucky's hand at your waist and his body in your bed, that constant simmering tension winding you tighter and tighter with nowhere for it to go, you genuinely don't know.

Don't want to know.

Your hips roll forward, trying to get more pressure, more friction, more anything. “Then stop teasing and do something about it.”

He laughs, the sound rough and a little desperate. “Yes ma'am.”

His fingers slide lower, one pressing inside you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your head thunk back against the door. You bite down on your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, hyper-aware that you're in your office in the middle of the day with your staff just outside.

“Matt—” His name escapes your lips anyway, louder than you intend.

"Shh," he breathes against your lips, but he's smiling, adding another finger and curling them just right. "Sweetheart, you're gonna get us caught."

“Your fault,” you gasp, barely above a whisper, hips rocking to meet the thrust of his fingers.

“Fair point.” His forehead presses to yours, breathing ragged. “But you still need to be quiet for me. Can you do that?”

Nodding, you try to stop the moan building in your throat as his fingers work deeper, finding that spot that makes your thighs shake. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt, breath coming in shallow, restrained gasps. But then he curls them again, harder, and the sound that escapes you is too loud, too obvious. His mouth is on yours immediately, swallowing the moan before it can carry.

He kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as his fingers work faster, his thumb finding your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building fast and sharp. You're making these small, desperate noises into his mouth that you can't control, and he seems determined to catch every single one, kissing you harder each time his fingers make you gasp.

“Matt—please—I need—” you whisper between kisses, the words breaking apart.

“I know,” he murmurs back, and there's something soft in it even as his fingers work you closer to the edge. “Need to come. Need to stop thinking for five minutes.” His thumb circles your clit with perfect pressure and you gasp into his mouth. “Need it to be easy for once, yeah? Just this. Just us. Nothing complicated.”

Yes. God, yes. That's exactly what you need. To not think. To just feel something that isn't guilt or confusion or the weight of every choice you've made this week.

“More,” you gasp.

“So greedy sweetheart.” His thumb finds your clit, circling in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me would be a good start.”

He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Love when you get bossy.”

His fingers slide out of you and the whimper that escapes you is pathetic, your hips moving forward involuntarily, trying to chase what you just lost.But your hands are already moving, shaking as they reach for his belt. You yank at it, fingers fumbling with the buckle in your desperation to get him undone.

You need him inside you, need it with an urgency that's making your hands clumsy and your breathing erratic.

“Condom?” you gasp out, finally getting his belt undone and working on the button of his slacks.

“Wallet, back pocket.” 

A breath of relief punches out of you. “Fuck—good boy,” you tease, pulling him into a kiss.

Matt makes this wrecked sound into your mouth, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and his hand cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you gasp against his lips.

“Careful,” he warns, but there's no heat in it, just desperate want. “Keep talking like that and this is gonna be over way too fast.”

You reach around, palm sliding over his ass as you fish out his wallet. The leather is warm from his body heat, and your fingers are still trembling as you flip it open and grab the condom. You tear the foil packet open with your teeth, spitting the scrap of wrapper aside, and then your hand is wrapping around his cock. He's thick and hard in your palm, already leaking, and the groan that tears out of him is absolutely obscene.

“Can't have that,” you murmur, rolling the latex down his length slowly despite how badly you're shaking. You stroke him once, twice, feeling every thick inch, and your thumb swipes over the head. He shudders, fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“Sweetheart,” he grits out, and it sounds like a plea. His hips buck forward into your grip. “Please.”

“Please what?” You're being mean now, hand still working him while he's trying to hold himself together.

“Please let me fuck you before I lose my fucking mind.”

You guide the swollen head of his cock to your entrance and you both go still for half a second, just breathing against each other's mouths. Then he's pushing inside you in one long, smooth slide and the stretch steals every thought from your head. It's almost too much, the thick press of him, and you're making these small desperate sounds you can't control.

“Fuck,” Matt breathes, the words vibrating against your throat where his mouth has landed. You can feel him shaking with the effort of holding still as he lets you adjust to the stretch of him. “You feel—god, you're so wet I can feel it dripping down my—”

You cut him off with a kiss, messy and graceless, and start rolling your hips experimentally. His cock drags against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. The angle is perfect like this, him pinning you to the door, and each roll of your hips takes him deeper. He meets your rhythm, hands gripping your ass to hold you steady as he thrusts up into you, and you have to bite down on his shoulder to muffle the moan that tears out of you.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“That's it,” he groans, setting a rhythm that's slow but deep, each thrust deliberate and devastating. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”

You can barely form words, too focused on the stretch of him filling you, the way your needy cunt is already clenching around him, desperate to pull him deeper. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking you fill your quiet office as you both pant into each other's mouths, drowning in the sensation of each other. The thick drag of his cock inside you, the press of his body against yours, the heat of your skin under his hands. 

Your hand slides between your bodies, seeking more. When your fingers find your clit, it's swollen and sensitive, and just that first brush of contact makes you mewl into his mouth. You're so worked up, so desperate, that even your own touch feels like too much and not enough at the same time. You circle it carefully at first, testing, but the spike of pleasure that shoots through you makes your hips jerk and your walls clench around his cock.

“You sound so pretty like this,” Matt pants against your neck, hips snapping forward. “So fucking pretty when you stop overthinking and just let go.”

Your response is incoherent, something between a moan and his name. The pleasure is building fast, coiling tighter with each thrust, each drag of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenches around him, greedy, desperate, chasing the release that's right there.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he encourages, rhythm getting rougher. “Can feel you getting close. Feel you squeezing my cock. You gonna come for me? Gonna let me feel it?”

You're circling your clit in time with his thrusts and it's almost too much sensation, pleasure coiling tighter in your belly. He shifts slightly and the new angle makes you see stars, a whimper escaping before you can bite it back.

“Yes—fuck—Matt—”

“There?” he asks breathlessly, doing it again, and when you nod frantically he keeps hitting that exact spot. Every thrust drives him deeper and pushes your hand harder against yourself, and you're whimpering with each roll of your hips.

“I can hear it,” Matt groans into your mouth. “Can hear how close you are—your heart's racing, your breathing, you're right there—please, sweetheart, need to feel you—”

It crashes over you sudden and overwhelming, pleasure ripping through you in waves. You come with a broken cry that Matt catches with his mouth, your cunt clamping down on his cock so hard you're practically strangling it. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking as the pleasure tears through you in brutal waves. Your fingers are still on your clit, working yourself through it, and you're making these high desperate sounds into his mouth that you can't control.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” Matt groans, fucking you through it, prolonging it until you're gasping and oversensitive. “So fucking perfect—”

He buries himself deep with a final hard thrust and comes with a groan of your name, cock pulsing as he spills into the condom. You can feel every throb, every twitch as he empties himself, and it sends another aftershock through you that makes you clench around him all over again.

For a moment you just breathe together, foreheads pressed close, hearts racing in tandem. Your legs are trembling so badly around his waist that you're not sure they'll hold you when he pulls out. When he does, you both make these raw sounds at the loss of contact.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers you to the floor. Your knees wobble slightly as your feet hit the ground, and Matt immediately steadies you.

“Okay?” he asks softly, thumb stroking your hip.

“Yeah,” you manage, because that's about all your brain can produce right now.

He kisses you again, but when he pulls back there's something careful in it. Almost like he’s making sure it stays just the right side of casual. His hand cups your face briefly - thumb brushing rogue strands of hair from your face.

“Told you I didn't need long,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Smug bastard.”

But even as you say it your brain is already pulling away, cataloguing everything that needs to happen in the next ten minutes. Fix your hair. Cover that mark on your neck. Make yourself look like a composed diplomat instead of a woman who just fucked her boyfriend—situationship? god, you refuse to be a grown woman with a situationship—against her office door while her husband is probably working back home.

What the fuck are you doing?

Your heart kicks up, anxiety spiking sharp and sudden. Matt's thumb stills against your cheek, and you realise he can probably hear it. The way your body betrays every thought before you can even process it yourself.

“Hey,” he says, and there's a question in it. “Where'd you go?”

You open your mouth. Then immediately close it. You don't actually have an answer that won't make this worse. 

His head tilts slightly, that listening posture you know so well, and his mouth curves into something small and resigned. Like he's already heard the answer in your pulse, in the shift of your breathing, in all the things your body is telling him that you won't say out loud.

So he steps back, creating space between you, and starts dealing with the condom without another word. He ties it off, wraps it in tissue from your desk, buries it under the papers in your trash bin so it's not the first thing anyone sees. The movements are quick and practised, and somehow that makes it worse.

“I should probably let you get back to it,” he offers, straightening out his clothes. “I'm sure you've got seventeen meetings stacked up this afternoon.”

You stare dumbly, watching him button his shirt, tuck it back in, re-buckle his belt. Everything going back into place like this was just a pleasant interlude in the workday and now it's back to business. He runs a hand through his hair to fix what your fingers messed up, and within two minutes he looks perfectly put together, as though nothing happened.

You catch sight of your reflection in the dark window and you definitely don't look like nothing happened. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen, and there's a faint mark on your neck that you're going to have to cover with makeup before your next meeting.

Matt turns away, adjusts his jacket, and something about the ease of it all makes your stomach twist. He's leaving. Of course he's leaving.

He picks up his cane, testing his weight on it, and the gesture is so familiar it hurts. How many times have you watched him do exactly that? Watched him prepare to leave after a late night working at your dining table, after drinks that turned into dinner that turned into more. Always the same smooth transition from intimacy back to separate lives.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple that lands somewhere between affectionate and perfunctory. “Don't let Bucky monopolize your entire weekend.”

It's said warmly. Casually, even. Like he's not bothered. Like this is all very uncomplicated and he's very okay with however this plays out.

“Matt—”

“I'll see you later,” he says easily, hand already on the door.

The casualness of it catches you wrong. Hooks into something raw that’s been building this whole week. And that’s what snaps you out of your own head and back into the moment.

“That's it?” The words come out sharper than you intend. “You'll see me later?”

He pauses, hand on the doorknob, shoulders stiffing as he tries to read the edge in your voice. “Are you—is something wrong?”

It’s remarkable, really. The man can hear your pulse spike from three rooms away, can detect the slightest shift in your body chemistry, can read more from your heartbeat than most people get from a full conversation. And yet here he is, still remarkably incapable of reading the room. Superhuman senses, same oblivious male brain.

“You know what, no, nothing's wrong.” You scoff, yanking your skirt down with more force than necessary, already moving towards your desk, trying to put yourself back together. “You're right, I do have a busy afternoon. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Okay, what's actually going on right now?” He asks slowly, like he's genuinely trying to figure this out. “You’re clearly upset.”

“I'm not upset.”

“Your heart rate says differently.”

God, you hate that he can do that. Hate that your body betrays you before your mouth can even form the lie. And if he's going to use those stupidly accurate senses to call you out, fine. You might as well just say it.

“When am I going to see you again?”

The question hangs in the air. Matt's quiet for a moment, and you can see him processing, trying to read the subtext.

“I don't know.” The answer comes after a beat, careful. “When do you want to see me again?”

It's a reasonable question. A fair question. So why does it make you want to scream?

“That's really how you're going to leave this?” You turn to face him, and you know you're being unfair but you can't seem to stop yourself. “I don't know, you tell me, we'll figure it out later?”

His expression shifts, the muscles tightening around his lips even as his posture stays relaxed. “I was trying to make it easy for you.”

“Easy for me or easy for yourself?”

“Both, probably,” he admits, and the ease of his honesty genuinely makes you pause. “You've got a lot going on. Your husband's here, clearly trying to…” The sentence trails off, unfinished, like he doesn’t want to say something he shouldn’t. “I'm trying not to put more pressure on you when Bucky's already doing that.”

“So you're just backing off? Not even going to—” You stop, because fight for me sounds insane and desperate and you're not sure you even want him to fight for you, but the fact that he won't makes you furious anyway.

“What do you want from me here?” Matt asks, and there's the first edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “You want me to demand your time? Tell you to pick me over him? Make this harder for you?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don't know. You don't know what you want from him. You don't know what you want from Bucky. You don't know what you want from any of this mess you've created.

“Maybe I just want you to care! ”The words burst out louder than you meant them, and you have to forcibly lower your voice, aware again of where you are, who might hear. “I want you to act like this actually matters instead of just being whatever's convenient when I have a free hour.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.

“That's not fair,” he says quietly.

“Isn't it? You won't make plans more than a day out. You've never even asked me to stay over.”

“Because I don't know what we are!” His voice spikes, exasperated, and you both freeze for a second, listening for footsteps in the hall. When none come, he continues, quieter but no less intense. “You're still married. He's clearly trying to get you back. You're asking me to push when you've made it pretty clear you don't know what you want, and I'm not going to compete with your husband.”

“There's a difference between not being pushy and not fighting for anything at all!”Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and you hate yourself for it, the vulnerability bleeding through when you're trying to stay angry. You swallow hard, trying to pull it back together. “There's a difference between giving someone space and just letting go without even trying.”

“I'm trying,” he begins, and there's something rawer in his voice now, “to give you space to figure your shit out without making you feel like you owe me something.”

“Maybe I want to owe you something!” You're pacing now, heels clicking sharp against the floor. “Maybe I want you to act like you actually give a damn whether I pick him or not!”

“Of course I give a damn!” It's the closest he's come to raising his voice. “But I'm not going to manipulate you or monopolize your calendar or show up and—” He stops himself. “I'm not him. I'm not going to do what he does.”

“At least he's doing something!”

The words land like a slap. You see it in the way his expression shutters, in the way his hand tightens on his cane.

“Right.” His voice is flat. “Well. At least we know where we stand, then.” He's already turning toward the door. “Clearly I’m not what you need.”

“Matt, I didn’t mean—” You press your palms against your eyes because you can feel the sting of tears starting and you really don’t want to cry right now. “You’re right, I don't know what I need.” Your voice cracks again and you hate it, hate the tears that are threatening, hate how small you sound. “But why does it have to be all or nothing with both of you? He smothers me and you won't even—”

You stop, pressing your hand to your mouth, trying to hold it together. But the tears are coming anyway, hot and frustrated and exhausted, because you've been holding everything in all week and it's too much. It's all too much.

The tap of his cane stops.

For a moment there's just silence, broken only by the humiliating wet sound of you trying not to sob.

“Shit.” Matt's voice softens immediately. “Hey, no—come here.”

“I'm fine.” But your voice does that horrible shaky thing that makes it very clear you are the opposite of fine.

“You're not fine.” He's already moving toward you, and then his hands are on your arms. Warm and solid and gentle in a way that makes your chest hurt worse. “You're crying in your office.”

“Don't—” You try to turn away, humiliation burning hot in your chest because this is mortifying. “I just need a minute. I'm fine, really,” you try again, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

“Stop saying that.” His voice has gone impossibly soft, thumb stroking along your forearm. “Come here, please."

You let him pull you in, let yourself press your face against his chest while the tears come properly now. His arms come around you, solid and sure, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He doesn't say anything. Just holds you while you shake apart against him, while you soak the front of his shirt with tears that won't stop coming.

“I'm sorry,” you gasp out between sobs. “I'm sorry, I don't—I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I want. This whole week has been so fucked up and I can't think straight and I don't—“ Another sob cuts you off.

“Shh. I know.” His hand moves in slow circles on your back, the pressure steady and grounding. “It's okay, just breathe”

“It's not okay.” The words come out muffled against his chest. “This whole week has been—” Your breath hitches. “He's everywhere and you're—and I can't think straight and I keep making everything worse—”

His hand stills on your back for just a moment. “What do you need?”

You pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, and his hands shift to your arms. Steadying but not restraining. His face is tilted toward you with that particular focus he gets when he's listening to everything - your heartbeat, your breathing, the catch in your voice.

“I don't know.” You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with shaking hands. “Maybe I just need a break. From this. From both of you.”

You try to read his reaction, but he doesn’t give anything away. Just keeps stroking your back in those same soothing motions.

“Bucky's going back to DC on Sunday anyway,” you continue, and your voice sounds raw even to your own ears. “Maybe I just need some time. To figure myself out. Figure out what I actually want instead of just—” You gesture helplessly at the general disaster that is currently your life. “This.”

You expect him to argue. To push back. To do something other than what he does, which is nod slowly.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and his thumb comes up to brush away a tear from your cheek. “Yeah. We can do that. You need time, I'll give you time.”

The agreement should feel like relief but instead it just makes you want to cry harder. Because of course he's not fighting this either. Of course he's just agreeing, just stepping back, just giving you exactly what you asked for in a way that somehow feels like losing anyway.

“But—” He hesitates, and something in his tone shifts. Gets more careful. “You might need to explain this all to Bucky too. Since, you know. He thinks you're working things out.”

Your head snaps up, tears still wet on your cheeks. “What?”

Matt's lips purse slightly, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase it. “He asked me to back off. Said you two were working through things. That you needed space to figure out your marriage without complications.” His mouth twists slightly on the last word. “Meaning me.”

The humiliation of thirty seconds ago transmutes instantly into something else. The tears stop. Everything stops. For a moment you just stare at Matt, trying to process what he's telling you, and then the rage hits like a freight train. “He told you we were getting back together?”

“Not in those exact words, but yes,” he confirms quietly. “He tried to make it seem like he knew where things stood between you. Made it pretty clear he considered me a temporary blip in your relationship.”

“That fucking—” You can't even finish the sentence, fury choking the words in your throat. Your hands are shaking again, but this time with anger.

“We had one lunch,” you say, and your voice has gone cold. “One. Where he apologised for being absent and I agreed to give him one week to prove he could actually show up. That's it. We never—I never said we were working things out.”

Matt's very quiet.

“He told you we were reconciling.” You're not asking. You're clarifying. Making sure you understand the full scope of what Bucky's done. “He told you to back off because we were fixing our marriage.”

“Yeah.”

“And then he filled my entire calendar. And slept in my bed. And touched me like I belonged to him in front of half of diplomatic London.” The pieces are clicking together with horrible clarity. “He decided. Again. He just fucking decided without me that we're working things out and told my—told you to back off like he gets to make those calls for me.”

You're already moving, grabbing your bag, your phone, not even sure what you're doing but you need to move, need to do something with this rage before it burns you alive from the inside.

“Where are you going?” Matt asks carefully.

“Home.” The word comes out sharp and final. “I'm going home and I'm ending this shit right now.”

── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹

The click of your heels echoes through the residence, each step a punctuation mark to the fury coiling tighter in your chest. You stride through the hallway, past Thomas who takes one look at your face and wisely says nothing, and straight to the study where you know Bucky's working.

He's at the desk - your desk, because apparently he's just moved back into every corner of your life without asking - looking at some papers with a confused scrunch of his nose that would be endearing if you weren't currently fantasizing about throwing something heavy at his head.

The papers hit the mahogany with a slap that makes him jolt upright. For half a second there's just confusion - eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted on a question that hasn’t formed yet - and then his eyes drop to what you’ve thrown down. ‘Petition for Dissolution of Marriage’ printed across the top in black and white. You watch his face change as he reads the header. Watch the colour drain slightly. Watch his throat work as he swallows.

“What—” He starts to speak, stops to compose himself, and when the words finally come they’re careful, like he already knows the answer and is hoping he's wrong “What’s this?”

“Take a wild fucking guess, Congressman.”

His hand moves slowly toward the papers like they might burn him, fingers hovering before he finally touches them. He flips through, and you know the exact moment he finds the signature page because his whole body goes rigid.

Your finger jabs down at the signature line. “Sign them.”

“What?” He's standing now, the chair scraping back, and there's something raw starting to crack through the careful composure on his face. Something that looks like panic and grief all at once. “Baby—”

“Don't.” You hold up a hand and he actually freezes mid-step. “Don't 'baby' me. Don't use that voice. Don't act like you can smooth this over if you just find the right words.”

“That's not—I'm not—” His hands spread wide in a helpless gesture. “Please, just talk to me. What happened? This morning we were fine, we were—”

“We were what, exactly?” You cut him off, arms crossing over your chest. “Working things out? Getting back together? Reconciling our marriage?”

Bucky's quiet for a moment, and you can practically see him running through possibilities, trying to figure out which particular mine he's stepped on. And then the guilt stats to flicker across his face.

“Oh good,” you say flatly. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

His whole posture changes, that familiar stubborn set coming into his jaw that tells you he's not going to back down easy. “If this is about Matt—”

“If this is about Matt?” You actually laugh, and it sounds wrong even to your own ears. “This is about you, Bucky! The fact that you lied and said we were working things out. That you said to back off because apparently we needed space to fix our marriage.”

He's quiet. Won't meet your eyes.

“When exactly were you planning to mention that to me?” Fury makes your voice shake despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Before or after you finished orchestrating my entire fucking life?”

“I was trying to—”

“I don't care what you were trying to do!” It comes out too loud, echoing off the study walls. “You know, I've had these papers for two months. Two months of looking at them in my drawer, too much of a coward to sign them, because some pathetic part of me still hoped we could fix this.” 

Your voice cracks and you have to stop, have to breathe through the anger and hurt tangling in your throat.

“But we can't. Because you don't know how to be in a partnership. You only know how to run operations and make strategic decisions and manipulate variables, and I'm so fucking tired of being a variable in your life instead of your fucking wife.”

“That's not what you are to me! I swear, please—” He runs a hand through his hair, and he’s scrambling, trying to find the words that will fix this. His gaze drifts back to the papers like they might rearrange themselves into something different if he looks hard enough. “Wait, you drew these up two months ago?”

You watch him do the maths. Watch the realization settle across his features, his jaw going tight.

“When you started seeing him.” It's not a question. 

“Stop making this about Matt! Stop deflecting. Stop trying to make this about jealousy when this is about you making decisions about my life without me!” 

You're pacing before you realise it, unable to stand still. Three steps to the window and back.

“It seems very much to be about him though, doesn't it?” Bucky's voice has gone rough at the edges. He pushes off the desk, takes a step toward you. “You draw up divorce papers the second you start sleeping with him, this whole week goes perfectly fine until you see him again, and now you're in here ready to end our marriage—”

“This week was a lie!” You shout, beyond caring who might hear. “This week was you orchestrating my entire life, filling my calendar, telling people we were reconciling without ever actually asking me if that's what I wanted! Don't you dare act like things were fine when the whole thing was built on you manipulating—”

“—I wasn’t manipulating—”

“—our marriage, making a decision about my relationships without saying word to me!” Your voice rises to stay above his. “I actually had those papers drawn up two months ago because I’d spent the previous six months unable to have a single fucking conversation with my own husband!”

The words are coming faster now, angrier, everything you've been holding in for 8 months spilling out. “Every time I called I got 'he's in a meeting' or 'he'll call you back' and he never, ever did. Because somewhere along the line I stopped being your wife and became an item on your assistant's to-do list that never made it to the top of the pile!”

His head comes up. His eyes are wet with unshed tears when they find yours, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He's trying desperately to hold it together but you watch him start to lose the fight in the way his face crumples, in the painful swallow working down his throat. His hand lifts toward you before he seems to remember himself and lets it drop uselessly back to his side. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know I fucked up, I know I wasn't there, and I'm trying to fix it now—”

“By doing the same thing! By making decisions without me!” Your nails dig into your palms hard enough to hurt, arms rigid at your sides. “Do you not see that? You’re still doing it, Bucky, you're still shutting me out and deciding what's best for us without ever asking me what I want!”

“So what do you want from me?” His desperation bleeds through every word, but it’s far too little, and far too late. “Tell me what you want and I'll do it.”

For a moment you just stand there, looking at him across the desk that's covered in his work, in this life he built without consulting you. You should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Some echo of the love that used to live in your chest when you looked at him like this. But you just feel exhausted. 

When you finally speak, the answer comes out quieter than anything else you've said tonight.

“I want you to sign the papers.”

Your words seem to suck the air out of the room, leaving nothing but the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“No.” He's shaking his head slowly at first, then faster, like he can physically deny what's happening if he just refuses hard enough. “No, I'm not—I can't—”

“You don't get to say no.”

“Just talk to me!” He begs. “Just talk to me instead of throwing divorce papers on my desk and expecting me to—”

“Talk to you?” You can hear the bitter edge bleeding through your voice, feel it scraping against your throat. “Wow, okay. Like you talked to me before telling Matt to back off? Like you talked to me before orchestrating my entire week? Like you talked to me every time I called and got your pretty little assistant instead?”

“I told you I didn’t sleep with her.”

“Oh my fucking god, congratulations!” Your arms fly up in exasperation. “You want a medal for not fucking your assistant? You want me to applaud your restraint? Let’s not act like you were alone, pining away for me this whole time.”

“At least I didn't parade it in front of you!” The accusation explodes out of him like it's been festering, his face flushing with pain and frustration mixing together.

“We were separated! That was the whole fucking point of the agreement!” Even though your throat is becoming raw from shouting, you can’t seem to stop, months of resentment pouring out of you. “Married in public, free to see other people privately - that’s what we agreed to. Except clearly, neither of us can act normally about it!”

Your voice cracks.

“We're just destroying each other. And I can't do it anymore.”

Your words hang in the air between you. You're both breathing hard, and the study feels simultaneously too small and too vast, like the space can't quite contain what's happening. Then something shifts in his expression as he seems to finally hear what he’s been saying, how he sounds. His shoulders sag inward. The voice that comes out next is barely recognisable.

“I'm sorry.” He drags a hand over his face. “You're right. I'm making this worse. I'm making everything worse. But please, don’t do this, just give me a chance too—”

“I've been giving you chances for eight months. I gave you a chance when you became Congressman without talking to me about it. I gave you a chance this week when you showed up and I let you back in even though you were already making decisions for me. And every time you fucked it up!”

Bucky just stands there, breathing hard, staring at you like you’ve gutted him. His eyes are still wet, tears clinging to his lashes but refusing to fall.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I know you might not have felt it, and i know it’s not enough, but I have loved you through every stupid mistake I've made, including running for Congress.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest for months.

“I thought… I thought if I could be someone important, someone legitimate, maybe I'd finally be worthy of you. You've spent your whole career saving lives, negotiating peace, actually helping people. And I'm just—” His voice cracks. “I'm still just the Winter Soldier trying to prove I'm more than that. So I ran for Congress because I thought it might fix me, might fill the hole where my humanity used to be. But instead I just broke us and I’m still as damaged as before. And now I can't—”

His voice fractures completely.

“I can't lose you.”

The confession lands entirely wrong, because this is what you've wanted to hear for months - years, maybe. This vulnerability, this honesty, this real version of Bucky you’ve only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. And it’s too late. Your throat tightens. You have to look away from him because seeing him like this, broken open and bleeding out in front of you, makes something in you want to take it all back. Want to cross the room and hold him and tell him he's not damaged, that he's never been unworthy, that you've loved him through every version of himself he hasn’t.

But loving him has never been the problem.

“You already did, Bucky.” The words hurt coming out. “You can't put that on me - your sense of self-worth, your identity, fixing yourself. That was never my job. I loved you. I loved you exactly as you were, and you never believed me. And now you're telling me you destroyed our marriage trying to become someone you thought I wanted, when all I ever wanted was you.”

Somehow his face crumples further. You have to look away again. When you speak next, your voice is barely above a whisper. Tired and sad and so heavy you can barely get the words out.

“So yes, you're right. You did break us. But not because you weren't good enough, Bucky. Because you never let me love the person you actually are.”

For a moment he just stands there, and you watch all the fight drain out of him like someone pulled a plug. His eyes go distant, almost glassy, and his breathing deepens, like he's shutting something down inside himself. The desperation from moments ago has been replaced by something far more terrifying: quiet resignation. He's finally stopped trying to hold on.

He picks up the pen. His hand trembles badly enough that you wonder if he'll even be able to write, but he manages to grip it, staring down at the signature line for what feels like an eternity. When the pen finally touches paper, the scratch of it against the silence is deafening.

He signs his name. Dates it. Slides the papers across the desk toward you without meeting your eyes.

“There.” His voice is completely destroyed. “If that's what you need.”

You pick up the papers with numb fingers. Stare at his signature like you can't quite believe it's real.

“I'm sorry.” He hasn't moved. Just stands there with wet cheeks and empty hands. “I'm so sorry. For every way I failed you. For not being what you needed.”

“Thank you.” It comes out barely audible. “For the apology. For signing.”

You fold the papers slowly, creasing each edge with deliberate precision because if you think about the mechanics of folding paper you don't have to think about what you're holding.

“I want you to catch the next flight back to DC. Tonight, if you can. I'll have Thomas help you pack.”

“Okay.” He looks lost standing there, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his body, with any of this. “Okay, yeah.”

“And Bucky—” Your voice is steadier now, or at least you're doing a better job of faking it. “Don't call. Don't text. Don't send flowers or letters or try to fix anything. We're done. Let it be done.”

He nods, even though it looks like it's killing him. “Okay.”

There should be something else to say. Some final words that would make this less awful, less final. But you can't think of anything that won't make it worse. So you just turn and walk toward the door, papers pressed against your chest like you need the reminder of why you’re doing this.

“For what it's worth,” His voice stops you at the threshold, and it comes out quiet and defeated. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The best thing I've ever had and the worst thing I've ever lost, and I know that's my fault. I know I did that.” The silence hangs for a moment. “I'm sorry. For all of it.”

You don't turn around, can't let him see your face right now.

“Goodbye, Bucky.”

Then you walk out, leaving your husband standing alone in the study, and you don't look back.

── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹

The wind off the Potomac is sharp enough to sting, cutting through your coat. March in Washington hasn't gotten any more pleasant since you left - still grey, still biting, still full of men in expensive suits having conversations that matter to nobody outside this ten-block radius.

You've been back for two days. Meetings, briefings, a reception last night where you smiled until your face hurt and deflected questions about London with the practised ease of someone who's done this too many times to count. It's fine. Exhausting, but fine. You can do this job in your sleep at this point.

What you can't do, apparently, is stop yourself from scanning every room you enter for a familiar face. Your heart has been doing this annoying thing ever since you landed at Dulles where it kicks up at unexpected moments - half anticipation, half dread. Walking past a coffee shop that he used to go to. Hearing someone laugh in a way that's almost but not quite his register. Seeing a tall, dark-haired man in a suit who makes your stupid heart stutter before you realise it's not him.

You're not looking for him. You're absolutely not looking for him. You're just aware. Hyper-aware, maybe. Of the absence. Of the space where he should be and isn't. 

Because Bucky's on Foreign Relations. He should have been at yesterday's hearing. Definitely should have been at the NATO briefing this morning where you spent two hours making small talk with people who absolutely knew you were divorced and were definitely trying not to bring it up.

But he's not here. And the unease that started yesterday has metastasized into something closer to worry, which is absurd because you're divorced and it's none of your business anymore where he is or what he's doing or why he's apparently missing every major political event this week.

Except now it's your last day in DC and you're walking out of your final meeting, and you still haven't seen him. Which is good. That's good. That's what you wanted - to get through this trip without the inevitable awkward encounter, without having to figure out what you're supposed to say to your ex-husband in a professional setting.

He's probably just busy. He's always busy. That's the whole problem, isn't it? Was. Was the whole problem.

You tell yourself it's none of your business. You tell yourself he’s probably had scheduling conflicts, or dozen other reasonable explanations that have nothing to do with you. You tell yourself to get in the car waiting to take you to the hotel and get a good nights sleep before your flight tomorrow morning.

Instead, you hear yourself giving the driver a different address.

You watch DC slide past the window. Familiar streets, familiar monuments, a city you used to know as well as London but feels foreign now. It's been three months since you signed those papers. Six weeks since the divorce was finalised. And he gave you the silence that you asked for, that you needed, that was supposed to make this easier. 

It did make some things easier, in a way. You can think about him now without that sharp twist of anger in your chest. Can acknowledge the good parts of your marriage without immediately cataloguing all the ways it fell apart. You've stopped checking your phone obsessively, stopped writing texts you never sent, stopped having imaginary arguments with him at two in the morning.

You've started sleeping through the night again. Started saying “my ex-husband” without your voice catching. Started believing that maybe you could actually do this - be divorced, be separate, be okay.

But you still can't be in this city without needing to know he's alright. Because Bucky Barnes gets under your skin and doesn’t leave. Not really. Not even after divorce papers and three months of silence and all the ways you've tried to extract him from your chest. He's just there, permanent as a scar, and you've apparently made peace with the fact that he always will be.

His apartment is close enough to the Capitol that he could walk if he wanted to, far enough that it didn't feel like living at the office. You'd picked it out together four years ago, back when you thought his Congressional run was temporary and you'd be back in New York within a term. The doorman doesn't recognise you, but he calls up anyway when you give him your name.

The elevator ride to the eighth floor feels longer than the entire flight from London. Your heart is doing that kicking thing again but worse now, harder, because this is stupid and inappropriate and you have no right to be here. But what if something's wrong? Or maybe nothing's wrong and you're being ridiculous. Both options feel equally terrible.

You walk down the hallway on muscle memory, and before you can overthink it anymore, you’re standing in from of 8F. The door opens before your knuckles even make contact with the wood.

Bucky's standing there in jeans and a Henley that's seen better days, hair slightly too long and falling into his eyes. The permanent tension he used to carry in his shoulders has eased, and there's no tie strangling him, no suit jacket making him look like a politician action figure. He looks comfortable in a way you've never seen him look in DC.

He also looks completely shocked to see you.

His eyes go wide, lips parting on what might be your name but doesn't quite make it out. 

“Hi,” you manage.

For a second he just stares at you like you might be a hallucination, hand still on the doorframe, body frozen mid-breath. “Hi.”

And then silence. Awful, stretching silence where you're both just looking at each other and you're realizing with creeping horror that you came all the way here without any plan for what you were actually going to say. Now you're just standing here like an idiot while he stares at you and oh god you need to say something, anything—

“I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't just show up, I was in town for meetings and I wasn't going to bother you—” And suddenly you're talking too fast, words tumbling over each other in a way that would be mortifying if you could stop long enough to be mortified. “But you weren't at the Foreign Relations hearing yesterday—which isn't my business, obviously, you don't owe me your schedule…” 

Your hand comes up to your neck, fingers pressing against the tension there like that might somehow stop the word vomit. “But then you also weren't at the NATO briefing this morning and I know you're always at those because it's your thing, and I know I have no right to just show up here, and this is probably completely inappropriate—”

Shit, you're babbling. You're fully babbling at your ex-husband who you haven't spoken to in three months while he stands there looking increasingly bewildered. Stop talking. Stop talking right now.

“—but I was getting in the car to go to my hotel and I just kept thinking about how you weren't there and what if something was wrong, and I know I asked for space and this is definitely not space, this is the opposite of space, this is me showing up at your apartment like a complete—”

“I left Congress.”

The words cut through your spiral, stopping you mid-sentence with your mouth still open. Your brain completely flat-lines for a moment and then reboots, and for a second you just stare at him while the information tries to process.

“What?”

“Congress. I left.” He says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather. “About three weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

The word comes out flat and stupid. You blink at him. Process his words. Try to figure out what expression your face is making and whether it's appropriate.

“Oh,” you repeat dumbly, because apparently that's all your brain can produce. “I didn't—I didn't know.”

The silence that follows is excruciating. And you're suddenly extremely aware that you're standing in his hallway, that he's looking at you with an expression you can't parse, and how you've just made a complete fool of yourself by showing up here based on incorrect assumptions about his schedule.

This was a mistake. This was such a mistake.

“Right. Of course.” You take a step back toward the elevator, face hot with embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—this was inappropriate, I'll just—"

“Do you want to come in?” The question comes out slightly strangled, like it surprised him as much as it surprises you.

It stops you mid-retreat. You look at him and he's watching you with something that might be hope or might be caution or might be both.

“I don't want to intrude…”

“You're not.” He steps back from the doorway, making space. “I mean, you're already here. And I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay.”

You should say no. Should absolutely say no. Should get back in that car and go to your hotel and let this remain a awkward three-minute interaction you can both pretend never happened.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say instead.

You step inside and it hits you how familiar everything still is. Same layout you could navigate blind, same view of the street you used to watch on sleepless nights, same couch you both used to fall asleep on after long nights reading political documents. 

But the congressional briefings that used to bleed across every flat surface are gone. In their place are books on the side table - actual books that look read, spines creased, pages dog-eared. The kitchen looks like someone's actually been using it instead of just microwaving leftovers at midnight. It's still the same apartment, but it feels different. Like someone actually exists here instead of just sleeping between eighteen-hour days.

You're standing there trying to process it when you realise Bucky's closed the door and now you're both just awkwardly existing in the same space, six feet apart, neither of you sure what to do with your hands.

But damn, he looks good. That's the thing you keep getting stuck on. The permanent furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His shoulders sit easier. Even the way he's standing is looser, less like a man braced for impact. And he's looking at you like he's trying very hard to be normal about this and failing completely. Like you're something he's not allowed to want anymore but can't quite help it.

You clear your throat, grasping for something to say that isn't we got divorced and you look good and I don't know what to do with that.

“So… Not Congressman Barnes anymore.”

He actually cringes, then huffs out a surprised laugh. “Yeah. Thank god.”

“What happened?” You're trying to keep your voice neutral, conversational, but it definitely comes out more loaded than you intended. “I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I don't have a right to—”

“You have a right,” he interrupts quietly, then seems to reconsider. “Or, I don't know if you have a right, but I want to tell you anyway.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He runs a hand through his hair, and you watch him gather his thoughts. That little exhale he does when he's trying to figure out how to be honest about something difficult.

“After the divorce—” He stops on the word, like it physically hurts to say. He swallows, tries again. “I did a lot of thinking. About why I ran for Congress in the first place, what I was trying to prove. And I realised I hated it. Hated the politics, the performance, the constant posturing. I was terrible at it, you know I was terrible at it. The only reason I didn't completely implode was because you were there coaching me through it, and once you weren't...” He trails off, shaking his head. “I kept going anyway because I thought that's what I was supposed to do. That quitting would mean I'd failed, or that I was giving up.”

He's looking at his hands now, the flesh one fidgeting against the metal one.

“But you were right. I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. Trying to be someone I thought deserved you instead of figuring out who I actually am.” He lets out a breath. “Not for you, not to prove anything to anyone. Just for me. I'd never done that before.”

He shifts his weight, suddenly looking uncomfortable with how honest that came out, and you have to swallow past the tightness in your throat because that might be the most vulnerable thing he's ever admitted to you.

“So I quit.” He shrugs like it's no big deal, trying to play it off. “And then I started thinking about what I actually wanted to do if I wasn't trying to prove I was more than what Hydra made me.”

He glances up at you then, and there's something almost hesitant in it, like he's trying to gauge your reaction. Like he can’t help that some part of him still wants you to be proud of him even though he's doing this for himself. “Sam's been building something with the Avengers. A new team—”

And he must catch the concern that flickers across your face because he quickly adds, “I'm not fighting; I'm done with that. But I’m going to help with training programs, support systems, trying to make sure the next generation doesn't get chewed up the way we did. Sam suggested it. And for the first time in years something just... clicked.”

You're staring at him, trying to process all of it. The growth. The self-awareness. The fact that he actually heard you, actually sat with it, actually made changes not to win you back but because he needed to be better for himself.

“That's—” Your voice comes out rough and you have to clear your throat. “That's really good, Bucky. I'm happy for you.”

And you are. You are genuinely happy for him. But there's something bittersweet lodged behind your ribs too, something that tastes like why now and why couldn't you have done this when we were still trying and this is exactly what I wanted from you.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” he adds quietly. “I wasn't sure if it was my place anymore, or if you'd want to know. You asked for silence and I was trying to respect that, trying to give you the peace you deserved after everything I put you through.”

God. He's doing exactly what you asked him to do. Respecting your boundaries, not inserting himself into your life, letting you move on. And apparently getting what you want feels a lot like getting punched in the chest, which seems cosmically unfair.

“You're allowed to tell me things,” you manage. “Just because we're divorced doesn't mean I don't care about what happens to you.”

He nods slowly, but doesn't say anything, and the quiet that settles between you is thick with all the things neither of you knows how to say.

You're both still just standing there and you have no idea what you're supposed to do now. No idea what the protocol is for this situation. No idea how to be around him when he looks this good and this different and this much like what you'd needed him to be.

That's when you hear it. A small, inquiring “mrrp” from somewhere behind the couch. A white cat emerges, one blue eye and one green, tail high and confident as she saunters into the middle of the room and sits down to observe you both with feline judgment.

“You got a cat,” you remark, grateful for a distraction.

“Yeah.” Bucky says, and there's something almost embarrassed in his voice. “Her name's Alpine. I got her about a month after the divorce. The apartment was too quiet and I—” He trails off, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “She was at a shelter and she looked at me like she knew I needed someone around and I guess I did.”

The apartment was too quiet because you weren't in it anymore, is the thing he doesn't say. But it hangs there anyway.

Alpine pads over to you with the confidence of a cat who knows she's in charge, and you crouch down automatically, extending your hand for her to sniff.

“Hi there, sweet girl,” you murmur, and she immediately butts her head against your palm, purring like a small motor. Within seconds she's winding between your legs, tail curling around your calf with clear ownership.

“Well, that's it then,” Bucky teases, small smile tugging at his lips. “She's decided you're hers. Good luck leaving, she's very persistent when she wants something.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and you watch his expression shift as he seems to hear what he just said. Like he's just remembered that you leaving is exactly what's supposed to happen. That you have a life that doesn't include him or his cat.

“So, how are things with....” He clears his throat, and you can practically feel him trying to make his voice sound casual and normal. It doesn't work. “How's the boyfriend?”

Your hand stills on Alpine's fur. You look up to find him studiously examining a spot on the wall like it's the most fascinating piece of architecture he's ever seen.

“Matt moved back to New York a few months ago.” You straighten up slowly, Alpine protesting the loss of attention with a small trill. “We ended things. Wanted different things from the relationship.”

“Oh.” Bucky's eyes finally land on you, and there's something complicated happening in his expression. “I'm sorry.”

“No you're not.”

It comes out before you can stop it, and for a second you think you've made it weird again, but then Bucky laughs. It's surprised out of him, genuine and a little helpless, and god you've missed that sound.

“No,” he admits, smile going crooked. “I'm really not.”

The honesty of it sits between you for a moment. Then something changes in his face, the amusement fading into something more vulnerable.

“But I should be sorry,” he continues quietly. “It shouldn't matter what I think. You deserve to move on, to be happy with someone who—” He cuts himself off, looking down at his hands. “Someone who can actually be what you need. And I'll deal with that eventually. I will. I'm just—” Another pause. “I'm sorry that I played a part in screwing that up for you, with Matt. And I’m sorry if the divorce or the complications or just... me... if any of that made it harder for you to have something good.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tight. Here he is, your ex-husband, apologising for potentially ruining your other relationship while also admitting he's not sorry it ended, and somehow it's the most honest you've been with each other in months.

“It wasn't you,” you hear yourself say. “Not directly, anyway. Matt and I… we wanted different things. He wanted easy and uncomplicated, and I'm apparently incapable of either of those things.”

“That's not true—”

“Bucky.” You raise a brow. “I showed up at my ex-husband's apartment unannounced because I got worried when he didn't show up to committee meetings. I think we can agree that 'easy and uncomplicated' is not really my strong suit.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair point.”

“But,” he adds, “you deserve someone who doesn't want easy. Someone who wants all of it - the complicated, the messy, the hard parts. Someone who wants you exactly as you are. Because you show up. Even when you shouldn't, even when it's inconvenient, even when you have every reason not to. You came here today because you were worried about me, because that's just who you are. You care so completely, so deeply, even when it costs you. And you deserve someone who loves you enough to show up for you the way you've always shown up for everyone else.”

The words land like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. Your eyes start to sting and you have to look away, blinking hard against the sudden heat behind them because you're not going to cry in his apartment, you're not.

Except apparently you are, because your vision's already blurring and there's a tightness in your chest that won't ease and when you try to speak nothing comes out but a slightly choked sound that you immediately wish you could take back.

“Hey,” Bucky moves toward you immediately, concern flooding his face. “Shit, no, I didn't mean to upset you.”

You try and recover the situation, aiming for light, but it cracks halfway through. “No, I’m fine, that’s a very—that's nice, that's a really nice thing to say, thank you for the—”

You stop because you're not making sense, because the whole thing is so mortifying you want to sink through the floor.

“Sweetheart, what’s happening?” His hand comes up immediately, thumb brushing across your cheek with a gentleness that makes it worse. He’s so close now that you can see the flecks of grey starting to thread through his hair at his temples. Close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne - the same one you bought him three years ago for his birthday. Close enough that your body remembers what it feels like to fit against his before your brain can stop it.

And god, he still feels like home. Still looks at you like you're something precious. And it's too much, all of it is too much, and the tears that have been threatening finally spill over.

“Don't call me that,” you choke out, but there's no heat in it. “And don't—you can't just—”

The words are getting tangled up with the crying, which is humiliating, but now that you've started you can't seem to stop.

“You don't get to do this,” you manage, and it comes out accusatory and broken at the same time. “You don't get to make all these changes and become this better version of yourself after we're divorced. You don't get to quit the job you hated and figure out what you actually want and get a cat and look at me like that when we're not—”

You stop, pressing your palms against your eyes because maybe if you can't see him this will be easier.

“You're doing everything right and it's too late. And god, I'm here being pathetic, showing up at your apartment because I couldn't handle not seeing you at a meeting. You've moved on, you're this whole new person, and I'm still—”

“You think I could ever move on from you?”

The question stops you mid-sentence. You lower your hands and look up at him, and his face has gone soft and raw and heartbroken in a way that makes your chest cave in.

“I haven't moved on.” His voice drops to barely more than a whisper. “I couldn't move on from you if I tried. You think I got a cat because I moved on? I got a cat because I was so fucking lonely and every time I tried to date, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let anyone else in here. Couldn't stand the thought of someone in this space who wasn’t you.”

He takes a breath that shudders slightly on the exhale, and you can see him fighting to hold himself together.

“I'm not a better person because I moved on. I'm a better person because losing you destroyed me and I had to either figure out who I actually was without you or let it kill me. So I figured it out, because I owed it to myself to be more than just the wreckage of our marriage.”

His thumb continues to trace slow paths across your cheekbone, catching each tear as it falls. The space between you has shrunk to almost nothing. You don't remember either of you moving but suddenly you can count his eyelashes, can see his eyes are wet too. 

Your eyes drop to his mouth. His lips are slightly parted, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your skin, and you watch him notice where you're looking. Watch the way his pupils blow wider, the way his grip on your face tightens just slightly.

“But god, I’m sorry,” he continues, and his forehead drops to rest against yours. “I'm so fucking sorry for all of it. For running for Congress without talking to you first. For shutting you out instead of letting you help me. For making you feel like you weren't enough when you were always everything.”

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry for manipulating your calendar and lying to Matt and thinking I could orchestrate our marriage back together instead of just talking to you like a fucking adult.” His other hand comes up to cup your face, both palms cradling you as his thumb brushes your bottom lip “I'm sorry for taking you for granted and not fighting for us until it was too late. I'm sorry—”

You kiss him. 

You can't help it. Can't wait another second, can't stand anymore distance between you when he's been standing there saying everything you'd needed to hear for months and he's finally, finally letting you all the way in and you need him closer. Need his mouth on yours more than you need air right now.

He makes this startled sound against your lips, like he didn't dare let himself believe this was actually happening. But then his hands tighten on your face and he's kissing you back, desperate and messy, your face still wet with tears.

“Keep going,” you gasp against his lips between kisses. “Don't stop.”

“I'm sorry for every time I chose my pride over our marriage.” The words tumble out between kisses as he walks you backward, one hand now gripping your waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of your head. “For every time I made you feel small or unimportant or like you were the problem when it was always me.”

You hit the wall with a soft thud, his palm deliberately taking the impact for your head, and his mouth finds your throat immediately, hot and desperate, teeth grazing your pulse point before his lips soothe over it.

“I'm sorry for wasting so much time,” he breathes against your neck, hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling back just enough to drag it over your head. “For not appreciating every second I had with you. For not telling you every single day that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Bucky—” You plead, fingers tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan against your skin.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes blown completely dark, and the desperation on his face mirrors everything coiling tight in your stomach.

“Let me make it up to you,” he pants, mouth already trailing lower, kissing down your throat, your collarbone, your sternum. “Please. Let me get on my knees and show you exactly how sorry I am, sweetheart.”

“Fuck—please, Bucky. Yes!”

His mouth keeps moving lower as he sinks down, lips pressing hot and wet over your stomach. When he reaches the waistband of your skirt his hands slide around to find the zip, tugging it down over your hips. 

He peels it down slowly, mouth following the same path, pressing open kisses down your hip, the outside of your thigh, your knee, helping you step out of it carefully but making absolutely no move to take your heels off. For a moment he just stays there, looking up at you from the floor with blown dark eyes.

The sight of him down there looking at you like that makes your breath come out shaky.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he breathes against your inner thigh, lips dragging higher again. “Missed this.” His fingers find the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly, and when they're gone his right hand lingers on your calf, squeezing.

“Missed the way you sound when I do this—” He presses his mouth to your clit, barely anything, just enough to make you whine and your hips jerk forward chasing more. “Missed the way you taste. Been so fucking long, sweetheart, I'm gonna make sure you feel every single apology.”

Then he hooks your leg over his shoulder, spreading you wider, the stiletto of your heel digging into his back. He groans against you like he's been waiting months for exactly this, tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every inch of you, before his mouth closes around your clit and sucks.

You're already soaked, embarrassingly so, slick and swollen and desperate, and the obscene sounds he's making against you make your face flush hot. Like he's enjoying this more than you are, which makes the heat pooling in your stomach coil tighter and more urgent. 

Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, gripping hard, and the moan that rumbles out of him against your folds is immediate, hips shifting like he can't help it. You tug again, twisting tighter, and he groans louder, like he'd let you pull as hard as you wanted as long as you kept him right there.

His tongue curls and your back arches off the wall with a broken, high little sound, thighs trembling against his shoulders. The heel of your stiletto presses harder into his back as your leg tightens around him.

He teases you mercilessly, knows exactly how to make you chase it. Tongue circling your clit until your hips roll forward without shame, grinding against his face, chasing friction with a desperation that would be humiliating if you had any capacity left to feel embarrassed. Every time you get close he pulls back, mouthing at your inner thigh or the crease of your hip, until you whine with frustration.

“Please—” It comes out wrecked, barely recognisable as your own voice. “Bucky, please—”

He makes this low, pleased chuckle against your folds that you feel everywhere, clearly delighted with himself, and the vibration of it makes you desperately clench around nothing and moan so shamelessly that he does it again on purpose. 

His tongue fucks into you and the world goes soft at the edges, thoughts dissolving one by one until there's nothing left but the wet heat of his mouth and the needy little moans you can’t seem to stop making. His nose bumps your clit with every movement, pressure building so deep and overwhelming that you've stopped being capable of anything as complex as forming words. 

Just fingers buried in his hair, back arched, existing entirely at the mercy of his mouth.

Then his left hand closes around your standing thigh, metal fingers wrapping around soft flesh. He pulls his mouth away just far enough to speak, his breath hot and damp against your soaked, swollen folds.

“Up,” he rumbles directly into your cunt, breath hot, and you hear it somewhere distant and unimportant. 

Your legs aren't really receiving instructions anymore - you're not capable of much of anything right now, every nerve ending in your body shorting out under his mouth. Too far gone already to manage something as complicated as lifting a leg.

The crack of his metal hand against your ass brings the world back in one sharp snap.

“Up, pretty girl. C'mon.” His voice is rough, amused, unbearably fond. “Can't have gone dumb on my tongue already, sweetheart. I’ve barely even started.”

“Fuck,” you manage.

“There we go,” he murmurs, the deep warmth in his voice is devastatingly attractive. “Good girl. Up.”

His hand guides you this time, helping you move your other leg up and over his shoulder so both thighs bracket his head. Before you can process what’s happening, he rises, straightening to his full height with an ease that makes it obvious how little you weigh to him. How effortless this is. How completely in control he is of the situation. And it makes your stomach swoop. 

Your fingers yank his hair on instinct, panic and want tangled together, and the moan that drags out of him reverberates directly against your pussy in a way that makes your whole body shudder.

The wall catches your back. His hands lock around the backs of your thighs, one warm, one cool metal, fingers pressing into your flesh as he pins you exactly where he wants you. His face is buried between your legs and there's nothing below you but six feet of immovable super soldier who has absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. The realization of how thoroughly he has you, how completely helpless you are right now, sends a fresh rush of arousal flooding against his mouth that makes him moan his encouragement.

“Fuck— please—Bucky.”

The answering groan he makes against you says he heard it just fine. And then he gets greedy.

His tongue finds your clit and doesn't leave, licking and sucking with a focused relentlessness that has you sobbing. You're soaked, dripping down his chin. Every careful, deliberate stroke of his tongue pulls another helpless mewl from your throat while his hands keep you pinned exactly where he wants you, going nowhere, taking everything he decides to give you.

He learns you all over again like he has all the time in the world. Finds every spot that makes your thighs clench around his head and returns to them, again and again, cataloguing your reactions with the focused intensity of someone who has missed this more than they can articulate and intends to make up for every lost month tonight. 

“Taste so fucking good,” he groans into you, the words vibrating against your clit, hips grinding forward against nothing. “Missed this pussy so much. Missed how wet she gets for me. Could eat her all night and never get enough.”

The knowledge that he's this worked up just from going down on you makes another rush of arousal flood against his tongue. Heat spreads through you in waves, the orgasm building each time he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, each time he groans against your folds like he's the one being taken apart. Your thighs are shaking around his head, his name spilling out of you in a broken, continuous stream that you can't stop.

“That's my girl,” he rasps into you, fingers digging into your thighs. “Feel her getting close. Gonna give me what I want.”

You come with a wail, clenching so hard around his tongue that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt. His hands remain steady around your thighs as he licks you through every shuddering wave, greedy for every last pulse of it, not pulling back until you're twitching and whimpering and completely wrecked above him.

He pulls back with one last filthy, open mouthed kiss to your cunt that makes you mewl, and then his hands shift, sliding you down his body until your legs wrap around his waist. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and insistent against where you're still throbbing, and your hips roll forward instinctively.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your throat, hands gripping your ass, holding you up effortlessly. “So pretty when you cum for me. Did so good.”

You make some soft, wrecked sound against his neck that might be his name.

Then one hand comes up to grip your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His chin is slick with you, lips swollen and pink and kissable. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, dragging it down. “Open that pretty mouth.”

Dazed and pliant, you open your mouth without thinking, too gone to do anything but comply. He leans in and lets a slow string of spit drop onto your tongue, mixed with the slick mess of you.

“Atta girl,” he rumbles, watching your face with a primal satisfaction. “You taste so fucking good, sweetheart - had to let you have some.”

You swallow and he groans his approval, crashing his mouth back to yours before you can breathe. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you dizzy, fingers twisting in his Henley. Your brain several steps behind your body as he starts moving, carrying you through the dark hallway without breaking the kiss, navigating entirely on muscle memory.

The bedroom is dark. He lays you out across his bed, stepping back to look at you. Spread across his sheets still in nothing but your heels and bra, chest heaving, thighs slick, eyes blown completely dumb. The look on his face makes your stomach flip all over again.

“Been dreaming about seeing you in this bed again,” he says, crawling over you, caging you in with those unfairly big biceps. “Not done with you yet, pretty girl. Not even close.”

Your hands find the hem of his top immediately, fisting the fabric, and he helps you drag it over his head. His dog tags fall forward as the shirt comes off, swinging between you both as he dips back down to your mouth.

Already your fingers are at his belt, clumsy and impatient, fumbling with the buckle while he kisses down your jaw and unhooks your bra before tossing it aside. His mouth finds your nipple immediately, greedy,tongue curling around it, and your hands stutter.

“Bucky—” You're swearing under your breath, hands shaking as you try and fail to get the buckle undone. “Come on, fuck, come on!”

He grazes his teeth against your nipple and your fingers slip entirely. 

“Shit, please,” you whine, utterly shameless.

Bucky just laughs against your tits, warm and low, not even slightly helpful. Finally, though, the belt gives, button pops, zip drags down, and you're shoving everything down his hips in one desperate motion as his cock springs free. Thick and hard and heavy between his legs, and your mouth goes dry. 

It’s been almost a year since you’ve seen him like this and your eyes drag down his body with a hunger you can't even pretend to hide. You reach for him immediately, needing to touch, needing to feel the weight of him in your hand, but he catches both wrists before you get there, pinning them above your head against the pillow. 

“Patience, pretty girl,” he murmurs, hips settling between your thighs, cock heavy against your folds but not where you need him. “We've got time. Not rushing this.”

You whimper, hips lifting, trying to find friction, finding nothing.

He slides his cock through your folds, dragging through how obscenely wet you are, and the feeling of it pulls a broken noise from both of you simultaneously. Slow and deliberate, he teases the swollen head through your slick, catching your clit on the way, and your whole body jerks underneath him.

“Bucky,” you mewl. Your wrists flex against his grip, not really trying to get free, just needing somewhere to put the desperation flooding through you. He drags his cock back through your heat while you clench desperately around nothing, watching your face fall apart with an expression of filthy satisfaction.

“There it is. Look at that pretty little cunt begging for it.” Another slow roll of his hips, cock dragging through the mess of you. “Gonna give it to you. Just want you to ask nice price.”

“Please,” you manage, and it comes out so small and wrecked and needy that his hips stutter. “Please, Bucky, I need—I can't—please—”

He releases your wrists and your hands fly to his shoulders instantly, nails digging in hard, needing to touch him, needing to anchor yourself to something solid while his cock nudges your entrance, barely breaching, just enough to make you clench desperately around nothing.

“Shh,” he coos, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wants you even as your hips try to roll forward chasing more. “I've got you, baby.” The head of his cock presses a little deeper, teasing, and your nails drag down his shoulders as your back arches off the bed. “Always gonna take care of you. You know that.” 

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch of him makes your whole body go rigid, nails carving lines down his shoulders that make him hiss as you take him inch by inch. Your walls flutter around him, clenching, trying to pull him deeper even as your body relearns the thickness of him, the weight, the specific fullness that you'd spent three months trying to forget and never quite managed.

“Fuck,” he grits out, hips stilling when he's buried completely, forehead dropping to yours, breathing ragged. “Always so fucking tight. Feel that? Feel how well this pretty cunt fits me?” His hips roll, just slightly, and you cry out. “Feel so perfect around my cock, pretty girl.”

You can't form words. Can only moan and dig your nails deeper into his back and breathe through it, through the overwhelming stretch and heat and the fact that it's him, it's Bucky, it's finally Bucky again after everything.

Then he starts to move.

Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside you, his cock splitting you open over and over until you can't remember what it felt like to be empty. The cold metal of his dog tags brushes your chest with every thrust. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the dual sensation pulls a needy little wail from you, toes curling in your heels

“That's it,” he breathes against your lips. “That's my girl. Take all of it.”

You drag him back down into the kiss, desperate, one hand tangling in his hair and the other still clawing down his back, needing more of him, needing every part of him pressed against every part of you. He gives it to you, kissing you filthy and deep, hips rolling into a rhythm that's making coherent thought impossible.

“Missed you,” you gasp between kisses, and once it starts coming out you can't stop it. “Missed you so much, I missed you every single day, I tried not to but I couldn't stop, I missed you, I missed you—”

“I know.” His voice breaks on it. “Missed you too, baby. I'm here. I've got you.”

“Don't stop,” you sob against his mouth. “Please don't stop.”

“Not stopping.” His thumb keeps circling your clit and his hips snap forward harder, the wet obscene sounds of him fucking into you filling the dark bedroom. “Not going anywhere ever again.”

The pleasure and the grief and the overwhelming relief of having him back crash into each other all at once and the tears come again without warning, spilling hot down your cheeks. You're coming and crying at the same time, clenching so hard around him that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

Instinctively you hide your face against his neck with a mewling, broken little sound, as the waves keep crashing through you. His hand finds your jaw immediately, fingers gentle but certain, tilting your face back to his.

When he sees you - eyes wet and glassy, tears tracking freely down your cheeks, kiss-bitten bottom lip caught between your teeth - his expression cracks wide open. His thumb drags slowly through the wetness on your cheek, just looking at you, chest heaving, cock still buried deep inside you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, hips driving deeper, mouth dragging across your wet cheeks, licking away the tears. “Don’t hide from me. Not this. So beautiful when you cry for me like this.” 

Another deep thrust punctuates his words and your sob breaks against his throat. The orgasm is almost too much, pleasure cresting so sharp and overwhelming that you're squirming beneath him, trying to get away from it and chase it at the same time. Your hips buck uselessly as his thumb keeps bullying your swollen clit , wringing every last shuddering wave out of you whether your oversensitive body can handle it or not.

“Made you cry too many times for the wrong reasons.” His mouth moves to your other cheek, kissing the wetness away gently even as his hips keep pounding into you. “Never fucking again. Only time you cry because of me now is when I've got you so full of cock you can't fucking think straight.”

Then he pulls back to look at you, pupils blown, taking in your wet lashes, your ruined expression. “That's the only reason I ever put tears on this pretty face again. On my fucking life.”

You're trying to say his name but it keeps breaking apart every time his hips drive forward, dissolving into breathless, helpless sounds against his mouth. But you can’t stop them, can’t control it, can’t do anything other than moan because he just keeps fucking you through every shuddering wave of your orgasm until you’re trembling under him. 

You whimper, oversensitive and shaking, hips trying to shy away from his thumb even as your walls keep fluttering around him.

“Can feel her gripping me,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, hips still rolling slow and deep. “Feel that? Still so greedy even when you're all fucked out.” His thumb lifts and you exhale in relief, but his cock is still thick and heavy inside you, every slight movement magnified by how sensitive you are. “Got one more in there for me, baby. I know you do.”

Turning your face into his neck, you make a sound that's half-protest, half-desperate agreement. 

“C’mon pretty girl,” His voice drops to something low and coaxing, lips brushing your ear. “You gonna give it to me?”

You nod weakly, barely managing it, pliant and soft and entirely his to do whatever he wants with. You'd agree to anything right now. Give him anything. You just want whatever he'll give you, want to stay exactly like this forever, warm and full and completely undone.

The rumble that comes out of him is deep and satisfied. “Good fucking girl.”

The words land low in your stomach even before his hands are moving, even before he pulls out with a groan that you both feel everywhere, even before the cool air hits the slick mess between your thighs. The empty whine that escapes you is involuntary and embarrassing and he hears every second of it.

His hands find your hips, turning you with that easy, devastating strength, flipping you over like you weigh nothing. Your face finds the mattress, and before you can process the change in position his palm is pressing warm between your shoulder blades, urging you down while his other hand slides under your hips, pulling them up to meet him.

You go pliant without resistance, body soft and utterly compliant beneath his hands, brain several steps behind everything. Your cheek presses into his sheets and you can smell him on the fabric, sending a fresh pulse of want through you.

He leans over you, his chest warm against your back for just a moment, and then his hand slides into your hair. Gathers it gently, sweeping it away from your face with a tenderness that's completely at odds with how thoroughly he just fucked you apart. His fingers are careful, unhurried, and you turn your face slightly into his palm like a cat.

“There you are,” he murmurs, low and warm, and you can feel the smile in it. His lips press to the nape of your neck, the top of your spine, each vertebra down between your shoulder blades.

He stays there for a moment, just looking at you. Taking in the slack, cock-drunk softness of your expression. The way your eyes have gone heavy and distant, lashes still wet, lips parted and swollen.

Then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance again and you keen into the sheets.

He pushes in slowly, achingly slowly, and the stretch of him at this angle is deeper, fuller, hitting every nerve ending at once. You're so wet and so oversensitive that every inch of him dragging inside you pulls sounds from your throat that you couldn't muffle if you tried.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hands locked around your hips, pulling you back onto him as his last inch disappears inside you. “Look at that. Taking every fucking inch. Good girl.”

He starts to move and your eyes roll back.

It's different like this. Harder, deeper, each thrust rocking you forward into the mattress, his hips snapping against your ass with a sound that fills the dark room, punctuated by his own rough exhales. One hand is splayed across your lower back to keep your hips tilted exactly where he wants them, the other gripping the curve of your hip hard enough you'll have fingerprints tomorrow.

You fist the sheets. It's all you can do. Knuckles white, face pressed into his pillow, breathing in desperate gasps because he keeps knocking the air out of your lungs with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby. Listen to how pretty you are like this.” His voice has gone rough, stripped of everything except want. His cock drags out slow and thrusts back hard, knocking another moan from you. “Hear that?”

You hear it. The wet, filthy sounds of him fucking into you, the slap of skin, the helpless little mewls you can't stop making. His dog tags swing forward with every thrust, cold metal grazing your back. Your face burns hot in the dark.

“C’mon, use your words,” he murmurs, hand smoothing up your spine. “You hear how good this pussy sounds taking me?”

“Yes,” You moan agreement, barely recognizing as your own voice. “Yes, fuck, yes”

His hand snakes around your throat, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing at all. And god, to him you don't. You’re so light in his hands that he barely has to think about it, and the ease of it sends a sharp pulse through you. You gasp as your back hits his chest, Bucky’s free arm secure around you, while his cock keeps driving up into you, the new angle hitting deeper.

He groans softly against your ear when you clenches hard around him. “Fuck. Knew you’d like that.”

You can’t respond. All that comes out is another needy little sound while your hands scramble desperately for purchase, one gripping his forearm where it rests against your throat, the other reaching back blindly for him. Bucky catches your hand immediately and presses it flat against his lower stomach, holding it there so you can feel every thrust, every flex of muscle as he fucks into you.

“That’s it, good girl. Hold on,” he murmurs approvingly, feeling you squeeze around him again. “Feel what you do to me?”

His free hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, fingers finding your clit once more. You jolt at his touch, a high broken sound tearing out of you, hips lurching forward despite yourself.

“Shh.” His lips brush your ear. “I've got you. Stay still for me.”

You try. You genuinely try. But he's fucking up into you and rubbing your swollen clit simultaneously and the combination is devastating, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make it impossible to do anything except squirm against him and make sounds you'll be embarrassed about later. Your fingers dig into his forearm, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and his breath hitches against your neck.

“Fuck, good girl,” he hisses. “Scratch me up, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

His fingers work faster and your head drops back against his shoulder, completely gone. Everything is his hands, his cock, his voice in your ear saying things that dissolve into heat before you can parse the words. You're making these desperate mewling sounds with every thrust, fingers scrabbling at his arm, his hip, any part of him you can reach, just needing to touch him, needing to feel him everywhere at once.

“Feel how wet she is,” he murmurs, fingers slipping through the absolute mess between your thighs. “Dripping down my hand. Making a mess of me.” His cock drives deeper and you sob. “So fucking perfect.”

His hand shifts from your throat to your jaw, turning your face toward his, and then he's kissing you.

It’s messy and overwhelming, his tongue sliding against yours while he keeps fucking you hard enough to make you moan helplessly into his mouth. Bucky swallows every needy little sound you make, kissing you deeper every time you squirm against him.

You can barely keep up with it. Head fuzzy, heavy with pleasure, especially with the way he’s still rubbing your clit in relentless slow circles that make your whole body shake harder every second.

“Come for me,” he breathes against your lips. “Want to feel that pretty pussy squeeze my cock again, baby. Can you do that for me?”

"Yes, Bucky, please.”

“So fucking good for me.” The hand at your jaw slides back to your throat, tilting your head back against his shoulder, baring your neck. His mouth finds your pulse point immediately. “Best thing I've ever had. Best thing I've ever touched.” His teeth graze your throat and you whimper, thighs shaking. “The only thing I ever want.”

His fingers press harder against your clit, hips rolling forward in a way that make you tremble in his grip, knees threatening to buckle, the only thing keeping you upright the arm locked around you. 

“Fuck—I love you,” he grits out against the back of your neck, and it sounds like it's been tearing at him from the inside for months. “I love you. I love you.” Each repetition punctuated by a thrust that makes you cry out. “Loved you every single day I was without you. Never stopped for a second.”

The words hit somewhere deeper than anything else. Deeper than his hands or his mouth or any of it. Something cracks open in your chest, warm and enormous, and you’re coming again. Harder than before, your whole body seizing as you clench around him so completely that your knees do give out entirely. Just ragdoll weight caught entirely in his arms.

“Bucky,” you cry name in a needy a sob. “I love you too—fuck—I love you so much.”

The confession tears out of you and follows you over with a groan that shakes through his whole body. He buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing in deep, spilling inside you with your name on his lips.

You’re both breathing in ragged pulls, and if it weren’t for his arms still locked around you, you’d have collapsed onto the bed. His chest heaves against your back, lips pressed somewhere near your temple, and neither of you speaks for a moment.

Eventually, carefully, he lowers you both down to the mattress, turning you over and pulling you against his chest. You lay boneless against him as his hand strokes slowly up your side, over and over, like he can't stop touching you now that he's allowed to again.

“I've got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I've got you. You're okay. I've got you.”

And for the first time in almost a year, you actually believe it.

You stay like that for a while, neither of you moving, his hand still stroking slowly up your side. The room has gone quiet and warm around you, just his heartbeat under your ear and the city humming distantly outside.

But eventually he shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Stay there.”

A weak sound of protest escapes you when he moves but he's already up, disappearing into the en-suite. You hear water running. When he comes back he sits beside you on the bed, warm cloth in hand.

“I can—” you start.

“I know you can,” he agrees simply, but he does it anyway, cleaning you up with gentle, unhurried hands. Then his free hand strokes down your leg, gently tugging one heel off, then the other, puts them both on the floor.

When he's done he disappears briefly, and then the mattress dips and he's pulling you into him, tucking you against his chest. The duvet settles warm around you both, and his hand starts moving slowly through your hair in soothing strokes.

“Sleep,” he murmurs against your temple, lips barely moving. “I've got you.”

You don't have much choice. Your body is already pulling you under, warm and safe and held in a way you'd spent months trying to convince yourself you didn't miss. His heartbeat is slow and steady under your ear, his chest rising and falling with a deep, even calm that pulls you further under with every breath.

His hand keeps moving through your hair, and the city outside feels very far away, and sleep takes you before you even feel it coming.

── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹

The blaring of you alarm pulls you up from the deepest sleep you've had in months, and for one blissful, unthinking moment you're just warm. Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly beneath your cheek. Reality hovers at the edges of your consciousness, waiting to be let in, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it, burrowing deeper into the duvet like that might keep it at bay.

Alpine is curled heavy and purring against the backs of your knees, warm and certain, like she's been there all night. Like you belong here. The thought sits in your chest, complicated and tender.

But your phone doesn’t stop shrilling from the nightstand. 

You reach over and fumble for it, managing to silence before Bucky stirs. His arm tightens around you, pulling you back into him with a sleepy, wordless sound of protest, lips pressing somewhere near your hair. But then he goes still. 

“…Was that your alarm for your flight?” His voice is rough with sleep, and underneath the grogginess you can here the carefulness.

“Yes,” you reply quietly, but make no effort to move.

The city hums distantly outside the window. Somewhere below, DC is already going about its morning. Up here, in the warm dark of his bedroom, time feels suspended, neither of you quite willing to be the one to break it.

You turn over. His eyes scan your face with an intensity that's so nakedly desperate it makes your chest ache. Like he's trying to memorize your face in case this is the last time he's allowed to be this close. Like he hasn't yet let himself believe last night was real.

“Stay.” The word comes out before he can stop it, blurted and slightly wrecked. His jaw tightens immediately afterwards, like he's bracing for it to land wrong. “Could you stay? I want you to stay. Just—a little longer, or—I know we haven't talked about anything properly yet, I just—" He exhales, slightly pained. "Please stay."

You look at him for a moment. Let him sit with it a moment longer than necessary, watching the soft, desperate hope on his face exist exist without rushing to meet it, because you find you want to keep looking at him like this for just another few seconds. This new version of him that doesn't hide behind composure when something matters. 

It's devastating and wonderful in equal measure, and you want to hold onto the sight of it for a second before you say anything.

“I suppose,” you begin slowly, watching his expression flicker, “I could probably stay a little longer. Get to know this version of you that coaches Avengers and has a cat and apparently owns cookbooks he's actually used.”

The exhale that comes out of him is enormous. Pure relief, pure joy, and the smile that follows it - wide and unguarded and slightly incredulous - is the most beautiful thing you've seen in a very long time. He pulls you in and presses his lips to your forehead, warm and certain.

You let him. Then you pull back gently, hand finding his jaw, tilting his face down to yours.

“But slowly,” you add, and mean it. “We do this slowly. No grand gestures, no orchestrating, no deciding things on my behalf. We actually talk. We work through all of it - the things we broke and the reasons we broke them. We make real effort this time, not just falling back into old patterns because it's easy and it feels good short term.”

He nods. Immediately, earnestly, like every word is being carefully filed away. “Slowly,” he repeats. “Yeah. I can do slowly.”

You raise a brow.

He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “I can learn slowly.”

You're both quiet for a moment, considering this. You are not, historically, two people who do anything slowly. Your entire relationship has been characterized by intensity and momentum and grand gestures and catastrophic miscommunications. The idea of slow is almost comically foreign to you both.

“I'll come to London more,” he offers after a moment. “My schedule is flexible. I can make it work—I want to make it work. And I know the distance is real, and I know it won't always be easy, but I'd rather figure it out than spend another year without you.”

“And I'll come here too,” you add quietly. “I should've done that more. Made the effort in both directions instead of letting the Atlantic become an excuse.”

“Okay,” he says. “We start there.”

“We start there,” you agree.

And maybe it’s foolish. Maybe you'll look back on this morning and recognise it as just another impulsive decision in a marriage that's always run on chemistry and stubbornness and the particular madness of two people who can't seem to leave each other alone. Maybe the distance will be hard and the conversations will be harder and somewhere down the line you'll hit another wall neither of you knows how to climb.

But when he looks at you like that - open and unhidden in a way he spent years not knowing how to be - it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels like something you've been working toward through every wrong turn and bad decision and midnight argument. Like the mess of the last year was just the long way round to something you were always going to find your way back to.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and you let him turn you back over, let him pull you into his chest where you fit so perfectly.

The relief of not having a flight to catch settles over you like the duvet itself.

His lips find the curve of your neck, lazy and warm, just the occasional soft press of his mouth against your skin. Just enjoying the fact that he can. That you're here and not leaving and there's nowhere either of you need to be.

Your eyes drift closed, hovering in that soft place between sleep and waking again. Alpine purrs against your feet. You feel more at peace than you have in longer than you can remember. And then, through your sleepy haze, you gradually become aware of his hand.

It's moved without him seeming to notice, fingers drifting down your arm, over your wrist, settling at your left hand. His thumb brushes absently over your ring finger, back and forth, over the bare skin where your ring used to sit. Slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

Your right hand moves to cover his, and he still immediately. A slight tension moving through his chest, like he's been caught at something, like he's about to pull back.

“Ask me again someday,” you murmur into the pillow, half-conscious. “When we're ready.”

The tension bleeds out of him all at once, his whole body exhaling like he's been holding that breath for months. His arms tighten around you and his mouth presses to the back of your neck again.

“I will,” he affirms quietly, against your skin. “I promise you, one day, I will.”

His thumb resumes its slow path over your ring finger, gentle and deliberate now. A quiet promise being made in the dark.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, lips barely moving. “Missed saying that. Missed you hearing it. I love you so much.”

You sink deeper into his arms, into the warmth of him, into the love in his voice, into the particular peace of being somewhere you belong after a very long time of being without it.

You fall back asleep before you can answer. But that's okay, you have time now.

more mads: that's all folks! I really, really hope you enjoyed, like seriously. this fic has both been the bane of my existence and a precious little baby because i do really love these idiots. i hope i gave them a satisfactory ending and that it was worth the wait, and i would absolutely love to know your thoughts via any comments or reblogs! thank you so much for reading :)

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll @gilwm @venigrantrogers @mrsevans90 @rainyapricotcreatorparty @midnightramyeoncravings @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @krisstyu @itsalltaken - if you would like to join my taglist, please send me an inbox or leave a comment here!

[andyss-world]

OOOMY IIK LOLLOOOOOOOVVVEEE THIIIISSSSSSSS❤️❤️😝

[brunchable]

𝙈𝙮 𝘿𝙧𝙪𝙜 𝙄𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮. [ MASTERLIST ]

You were supposed to be the thing that kept Dex in line, not the reason he keeps coming back worse; but every time you tell him to leave, he shows up bloodier, hungrier, like he’s trying to prove love is just how much damage he’s willing to do for you.

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Super Soldier!FMC

 ݈݇— [18+] themes: Morally gray FMC, Violence, Toxic Dynamics, Codependency, Mutual obsession, Jealousy, Murder (AVTF agents), Mentions of Blood, Dark Romance, Dark domesticity, “I can fix him” mentality, Manipulation on both sides, FMC matching Dex’s insanity instead of fixing it, Mutual enabling, Smut(not every chapter though). Post-Prison Dex. Inspired by "Don't Blame Me", "I Did Something Bad" by Taylor Swift and "Gethesemane" by Sleep Token.😭

Author’s Note: These characters are gonna be deeply flawed and their relationship is intentionally unhealthy. Nothing here is meant to reflect a healthy or ideal dynamic (please read with that in mind.) If you’re looking for healthy dynamics with Bullseye, this is not that story.

× × × ×

Prologue 🍴Part I 🍴 Part 2 🍴 Part 3 🍴

[ghstyles]

Fundraising | Windows Facing

Windows Facing Masterlist | Main Masterlist | WC: 2K

Y/N is fundraising for her club and tries to rope Harry into donating. He has other plans of course a/n: For all my windows facing lovers. Ive seen your asks requesting them and I shall provide 🙂‍↕️

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Spring fundraising week. Various student organizations have set up colorful tables, competing for attention and donations from passing students and faculty. The Psychology Honor Society's booth stands out with its professionally designed banner and interactive brain games to attract donors. Y/N adjusts her chair under the warm afternoon sun, fanning herself with a pamphlet. It's the fourth day of tabling, and while they've raised a decent amount for their mental health awareness initiative, they're still short of their goal.

"Three more hours of this," she sighs to Sophie, her fellow psychology major and vice president "My face hurts from smiling at strangers."

Sophie laughs, reorganizing their donation box. "At least we've had some decent contributions. Professor Jenkins gave us fifty dollars yesterday."

"We need more than decent if we want to fund the symposium," Y/N replies, scanning the quad. Her eyes land on a familiar figure in the distance, Harry Styles, surrounded by his usual entourage of frat brothers and admirers, lounging on the grass with careless grace.

"Speaking of potential donors," Y/N says, nodding in Harry's direction, "Styles is going to be a piece of cake."

Sophie follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. "The guy who's been driving you crazy all semester? That's your sure thing?"

"He's loaded," Y/N explains confidently. “He wears designer everything. Not to mention that ridiculous vintage car he drives and plus I heard his family owns like half of London or something."

"And you think he'll donate because...?"

Y/N smirks. "Because he can't resist an opportunity to interact with me. Watch and learn."

As if on cue, Harry glances over, catching Y/N's eye. A slow smile spreads across his face as he says something to his friends before sauntering toward their table.

"Incoming," Sophie murmurs.

Harry approaches, hands in his pockets, looking unfairly good in simple black jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt. "Well, well," he drawls, leaning against their table. "If it isn't my favorite psychology students saving the world one bake sale at a time."

"It's a mental health awareness fundraiser," Y/N corrects him, "not a bake sale."

Harry glances at the table. "No cookies? Bit of a missed opportunity, that."

"We're raising money for a student-led mental health symposium," Y/N explains, slipping into her pitch voice. "The Psychology Honor Society is bringing in speakers to discuss campus mental health resources and—"

"Sounds brilliant," Harry interrupts, picking up one of their pamphlets and examining it with exaggerated interest. "Very...psychological."

Sophie snorts, earning a glare from Y/N. "We're accepting donations," Y/N says pointedly, gesturing to their collection box. "Every little bit helps."

Harry's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Are you implying I'd only give a little bit? Wounding, psychology girl."

"I'm implying that you should put your money where your mouth is," she challenges.

Harry leans closer, his voice dropping. "I'd rather put my mouth somewhere else entirely."

Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks. "Are you donating or not?"

"Not today," he decides, straightening up. "Still considering the return on investment." Before Y/N can respond, he winks and strolls away, leaving her fuming.

"That went well," Sophie comments dryly.

"He'll be back," Y/N insists. "He's just being difficult."

True to her prediction, Harry returns the next day, this time with coffee. One for himself and one that he places in front of Y/N. "Fuel for your charitable endeavors," he explains, settling on the edge of their table despite Y/N's protests about weight limits and university property.

"Thanks," she says, accepting the coffee with suspicion. "Now about that donation..."

"Patience," Harry chides. "I'm still weighing my options. Tell me more about this symposium thing."

For the next twenty minutes, Harry asks increasingly detailed questions about their initiative, seeming genuinely interested. Just as Y/N thinks she's finally convinced him, he spots his bandmate Niall across the quad.

"Gotta run," he announces, hopping off the table. "Band practice. Very important for my personal mental health."

"But—" Y/N sputters.

"Tomorrow!" he calls over his shoulder, jogging backward. "I promise to make a decision tomorrow!"

The third day, Harry brings donuts for the entire table staff and spends half an hour helping them attract passersby, his charm and minor campus celebrity status drawing more traffic than they've had all week.

"You're surprisingly good at this," Y/N admits grudgingly as another group of giggling freshmen drop bills in their donation box after taking selfies with Harry.

"I'm good at lots of things," he replies with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

"Are you going to donate yourself, or just use your powers of persuasion on others?" she asks.

Harry taps his chin thoughtfully. "Still deciding what my contribution should be. It's an important decision, can't be rushed."

Before Y/N can press further, he's distracted by a text message.

"Duty calls," he says apologetically, already backing away. "Frat emergency. Something about a flooded bathroom. Tomorrow's the last day, yeah? I'll sort it then, promise."

Y/N watches him leave, equal parts frustrated and intrigued by his continued evasion.

"He's playing you," Sophie observes that evening as they count the day's donations in Y/N's apartment.

"I know," Y/N sighs. "But we've raised more in the last few days with him hanging around than we did all last week. I just wish he'd stop being so..."

"Charming? Irritating? Distractingly attractive?" Sophie suggests helpfully.

"All of the above," Y/N admits.

On the final day of fundraising, Y/N arrives early, determined to corner Harry and secure his donation before he can slip away again. The morning passes with no sign of him, and by afternoon, she's beginning to think he won't show.

"Maybe he forgot," Sophie suggests, though her tone suggests she doesn't believe it.

"Or he was never planning to donate in the first place," Y/N replies, disappointment coloring her voice despite her efforts to sound indifferent.

Just as they're beginning to pack up, a familiar figure appears, strolling casually toward their table as if he hasn't kept them waiting all day.

"Cutting it a bit close, aren't you?" Y/N remarks as Harry approaches.

"Saved the best for last," he replies with an easy smile. "Final tally looking good?"

"We're still short of our goal," Y/N admits. "But we did better than expected."

Harry nods, looking thoughtful. "I've been giving your cause some serious consideration."

"And?" Y/N prompts, trying not to sound too eager.

"And I've decided I will make a donation," he announces grandly.

Y/N exhales in relief. "Finally. You’ve been hovering around our table all week without donating a single dollar. I was beginning to think you're just cheap."

"Ouch," Harry places a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Maybe I'm just waiting for the right incentive."

She rolls her eye, " How much were you thinking?"

Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on their table. "That depends."

"On what?" Y/N asks warily.

"On whether you're willing to give something in return," he says, his expression surprisingly serious despite the playful undertone in his voice.

Sophie suddenly becomes very interested in reorganizing their pamphlets, though Y/N knows she's listening to every word.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Y/N asks, narrowing her eyes.

"A kiss," Harry states simply.

Y/N blinks, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Just on the cheek," he clarifies, tapping his dimpled cheek with one finger. "One tiny kiss, and I'll make a donation that'll put you well over your goal."

Y/N stares at him, trying to determine if he's serious. "You want me to kiss you...for charity."

"Think of it as incentivizing philanthropy," Harry suggests with a grin.

"That's ridiculous," Y/N protests, though her heartbeat has picked up pace.

"Is it?" Harry challenges. "One small gesture from you, and all those students get their mental health symposium. Seems like a bargain, really."

Y/N glances at Sophie, who shrugs as if to say 'your call, but we do need the money.'

"Fine," Y/N decides, standing up. "One kiss on the cheek. And it better be a substantial donation."

Harry's eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn't expected her to agree. "You have my word."

Y/N moves around the table, acutely aware of Sophie watching and several passersby slowing to observe the scene. Standing before Harry, she's struck by their height difference. Even in her low heels, she has to tilt her head up to reach his cheek.

"Well?" she prompts when he just stands there grinning down at her.

"Just making sure I remember every detail," he murmurs.

Rolling her eyes, Y/N places one hand lightly on his shoulder for balance and rises on her tiptoes. She catches a whiff of his cologne as she presses her lips briefly to his cheek, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against her mouth.

She pulls back quickly, ignoring the warmth spreading through her chest. "There. Donation time."

Harry touches his cheek where her lips had been, looking oddly affected for someone who's been so cavalier about the whole thing.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat. "About that donation."

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, tapping the screen a few times before turning it to show Y/N.

"What's this?" she asks, squinting at the screen.

"Confirmation email," Harry explains. "From your department's online donation portal."

Y/N takes the phone, her eyes widening as she reads the details of a $2,500 donation made on Monday in the name of Harry Styles. Sophie peaks over Y/N’s shoulder, eyes widen comically.* "Holy—! Are you serious? And all you had to do was kiss his cheek? Girl, for this amount, I would have kissed his—"

“Sophie!” Y/N cuts her off, cheeks turning a shade of pinks. She turns back to Harry.  "You...you already donated?" she stammers, looking up at him in confusion. "On day one?"

Harry shrugs, looking almost sheepish. "Anything to support my psychology girl's passion project."

The possessive pronoun doesn't escape Y/N’s notice, and to her surprise, she doesn't immediately object to it. "But then why—" Y/N gestures between them, realization dawning. "You made me kiss you when you'd already donated?"

"Technically, you didn't have to," Harry points out. "I just suggested an exchange. Never said I hadn't already contributed."

Sophie bursts out laughing from behind the table. "Oh my god, he played you so hard."

Y/N should be angry, wants to be angry, but finds herself fighting a smile instead. "You are absolutely—"

"Generous? Deserving of another kiss for my philanthropy?" Harry suggests hopefully.

"Infuriating," Y/N corrects him, though there's no heat in her voice. "You could have just told me you donated."

Harry's expression softens. "And miss seeing you all week? Not a chance."

"So all the questions, the coffee, the donuts..."

"Were because I wanted to spend time with you," he admits simply. "The donation was just because I think what you're doing is important."

Y/N felt a change in the air between them. The playful sparring and jokes dissolving into a moment that felt far more sincere.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "Seriously, Harry. This means a lot."

"You're welcome," he replies, his usual cockiness momentarily absent. "You know, the symposium planning committee probably needs volunteers..."

Y/N laughs. "Are you offering your services now?"

"I'm offering my company," Harry corrects, his smile returning. "Unless you'd rather plan it all without my valuable input."

"I suppose we could use an outside perspective," Y/N concedes, trying to sound reluctant despite the warmth spreading through her chest.

"Brilliant. It's a date then," Harry declares before she can correct his terminology.

"It's a committee meeting," Y/N clarifies firmly.

"A committee meeting date," Harry compromises, his dimples deepening.

As they finish packing up the table, Harry helping without being asked, Y/N finds herself watching the way he jokes easily with Sophie and the genuine interest he shows in their project plans.

Maybe, she thinks, there's more to Harry Styles than she's been willing to admit.

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Taglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @aileen1237 @drewrry @pari-1 @sstylezzz @spinnic @fruity-harry @silastylesswift @readingrockstar23 @cowboylikelivie @angelbunny222 @berrycherry28

[andyss-world]

UGHH YES YESSS YESS

[satellite-evans]

love is my kryptonite

Summary:

You grew up without love, and learned to believe it was never meant for you. You made yourself smaller, easier, someone who could be needed but never chosen.

Clark Kent becomes something steady in your life. Familiar. Safe in a way you have never known. It is easy to exist beside him, easy not to question it.

Until something begins to shift. Quiet, unfamiliar, and impossible to ignore.

A/N:

hey everyone!!!

i’m SO excited to finally start this series 🥹 i’ve been wanting to share it for a while now, and it honestly means so much to me.

this is probably the most emotional thing i’ve ever written, not because it’s the saddest, but because it’s the one I relate to the most. it feels really personal in a way I didn’t fully expect, and I think a lot of that ended up on the page.

I’ m a little nervous sharing it, but mostly just really happy I finally get to 🫶

I hope you love it as much as i do!!!

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Chapters

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

to be continued....

Blurbs

nothing here yet!

taglist is open!

[juniebjonesin]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ʜᴜɴᴛꜱᴍᴀɴ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › you were never meant to survive. hidden for years in a quiet village at the edge of the northern woods, you grow up believing you are ordinary—until the queen who destroyed your kingdom learns the truth. your scent carries old magic. your blood can command loyalty. and there is a prophecy that says you will be the end of her reign.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › alpha!hunter!bucky x omega!princess!reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI, alternate universe - werewolf au, a/b/o dynamics, loosely inspired by 2012 film snow white and the huntsman, depictions of blood & violence, mentions of war/war trauma, lowk kidnapping at first, mind control, sorcery & blood magic, semi enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, forced proximity, beefy bucky, bucky is only referred to as james, true loves kiss, flirting & light banter, fated mates, eventual fluff, nesting, marking/biting, smut, p in v, virginity loss (not really mentioned tho), unprotected sex, pheromones/scent kink?, breeding, talk of pregnancy, happily ever after, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 22.4k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › junie of house jonesin actually posting a fic??? is this a prank cut the cameras... on some real shit this fic took a lot out of my but im glad i finished it, i think this is my new baby... ALSO i had to wiggle worm my way around the 1000 block limit so if some paragraphs seem super long thats why im sorry i hate it but im not breaking this up into two parts LOL id rather die. as always thank you for reading and bearing with me through all my bs <3

Once upon a time,

Beneath the boughs where shadows creep, The lost-born heir in silence she sleeps. An omega child with ancient breath, Will rise again from hidden death.

Her scent will stir both fang and flame, And every pack will know her name. The wolves will bow, the ravens sing, For blood remembers its true king.

The crown once stolen, stained in red, Will crack beneath the sorceress queen’s dark tread. Her gilded halls will turn to dust, Her throne undone by greed and lust.

For when the moon burns silver bright, The hidden rose will claim her right. Old kingdoms broken, torn apart, Will mend beneath her beating heart.

You'll always remember how much your mother loved the gardens most in winter.

She said it was the only season that told the truth, that spring was too eager, summer too full of itself. Autumn too beautiful in the way beautiful things often are right before they die. But winter was honest, winter stripped everything bare.

Winter in the northern kingdom settled so heavily that even the castle seemed quieter beneath it. Snow covered the gardens in soft white drifts as frost climbed the windows in delicate patterns. The world beyond the walls looked pale and sleeping, wrapped in cold and stillness.

She stood in the snow with a fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders and her gloved hands tucked beneath her sleeves, walking slowly through the sleeping garden while servants followed several steps behind.

Your father watched her from the stone archway always with that look in his eyes, their color bright despite the clouded dim sky, like the world had become something softer the moment she stepped into it. At the center of the garden, tangled among frost-bitten vines, a single rose had bloomed.

Bright red against the snow.

Your mother stopped. The petals looked impossibly alive beneath the gray winter sky, soft and crimson and stubborn. She reached for it without thinking an the thorn pricked her finger. A sharp little breath left her as she pulled her hand back leaving three drops of blood to fall onto the snow.

You would always be told that was the moment everything began.

By the next winter, you were born. You grew up in warmth, but not because the kingdom was gentle, it wasn't. Winters were harsh in the north and the people were proud and loud and quick to fight. But you were loved.

You knew that even before you knew the words for it.

You knew it in the way your mother tucked blankets around you herself instead of leaving it to servants. In the way your father carried you through the halls when you were too sleepy to walk. In the way the castle dogs followed you everywhere, tails wagging wildly whenever you laughed.

You knew it in the gardens.

You spent most of your early childhood there.

Among roses and ivy and lavender bushes, with dirt beneath your nails and flower petals tangled in your hair. The gardeners adored you because nothing ever died around you. Flowers bloomed brighter where you stepped, wilted things straightened when you touched them.

The older servants would exchange glances when they thought no one was looking.

Magic, they whispered. The prophecy fufilled in flesh.

Your mother only smiled when she heard them.

"You were born from winter and roses," she would tell you while brushing your hair before bed. "Of course the world listens when you speak to it."

You grew up with nine springs of love. Nine summers of warm woven winds that howled against your windows, nine autumns of falling leaves that crunched under your boots. The morning of the winter solstice, your birthday, was the last day of peace.

By the time the sun had crested over the horizon, the sky turned black.

You remember standing at the nursery window in your nightgown, one hand still clutching the red ribbon your mother had tied into your braid the night before, watching smoke rise in the distance beyond the mountains. At first, no one understood what they were seeing, then the bells began. Servants rushed through the halls. Guards flooded the courtyards below in steel and furs. Somewhere deep in the castle, someone shouted for the king.

Your mother swept into your room moments later, pale-faced and breathless. She pulled a heavy cloak around your shoulders with shaking hands.

"What's happening?" you asked.

She cupped your face.

"I need you to be very brave for me."

You still remembered the way her fingers trembled as she took you down to the tunnels for safety, and the sound of the army reaching the outer gates. Glass soldiers, they said. Black and gleaming and terrible, moving like shadows over the snow. They poured through the lower villages first, leaving smoke and blood behind them. By the time they reached the castle, the world outside the walls was burning.

Your father rode out to meet them. You remember the roar of the gates opening, the thunder of horses, the smell of smoke drifting through the windows. Hours later, he returned.

Victorious, they said.

But not alone. There was a woman with him. Beautiful in the sort of way storms were beautiful, dangerous and eerie. Dark hair spilling down her back, pale skin untouched by cold, a white gown that looked too clean amidst all the blood and ash. She stood beside your father like she had always belonged there and your father looked at her as if the entire world had narrowed to only her.

Your mother knew immediately, could see something that most could not, could feel the sorcery that lingered around her in the air. You remember the look on her face when she saw the woman step into the ashen dimmed light. The woman called herself a queen from the southern kingdoms. Claimed her lands had been destroyed by the same army that had attacked yours. Claimed she had nowhere left to go.

Your father believed her and by dusk she was sitting beside him at dinner.

By nightfall, he had agreed to help her retaliate against the army that had crushed her kingdom. There was something glassy in his eyes, something smooth and too sinister to name. Your mother tried to stop it, tried to snap him out of the dark green glow that glossed over his eyes.

Everything moved too fast after that.

You remember waking to shouting somewhere beyond your chambers, doors slamming, footsteps running down stone halls. Then silence, heavy and wrong, lingering in the halls. Your nurse came for you past midnight. She wrapped you in blankets and carried you through dark servant passages beneath the castle, one hand pressed over your mouth to keep you quiet.

"Where's my mother?" you kept asking.

She never answered, only held you tighter as you ran. The castle sounded different when the moon lit the night sky, stars shining down. You could hear screaming above you, the crash of glass, the sharp clang of steel against steel. Somewhere, a man was begging for mercy.

Then you reached the hidden passage behind the kitchens and saw blood smeared across the stone floor. Your nurse stopped so suddenly you nearly fell from her arms. There your mother lay, glass shatters of a sword scattered around her. Your mind, as young as it was could still fill in the blanks for you. She ran. She fought. She died. You remember the pale blue of her dress first, then the blood, so much blood. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair spread around her like spilled ink. One of her hands still stretched toward the doorway you stood in, as though she had been trying to reach you.

Your nurse pulled you against her chest before you could see more, but it was too late. You saw enough.

You do not remember much after that, only pieces. Running through smoke-filled hallways, the castle burning, a loyal guard shoving a sword into your nurse's hands. The sound of the new sorceress queen's voice echoed through the halls, calm and cold and terrible.

"Find the girl!"

You made it as far as the stables to people waiting for you there. Men and women loyal to your mother, already bloodied from fighting. One of them lifted you onto a horse while another tied a cloak around your shoulders. Your nurse climbed up behind you. She was crying. You had never seen her cry before, it pricked hot tears at your waterline. As the horse started forward, she pressed her lips to your temple.

"You must listen to me," she whispered. "You cannot go back. Do you understand? You cannot ever let her find you."

You were crying too hard to answer. Soon the forest blurred in front of you as the horse raced through the snow. Behind you, the castle disappeared beneath smoke.

"Your mother knew," your nurse said, voice shaking. "She knew what you were. What you would become. She thought you would have more time."

You turned around toward her.

"What am I?"

She looked at you with tears streaming down her face.

"There is a prophecy," she whispered. "About the daughter born from winter and roses. About the omega princess who will rise again and—"

An arrow cut through the air with a silent hiss, cutting through the tip of your ear and buried itself in her throat. You screamed, your throat catching on a sound you'd never heard yourself make before, a sound that felt farm from human. Pain bloomed at your ear as hot blood began to trickle down, though you couldn't feel it. You couldn't feel anything. Her body jerked backward, blood spilling down the front of her dress and the horse reared you both off.

You hit the ground hard and for a moment, the world became nothing but snow and pain and the taste of blood in your mouth. When your head cleared you looked up to see a figure stood at the edge of the trees, tall and dressed all in black and still as the wind. A boy, not much older than a teenager with dark hair and a bow still raised in his hands. There was blood splattered across his cheek. And around his neck, something black glinted beneath the collar of his coat. He stared at you for one long moment, then someone shouted his name from deeper in the trees. He looked away. Only for a second.

But when he looked back, you were already running.

You ran until your legs gave out. Then you walked. Then you hid. And after a while, you learned how to disappear.

At first, it was easy enough. You were small. Young. Easy to overlook in the chaos left behind by the evil queen's rise to power. Villages burned every week, families were scattered, children lost their parents and never found them again. You just became one more frightened face among hundreds.

You stopped telling people your real name. Stopped saying where you came from. When people asked, you lied, you said your parents had died in a fever, said you had come from some village too far south for anyone to question. You said you were looking for work, for family, for anything.

Sometimes people believed you. Sometimes they didn't. But no one looked too closely at a ragged little girl with dirty hands and hollow cheeks. You learned quickly which villages were safe, which roads to avoid. Which people might offer you soup and which might sell you for coin if you looked at them too long. You learned how to sleep in haylofts and abandoned sheds. How to wrap your feet in cloth when your shoes wore through. How to steal apples without being caught and how to keep walking even when your stomach hurt so badly it felt like something inside you was eating itself.

The years blurred together after that. Summer heat. Winter cold. Autumn breeze. Faces you forgot almost as soon as you left them behind. You grew taller, hair darkened, eyes wider and alert. Your scent changed with age, becoming softer and deeper all at once. Richer in a way you did not understand but knew enough to hide.

People noticed you more as you got older. Alphas especially. You learned to keep your head down, to avoid looking anyone in the eye for too long, to never stay anywhere longer than a few weeks. But loneliness has a way of making people reckless.

You were fifteen the first time you reached the village at the edge of the northern woods. It was small and quiet. Tucked so deeply between the trees and mountains that it almost felt hidden from the rest of the world. You told yourself you would only stay for the night. Maybe two. Long enough to rest your feet and warm your hands and steal enough food to survive the next stretch of road.

You had not eaten in almost two days when you saw the bread. Fresh from the oven, still steaming in a basket outside the bakery window. You remember standing there in the cold, staring at it, at the golden crust, at the curls of steam rising into the winter air. Your stomach hurt so badly you thought you might cry.

You looked around once, no one was there, so you reached for it. Your fingers had barely closed around the bread roll before a voice snapped behind you.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?"

You jumped so badly you nearly dropped it. An older woman stood in the bakery doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was broad-shouldered and flour-dusted, with silver threaded through dark hair and the kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by everything around her.

You immediately shoved the bread back into the basket.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she repeated sharply. "You steal from me and your answer is sorry?"

Your face burned.

"I'm sorry," you said again, more quickly this time. "I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean to, but I wouldn't have if I had money and—"

"That is usually how stealing works."

You swallowed hard, your hands twisted together in front of you. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you dropped to your knees in the snow and bowed your head all the way to the ground. The movement was pure instinct, something buried so deep inside you that it happened before you could stop it. Your scent betrays you. It had been soft before, something steady and almost forgettable in its gentleness. But now it twists, curling into the air around you shifting into something like burnt sugar, bitter at the edges, like something left too long on the flame. Cinnamon, once warm, now biting—spiced too sharply, clinging instead of comforting.

It thickens with your fear, wraps around you, gives you away.

"I'm sorry." Your voice was muffled by the ground but it was shaking still. It was met with silence, only the brief wind through the bare trees could be heard. Slowly, you lifted your head. The woman's expression had changed, only slightly, but enough. Because now she was not looking at you like a thief. She was looking at you like she had just found something she was not supposed to.

You scrambled back to your feet immediately.

"I can go," you said too quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"How old are you?"

You blinked.

"What?"

"How old are you?" she repeated.

You hesitated.

"Fifteen."

She studied you for another long moment. Your torn cloak. Your worn shoes. The way you were trying not to shake in the cold. Then she sighed heavily through her nose.

"Get inside."

You froze.

"What?"

"You stole from me," she said, already turning back toward the bakery. "Which means you owe me. You're going to work it off."

You stared at her.

"You mean... work here?"

"If you want somewhere warm to sleep tonight."

You followed her inside before she could change her mind.

The bakery was small. Warm in the way only bakeries could be. Everything smelled like flour and cinnamon and rising dough. There was a fire crackling in the back room and blankets folded neatly in one corner beside an old rocking chair. You nearly cried from relief the moment the heat touched your skin.

The woman shoved an apron into your hands.

"You can start by cleaning."

You worked until your hands ached. Sweeping floors, washing trays, carrying sacks of flour twice your size from the storage room. By the end of the night, your hair was dusted white and your arms trembled from exhaustion. The woman handed you a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. You ate it so quickly you barely remembered to breathe. She watched you the entire time, not suspiciously just with a careful eye, like she was looking for something that was already there and had hidden itself beneath the surface.

Later, after the bakery had closed and you had nearly fallen asleep sitting upright in your chair, she brought you a blanket.

"You can sleep by the fire."

You looked up at her.

"Thank you."

She grunted and you stayed the night. Then another. Then another after that.

You learned how to knead dough and braid loaves and wake before sunrise to light the ovens. The woman—Helena, she eventually told you to call her—scolded you constantly and fed you even more constantly. The bakery became something steady, something safe. And for the first time in years, you stopped running. Helena knew who you were almost immediately, not because of your face. Faces changed, time changed people. But scents did not lie. You smelled like old magic and winter roses and royal blood.

She never said it out loud.

Not for a long time.

But sometimes you would catch her watching you when she thought you were not looking. Especially when flowers bloomed too early in the garden out back. Or when birds gathered along the bakery roof in impossible numbers. Or when the old pack markings near the woods warmed beneath your hands.

She knew.

And because she knew, she kept you hidden for as long as she could, but nothing good lasts forever.

The village sat at the edge of the northern woods like it had been forgotten there.

Small and crooked and quiet, with smoke curling from chimneys in soft gray ribbons and fences half-swallowed by ivy, it tucked itself beneath the mountains as though trying not to be noticed. In winter, snow gathered thick on the rooftops and the whole place looked like something painted onto old parchment. In spring, wildflowers pushed through the frost in stubborn little bursts of color, and the river thawed enough to carry birdsong through the trees.

You stayed there almost ten years. Long enough for the bakery to become home. Long enough to stop jumping every time someone knocked at the door. Long enough for the ache in your chest to soften into something you could live around.

Helena never asked too many questions after that first winter. Not about where you had come from. Not about the nightmares that woke you crying or the strange way you looked over your shoulder whenever horses rode through town.

She simply made room for you.

At first, you slept by the fire with old quilts tucked around your shoulders and flour still dusting your hands from the day's work. Later, when you were older and taller and no longer looked half-starved all the time, Helena cleared out the little storage room above the bakery and let you make it your own.

It was small. A narrow bed beneath the window, a wooden dresser with one crooked leg, shelves lined with dried flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. It was the first room that had ever really belonged to you. Still, there were things you could never fully forget. A heavy fur cloak wrapped around you while someone ran through the snow, the sound of horses, the glint of torchlight between the trees. A woman's voice telling you over and over not to cry. You remembered cold fingers around yours and a lullaby you had never heard sung anywhere in the village, soft and low and old enough to sound like it belonged to another world entirely.

Sometimes, in dreams, you could feel it. An arrow flying through the air, the wind being knocked from your lungs as you hit the ground, a pair of pale eyes watching you from a distance. Helena never liked when you spoke of those memories. She would go quiet after, her mouth pulled thin as thread while she kneaded bread too hard or mended shirts by the fire with shaking hands.

"You were sick as a child," she always said. "Dreams feel real when you're sick."

So eventually, you stopped asking and Helena filled your mind with other things instead.

Small things. Somewhat strange things.

She taught you which herbs to hang above your bed when your heats started getting stronger as you got older. Which roots to boil into tea when your scent felt too rich, too noticeable. She taught you how to braid rosemary and cedar into your hair before going into crowded markets so strangers would smell the herbs before they smelled you.

"Never let people know too much about you," she would say while crushing dried leaves between her fingers. "People fear what they don't understand."

She taught you how to listen to the earth. How the woods grew quieter before a storm. How the birds disappeared when strangers entered the forest. How the roots beneath your feet seemed to pull you away from danger before your mind even understood it was there.

"The land will warn you if you pay attention," Helena told you once while the two of you gathered herbs at the edge of the woods. "The earth remembers things people don't."

You thought she was only being strange but over time, you realized she was right.

Animals trusted you in ways they did not trust anyone else. Birds settled on your windowsill in winter and stayed long after the seed was gone. Stray cats followed you home through the market, deer wandered close enough in the woods for you to touch the velvet of their noses.

Even the wolves never frightened you.

You saw them sometimes between the trees at dusk. Great hulking things with silver eyes reflecting the last of the daylight. They watched you quietly, never crossing the line where the woods met the village, waiting as if they knew you.

Then there were the flowers. You tried not to think too hard about that part but it was difficult not to when half the village had seen it happen. You would wake sad and find the flowers outside your window bent low toward the earth, their petals browned at the edges as though touched by frost. Other days, when you laughed hard enough to make your stomach ache, little white blossoms pushed up through cracks in the ground by evening.

Once, after Helena surprised you with a cake on your seventeenth birthday, flowers bloomed all the way down the path behind you. Neither of you spoke about it, but later that night, you found Helena sitting alone at the kitchen table long after the bakery had closed, staring into the fire with tears in her eyes.

The village talked anyway. The older villagers made signs against bad luck when you passed. Mothers pulled their children a little closer, the pack alphas lowered their heads around you without seeming to realize they were doing it.

And every so often, when they thought you couldn't hear, someone would whisper. Royal blood. Forest-born. Cursed. Blessed.

Helena always pretended not to notice. But sometimes, late at night when the fire had burned low and rain tapped softly against the bakery windows, she would tell you stories. Stories about the old kingdoms, about the northern prince whose land had burned beneath black magic and snow. About the lost princess hidden somewhere beyond the mountains.

"The stories say they'll find each other one day," Helena said once while the two of you braided herbs together by candlelight. "The prince and princess of the north."

You smiled faintly.

"And then what?"

Her hands stilled for only a moment.

"Then the evil queen falls," she said quietly. "And the land remembers how to heal again."

You laughed softly, thinking it was only a story.

Helena did not laugh with you.

Far beyond the village, beyond the trees and snow and mountains, the evil queen listened.

Not with her ears.

With the kind of attention that had kept her alive when kingdoms burned and men twice her size tried to break her. With the kind of patience that let whispers travel for months, years, until they finally reached her. An omega in the north. A girl with a scent that lingered too long in the air. Flowers blooming out of season. Animals gathering where they should not. The queen sat very still on her throne as the reports were read aloud. She had spent years erasing the old world. Every banner burned, every bloodline hunted, every child who looked too much like someone important dragged from hiding before they could grow into something dangerous.

She knew what it meant when something survived anyway, when stories refused to die. And this one had followed her for years. Soft at first, easy to ignore and subdue with the promise of fire and ash. Then louder. Then impossible to silence.

For when the moon burns silver bright, the hidden rose will claim her right. Old kingdoms broken, torn apart, will mend beneath her beating heart.

The queen had heard it whispered in ruined halls, in the mouths of dying women, in the quiet defiance of rebels who thought prophecy made them untouchable. She had killed every one of them and still, the words remained. She wanted to believe you were only useful once dead. A body buried beneath snow, a name erased cleanly enough that no one would dare speak it again. Another loose thread cut before it could unravel the careful order she had built.

But the north had always been stubborn, and so had its magic. The women in her court had warned her of that long ago. Ancient seers from kingdoms of old draped in silk and bone, their fingers heavy with rings, their eyes clouded but never blind. They had stood beside her throne since the beginning, whispering truths she did not always care to hear.

This time, they brought her proof.

A scrap of cloth, worn thin and stolen from a village no one had reason to watch. Still carrying the faintest trace of your scent. A broken necklace, dulled with age, its metal etched with a crest no one living dared claim. A dried flower that should not have existed at all—blooming in winter, found growing where nothing else would take root.

The oldest of them took it in her hands and held it over a bowl of dark water, then the petals bled. Red seeping into black. The room fell silent as the seer stepped back for the queen. The water rippled and warped, splashing up against the edges before falling still. The surface changed and went still as stone, morphing into the color of steel, like a mirror. Two guards dragged the cloth from it at her command, the fabric whispering against stone as it fell away.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the glass shivered. Not visibly, not quite, but something beneath it shifted, like breath beneath skin. The queen rose, each step echoed as she descended from her throne, the sound sharp against the quiet, until she stood before it—close enough that her reflection should have met her.

It didn’t.

Her voice cut through the room, cold and measured.

“Speak.”

The surface of the mirror rippled. Not outward, but inward, as though something behind it leaned closer to listen.

“An omega breathes beyond your reach.”

The queen’s jaw tightened.

“I know that much,” she said. “I asked for truth—not riddles.”

A pause.

“A line once buried has taken root again.”

The air shifted. Behind her, one of the seers made a broken sound in her throat, like she wished she hadn’t heard it. The queen’s eyes flickered just for a second, something older wrinkling across her face before smoothing into her young self again.

“Where?” she demanded.

The mirror did not answer her question.

“The north remembers her.”

The words sank into the stone like rot.

“The forests bend. The wild listens. What was scattered begins to gather.”

The queen’s hand lifted, pressing flat against the glass.

“And can she be killed?”

“Not yet.”

The queen’s eyes darkened, she then leaned closer to the mirror, her voice dropping, sharpening.

“What does she become?”

The glass rippled again, deeper this time. And when it answered, it did not sound like one voice—but many.

“A call.”

The torches flickered.

“A claim.”

The room felt smaller.

“The return of what you tried to end.”

The queen’s reflection fractured just slightly, her face splitting along faint, unseen lines before pulling itself back together. For a moment she said nothing, then her hand dropped from the glass. And when she turned, whatever uncertainty had dared to surface was already gone, buried beneath something colder. Harder.

“Then we do not wait,” she said. Her voice carried, sharp as steel. “We do not allow her heart to race. We make sure it stops before it ever learns how.”

Behind her, the mirror went still again, but the cold it left behind did not fade. The queen turned toward the shadows gathered at the edge of the throne room. Her lips curved slowly because at last, after all these years, the shadow at her back had stepped into the light.

"Bring me my huntsman."

He stepped into the room without a sound. Most people never noticed how large he was at first.

They noticed his eyes instead. Steel blue glinting beneath candlelight holding something close to a fury they've never known, silver scars flecked across his jaw and neck worn with years of violence. They noticed the coldness of him too. The way he stood too still. The way his face gave nothing away.

But the frightening thing about him had never been his size.

It was the emptiness. The sense that whatever part of him had once been human had long since been hollowed out. He wore black leathers darkened by snow and old blood, a fur mantle thrown over broad shoulders, his hair longer than most soldiers allowed, brushing against the edge of his jaw. A jagged scar cut across his face like a crack through stone.

Around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt, rested the talisman. A shard of obsidian wrapped in silver with talons stuck into his skin. The queen's leash.

Once, long ago, before the wars and blood and iron, he had been something else. A prince of the northern kingdom. An alpha born beneath snowfall and pine trees and towering white mountains. A boy with sisters who laughed too loud and a mother who braided charms into his hair before battle practice and a father who called him stubborn with too much pride in his voice.

But that kingdom had burned, his family had died screaming and the queen had found him in the ruins before the wolves could. Young enough to break, old enough to remember just enough for it to hurt. So she took his name first. Then his home. Then every soft thing left inside him until all that remained was the huntsman.

He remembered almost nothing now.

Only flashes of a woman's lullaby, snow crunching beneath boots, the smell of cedar smoke. Sometimes he woke with blood on his hands and grief clawing at the inside of his chest so violently he thought he might die from it. But he never knew why. The talisman made sure of that. When the queen spoke, he obeyed, when she ordered, he carried it out. He had hunted rebels through forests and dragged princes from hidden sanctuaries. He had slaughtered entire packs who refused to kneel. Mothers frightened their children with stories about him.

The queen's beast. The wolf with the fury of the old gods. The huntsman who never lost his prey.

He dropped to one knee before the throne. The queen descended the steps slowly, her dark gown whispering against stone.

"There is a girl in the northern woods."

The queen reached beneath his shirt and wrapped her fingers around the talisman resting against his chest and instantly, his jaw locked. Pain shot through him sharp and immediate, burning through bone and blood alike.

"You will find her," the queen said softly. "You will bring her back. Alive."

His breathing grew heavier. He could feel the magic taking hold already, sliding through his veins like chains.

The queen leaned closer. "Do not let her speak to you too long. Do not let her scent confuse you. Do not forget what you are. Who you belong to."

His eyes lowered. "Yes, my queen."

Far north, beyond the mountains, you sat beside the old stone at the edge of the woods with a basket in your lap and flower stems between your fingers. The wind shifted. The birds went quiet. The woods fall silent so quickly it feels wrong. Then the dogs in the village start barking, your hands still around the basket in your lap. Helena is hanging linens on the line when she looks up toward the trees and goes pale. You have never seen fear move across someone's face so quickly.

"Go," she says, and you just stare at her. "Go now."

The basket slips from your hands when you hear the tremble in her voice. Apples spill through the grass. "What is it?"

But she is already grabbing your shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

"They found you. Go."

For one terrible second, everything inside you goes still, not because you understand what is happening. But because some deep, hidden part of you always knew this day would come.

You run before you can think about it. Through the back garden first. Past the rows of lavender and rosemary, past the fence your hands helped mend every spring. The hem of your dress catches on the gate latch hard enough to tear, but you keep going.

Behind you, voices rise through the village of men shouting, horses trampling against the cobbled stone. You hear your name once, then again echoing through the trees and you run faster until the woods swallow you whole.

Branches scrape your arms and face as you stumble deeper between the trees, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard you can taste blood at the back of your throat. Snow still lingers in patches beneath the pines, soaking through your shoes.

You don't know where you are going, only away. You make it farther than anyone expects. Farther than you expect. Miles, maybe. Long enough for the village to disappear behind you entirely. Long enough for your breathing to turn ragged and your legs to shake beneath you.

You think—stupidly, desperately—that maybe you've escaped.

Then you hear it.

A horse somewhere behind you. Steady hooves against the soft ground as though whoever rides it already knows you cannot get away. You break into another run yet your foot catches on a root. You hit the ground hard. Something like lightning strikes through your leg and you curl within yourself, biting into your lip to conceal an agonizing scream. Pain shoots through your bones, sharp enough to make hot tears spring to your eyes. Before you can scramble back up, a shadow falls across you.

You look up and there he is.

The huntsman.

He looks worse than the stories. Larger somehow. Broader. The fur over his shoulders is dusted with snow, his dark hair tangled from the wind, jaw shadowed from days without shaving. There is blood on one of his gloves you know is not his.

His face is hard in a way that makes him look carved from winter itself. There is no triumph in him, no cruelty. No satisfaction, only the emptiness that comes with having done this too many times to feel anything at all. That would almost be easier to bear. There is simply... nothing.

Your whole body goes cold because you know him. Not truly or personally, but everyone knows him. The queen's beast. The wolf with the dull eyes and deadly snare. The huntsman who drags people back to the capital in chains and leaves with less than he arrived with.

You push yourself backward through the dirt, leg limp below you.

"Please," you whisper.

He steps closer. You can see the scar across his face now. The line of exhaustion beneath his eyes. The way he moves like something permanently braced for violence.

"Please don't." Panic claws up your throat so fast it makes you dizzy.

He says nothing. His gaze drifts over you once. Torn dress. Mud-stained hands. Your bruised and already swelling leg. The scrape bleeding along your cheek. Then he reaches down, grabs your wrist, and hauls you to your feet.

You cry out at the roughness of it. "Wait—please, please, I didn't do anything—"

A rope appears in his hand, you try to scramble away but your leg can't bear any more weight than a feather and the moment you move his hands dig into your wrists so hard you fear he may snap them.

"Please." He binds your wrists without a word. "No, please—"

Your breath catches when he knots the other end to his belt. Like an animal. You hate yourself for the tears that rise so quickly.

"Please," you say again, voice shaking now. "I can pay you. I can—I don't have much but there are coins hidden beneath the floorboards in the cottage and my necklace and—"

Nothing, he just turns and starts walking. You nearly stumble because of how suddenly the rope jerks taut and cry at the pain that spreads up your leg with every step. He leads you back through the woods to where a small group of soldiers waits with horses.

They stare when they see you, you lower your head instantly. The huntsman unties the rope from his hand and secures it instead to the saddle of his horse. Then he climbs up and you stare at him in disbelief.

"You can't expect me to walk."

He looks down at you. Eyes cold and blank.

"You can walk."

Then he clicks his tongue to the horse and starts forward and you nearly fall over, forcing yourself upright and walking as to not be subjected to the beratment of being dragged behind the horse.

For three days, you limp after him through the woods and over frozen roads, your wrists tied, your ankle growing worse with every mile. You try not to cry though it spills its way over the surface, once or twice, when no one is looking. At night, after the soldiers sleep, you curl on your side and hold your breath against the pain throbbing all the way up your leg. Your ankle swells so badly you can barely fit your shoe back on by morning.

The huntsman never comments on it. He never slows. Never looks back. Only keeps moving, horse plodding steadily onward while you stumble after him through snow and mud and stone.

By the end of third day, your body gives out. You barely make it over a rocky incline before your injured ankle buckles completely beneath you and you hit the ground hard. The rope jerks taut and you can't stop the cry that tears from your throat this time.

One of the soldiers groans. "For fuck's sake."

You stay where you fell, hands pressed into the dirt, chest heaving with tears burning hot behind your eyes. You are so tired. So tired of hurting.

The huntsman's horse stops and for a moment, you think he will force you back to your feet. You anticipate it and slowly push up and your palms.

Instead, there is his voice.

"Make camp."

A few of the soldiers complain, but none of them argue. You don't look at him while they set up camp around you. You don't trust yourself to. As soon as the rope around your wrists is loosened enough to give you a little room, you limp away from the others toward the base of a tree.

You sink down into the roots with shaking hands and pull up the torn hem of your dress. Your ankle is awful, swollen and angry and purple around the edges, even the lightest of touches make you wince under your breath. You know you can't go on like this. You stare at it for a long moment before grabbing two fallen branches from the ground beside you.

You remember seeing the healer in the village do this once so you try to copy her. You break one stick trying to make it fit but the other slips from your hands. You hiss through your teeth and blink hard against the tears suddenly threatening again.

Then a shadow falls over you.

You look up to see the huntsman stands there holding a strip of cloth in one hand and you freeze. Without a word, he crouches in front of you. His hands are rough when he takes your ankle, but not careless.

You suck in a breath at the pain.

"I know," he says flatly.

It is the first thing you hear from him besides curt commands to stop crying or keep up. His voice is low. Rusted from disuse. You hate how relieved you are just to hear it.

You watch his hands as he works.

Large hands. Blood-stained and earth crusted hands. Steady hands.

He places the branches carefully along either side of your ankle before tying them in place with the cloth. Firm enough to keep it from moving, gentle enough that the pressure starts easing the pain almost immediately.

You blink down at it, the relief is so sudden it almost makes you dizzy.

"There," he says.

You look up at him.

"Thank you."

His expression hardens immediately.

"I only did it because you were slowing us down."

Still, you smile faintly.

"Thank you anyway."

Something strange crosses his face then, not quite softness, just a flicker of something unsettled. The slate grey of his eyes lightens into something almost blue. Like he does not know what to do with kindness when it is aimed at him. Instead he reaches for the water skin at his belt and holds it out to you.

You stare at it for a second before taking it carefully from his hand.

"Thank you," you say again, quieter this time.

He looks away before you can see whatever is in his eyes this time, then he stands and walks back toward the fire without another word.

Your fear is not yet washed away, despite his moment of brief kindess. You can walk much better, faster and for longer but every step that doesn't ache in your body aches in your heart. Wondering what lies in store for you at the end of this road. You don't admit it outloud, but deep down you know if the huntsman were here, for you, there's a finality to this that cannot be outrun.

It would see pointless to expect anything more, but you beg anyway. You tell him you will disappear if he lets you go. That you will run so far no one will ever find you again. You promise him money you don't have, horses you don't own, land you can't give, anything he wants. Anything any normal hunter would want.

"I don't want anything," he says once.

It hurts more than the rope burning at your wrists. At night, when he ties the rope around his own wrist before sleeping, you lie awake staring at the fire between you as your captor lays on the other side. You've been traveling with him for near a week now and don't know anything past his blank stare and occasional grunt.

He never sleeps deeply, you've notice that quickly. Every snapped branch, every gust of wind through the trees, every distant howl makes his eyes open instantly. Always alert, always waiting. He doesn't touch you more than he has to, doesn't look at you much either. Sometimes you think you see something in those slate grey eyes, something more. Something…

Maybe you're a fool. Maybe marching your way towards death has made you unreasonably optimistic. Maybe hope is just another thing that refuses to die in you, no matter how many times the world tries to beat it out.

Because something is there.

You see it in the way his gaze lingers a second too long before snapping away. In the way his hand tightens on the rope some nights like he’s reminding himself what you are to him. The way every now and then, you'll feel his gaze on you. But the moment you go to look he's turned away, hand brushing at his chest. There is something about him, and whatever it is, its begun to change.

Days into the journey, the herbs in your hair are begin to fail, they begin to wither.

Helena had always braided them carefully. Rosemary, cedar, crushed petals that dulled the sweetness of your scent, kept it quiet, kept it yours. You’d redone them yourself before you the night of your capture, hands shaking but practiced.

At first, you think it’s just the cold crisping their edges. Then you catch the smell. Faint rushes of a flowing river, warm bursts of lavender, and lingering drying linen. It's been so long since you'd known your natural unmasked scent, it almost felt right but you knew it was wrong the second it floated into the air.

You freeze mid-step. The huntsman doesn’t, making the rope jerk and forces you forward again. But it’s there now. You can’t ignore it, your scent bleeding through stronger than it should be, stronger than it’s ever been. You try to fix the braids that night, fingers clumsy as you twist dried stems back into your hair only for them to crumble in your hands. Dead and useless.

You don’t say anything but it's only a matter of time before someone notices.

Of course they do. The soldiers had been distant before. Rough, but uninterested, you were just cargo. Something to deliver, something to avoid, even. Now, their eyes linger. Too long. You feel it before you understand it. The way conversations quiet when you pass. The way their heads tilt slightly, like something instinctive is pulling at them. The way one of them steps just a little too close when handing you food, you shrink back and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

By the next day, it’s worse.

You keep your head down and thread your fingers over the rope to keep close. To him. But even that doesn’t stop it. Their voices change around you, dropping into something lower.

"Didn’t think she’d smell like that."

"Queen didn’t say she was that kind of omega."

"Bet she’d be real sweet if she just—"

You don’t hear the rest, you don’t need to.

That night, you try to stay closer to the fire. Closer to him. Your skin shudders at the thought of finding comfort in the huntsman. But when presented with the alternative, being at the subjection to the soldiers… your mind makes the choice for you.

But he moves away from the group again like he always does, setting camp just far enough to be separate, not far enough to raise suspicion. You still follow because you have no choice, because the rope says you do. But most of all, because part of you is starting to understand he is the only thing standing between you and something worse.

You wake sometime in the dark, not because of a sound, the forest is eeriely quiet around you. Your heart jolts you awake because something feels wrong. The rope is slack, cut at the far end [and your stomach drops. You push yourself up, panic already clawing its way into your throat and that’s when you hear it.

Voices echoing too close. You turn to see two of the soldiers stand just beyond the trees, watching you. Your breath catches when they crush a twig in their stride.

"Easy," one of them says, stepping forward. "We just wanna talk."

You scramble backward on instinct, your injured ankle screaming in protest.

"I don’t want to talk."

They don’t stop.

"You smell good," the other one says, voice low, almost dazed. "Didn’t notice it before. Guess you were hiding it."

Your back hits the trunk of a tree, nowhere left to go. "Please," you whisper.

They step closer, hushing you softly and sickly. "Just let us—"

The cut end of the rope snaps taut, both men freeze and so do you. There’s a shift in the air. Heavy. It's not like the first time you saw the huntsman arrive, this time is sharper, dangerous in a way you haven't seen before. Coiled tight on the verge of snapping. You don’t see him through the tress but you can feel him. The huntsman steps between you and them like something pulled from shadow, silent and still.

His eyes flick between them once. "Back away."

One of the soldiers scoffs, trying to shake off whatever hold your scent has over him.

"She’s just an omega—"

He doesn’t get to finish. The huntsman moves. It’s fast and violent yet controlled. The soldier stumbles back, breath knocked from his lungs, a knife suddenly pressed just beneath his jaw before he can react.

The other one goes completely still.

"You forget your place," the huntsman says.

His voice is quiet, it's almost worse than shouting. The blade presses just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"She’s the queen’s." A beat. "Not yours."

The words feel like a brand, ownership over you from a woman you've never met. It beads up nervous sweat at the base of your spine.

But the men understand. You can see it in their faces, fear replaces whatever had been there before and they slowly back off with their hands raised.

The moment stretches until they disappear into the trees back to their side of camp.

Only then does the huntsman move. He steps away from you like nothing happened. Like you weren’t just cornered, like he didn’t just almost kill someone for touching what belongs to the queen. Your hands are shaking, still bound together with the loose end of rope brushing your thighs.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you.

"Sleep."

You try. Laying your shaking frame against the moss covered ground, and shutting your eyes but you don’t sleep. Not really. And neither does he.

The next morning, everything changes.

There are no arguments, no explanations. He cuts the rope from your wrists, freeing them from their binds, mounts his horse then grabs your arm and pulls you up behind him before you can protest.

The soldiers shout.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn’t answer. Just turns the horse toward the mountains.

"We’ll lose time if you—"

"Find another way on your own," he says flatly.

Then he’s gone and he's taking you with him. Away from them, away from the road and into the cold, winding paths of the mountains where fewer people travel and fewer eyes can follow. You don’t understand it. The path narrows quickly, the ground uneven and steep, branches clawing at your sleeves as the horse pushes forward into terrain no caravan would willingly take. You almost slip but instinct takes over before thought and your arms come up around his waist.

You freeze the moment you realize what you’ve done.

Your hands press against his chest where his coat parts slightly, fingers curling into rough fabric and worn leather. You expect him to jerk away. To snap at you. To shove you back or tell you to keep your distance like he always does.

He doesn’t. He says nothing, he doesn’t even look back. But you feel it, the way his body goes still beneath your touch. Not tense, just aware, like the stillness you hold in your breath when waiting for a moment to pass. You should pull away but you don’t. Because something strange happens when you hold onto him. Something you can’t explain, you can feel his heartbeat steady and strong right beneath your palm. And it does something to him. Or maybe to you. The huntsman, the thing people whisper about in dark corners, the queen’s weapon, the man who dragged you from the woods without a second thought, feels… different like this.

Less distant. Less carved from something cold and unreachable. More… human. The rhythm of his heart grounds him into something that exists beyond fear, something warm beneath all the sharp edges, something that breathes and bleeds. Your grip tightens without meaning to. The horse shifts beneath you as it climbs higher into the mountains, the air growing thinner, colder and you don’t let go. Behind you, the world you knew disappears, ahead of you, only snow and stone and silence and between it all the steady beat beneath your hands.

The huntsman doesn’t speak. But something inside him twists. He can feel it where your hands press against him. Where your warmth seeps through layers he had long stopped noticing. It crawls beneath his skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome and… warm. He hasn’t felt that in a long time, not like this, not without pain tied to it. His jaw tightens with his eyes fixed forward. He says nothing. But he doesn’t make you let go either.

The mountains do not forgive weakness.

You learn that quickly.

The paths are narrower than anything you’ve ever walked. Jagged stone beneath the horse’s hooves, steep drops that vanish into white fog if you look too long. The air is thinner here, colder in a way that settles into your bones and refuses to leave.

He does not slow, of course he doesn’t, but he adjusts.

You notice that too. He chooses paths with more cover. Keeps to ridgelines where fewer of the already few travelers pass. Stops before nightfall instead of pushing through it like he did with the others.

You don’t comment on it. You’ve learned not to. Still, by the second night in the mountains, the cold becomes something else entirely. It doesn't just blow, it bites. Sharp and relentless, slipping through the seams of your clothes, curling into your lungs with every breath. The fire he builds is small, controlled, barely enough to push back the dark.

You sit close anyway. You watch him from across the flames, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to ignore the way your fingers have started to go numb.

“You should drink,” you say quietly, holding out the water skin.

He doesn’t respond, just stares into the fire like he didn’t hear you. You hesitate, then shift closer, the movement slow enough not to startle him, and press it into his hand.

“For your throat,” you add softly. “The air’s dry up here.”

His fingers close around it after a moment reluctantly, like taking something from you costs him more than it should. He drinks from it only once then hands it back without looking at you.

“Thank you,” you say anyway.

Something flickers in his expression and is gone before you can name it.

You lower your gaze—and that’s when you see it. A button from his shirt has come loose. You hadn’t noticed before, not with the layers of fur and leather, but now the fabric has shifted just enough to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat, the line of his sternum disappearing beneath worn cloth.

And there something lies. Something dark. Something wrong. A faint glow pulses beneath his the fabric and against his skin. It's near sublte and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but once you've seen it there's no ignoring it. You don’t day anything, you just watch as it flickers once, then fades again like it was never there at all. You tuck the observation away quietly like everything else. Later, when the fire burns lower and the cold deepens into something unbearable, you move without thinking. You sit beside him instead of across from him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.

He goes still instantly and you feel it. That same awareness from before. That same coiled, uncertain tension.

“You’re going to freeze,” you murmur, voice softer now. “I’m already halfway there.”

No answer, so you shift again, closer still. Until the warmth between you becomes shared instead of separate. It’s a risk, you know it is, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell you to move. Doesn’t even look at you. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the space between you stops feeling like a boundary. The warmth feeling less like a need for survival, and more of… just warmth.

The glow returns on the third night of traveling through the mountains. It was stronger this time, you wake to it. A faint, sickly light cutting through the dark. For a moment, you think it’s the fire, then you realize it’s him. He’s on his knees, breath uneven, one hand braced hard against the ground like he’s holding himself upright through sheer force alone.

The glow pulses beneath his shirt, that same place along his chest.

Your chest tightens.

“Hey—”

He jerks violently at the sound of your voice, like it hurt him, like it burned. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild in a way you’ve never seen before. Not the empty slate grey from the first day you met, something else, something fighting against itself.

“Stay back,” he grits out, but his voice isn’t steady.

You push yourself up anyway, slowly, stepping over to him.

“Is there something wrong,” you whisper.

“No—” His breath shudders. “Go back to sleep.”

The glow pulses again, brighter in the night sky. You see it clearly now, some sort of talisman. Not worn, not held, but bound. Woven into him in a way that makes your stomach twist, six legs of iron dug into his skin making it irremovable. And then you hear it, it wasn't words, none that you could understand at least. But something in the air shifts, like pressure building before a storm. Something unseen pulling at him, tightening, demanding.

His body responds instantly, spine straightening, shoulders locking. His expression empties into that cold, hollow stillness returning all at once like a mask snapping back into place. You start to understand, not fully, but enough. Whatever the huntsman has towards the sorceress queen isn't loyalty. It's control.

“Are you okay?”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You watch as he flinches, as the mask cracks just a little. Your heart stutters with fear and something else, but you move closer. Ignoring the warning in his posture. Ignoring the way his hands clench like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“There must be something I can do,” you say softly. “Just—tell me what you need.”

“Nothing,” he snaps, too sharp. Not out of anger, but of something close to panic, like he’s afraid.

The glow pulses again, stronger and he nearly doubles over, faint whispers and hushed lilts float through the air and you watch him coil against it. Without thinking you reach for him, settling your hand lightly against his arm.

And everything… stops, not completely but enough that the tension in him falters. The invisible pressure loosens just slightly, like whatever holds him didn’t expect resistance and his breath shudders. Eyes flickering back to you aren't empty anymore, the slate grey blurring into a pale blue.

You don’t move your hand. “Just breathe,” you whisper.

He does, slowly, his chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, each one deeper and smoother than the last. And the glowing begins to dim. Not fully gone, but weaker. Like something inside him is slowly rising back to the surface.

After that, things change.

Not all at once, not in ways anyone else would notice but they do, and you notice. You notice the way he finds you without looking. Even when you wander a few steps too far gathering wood or water, his gaze always lands on you first. Like he can track you without trying. Like your presence is something he can feel.

You notice how he positions himself on the road. He lets you have the horse the majority of the time, only riding two up with you to find camp when the sun starts to set and the path loses its visibilty. Even then he's always in front, always between you and what lies ahead. Like a barrier.

The first time wolves appear at the edge of the trees, their eyes catching the firelight, he’s on his feet before you even realize what you’re looking at. They don’t come closer, not with him there, not with the low, warning sound in his chest that doesn’t quite sound human.

You notice the way his scent changes too.

You hadn’t paid attention to it before. Not really. It had just been something sharp. Cold rye bread and dried blood. Now it’s different. Still strong with an air of danger to it, but there's something warmer to it. Cedarwood and rusted iron with the barest hint of something soft. Familiar in a way that settles something restless inside you.

You find yourself leaning toward it without thinking, trusting it, and the strangest part—he lets you. Even when he doesn’t understand why, even when it unsettles him, even when something deep inside him keeps pulling him closer without permission, without reason. Like something has already decided that you belong near him.

The trip back to the northern capitol typically takes a full span, but through the mountain pass adds on another halfweeks worth, amounting out to a full fortnight worth of traveling. And the mountains don’t stay empty forever.

You know it before he does. Or maybe you feel it before he lets himself admit it. The way the air shifts, it's subtle, but wrong. The birds go quiet first. Then the wind seems to pull back, like the world itself is holding its breath. Even the horse grows restless beneath you, ears flicking, muscles tightening with unease.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric at his chest.

“Someone’s here,” you whisper.

He’s already slowing the horse, already listening. Then—movement, too fast to track. Figures break from the trees on either side of the path, boots crushing snow, weapons drawn. Not soldiers. Not the queen’s men, something rougher and hungerier. Bounty hunters.

You don’t even have time to think before he's moving. He shoves you down from the horse just as an arrow slices through the air where your head had been. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs, snow burning cold against your skin.

“Stay down,” he snaps and you do, not by choice as your lungs are still trying to reinflate themselves.

Steel sings and you scramble backward, heart pounding, as the world explodes into motion around you. Blades clash. Boots slide across ice. Someone shouts. Someone else laughs. There are too many, you know it immediately. Three. No—four, all alphas. You feel it in the air, in the way their presence presses too close, too sharp, too overwhelming without the herbs to dull it.

One of them looks at you, really looks and smiles.

“There she is.”

Your stomach drops. The huntsman steps between you and him instantly and the fight turns brutal. There is no control in his movements, he fights like a man who has survived too much to hesitate. Fast and efficient, ruthless in a way that makes your chest tighten because you realize, this is what he was made into.

This is what the queen kept him for.

One goes down quickly. Another staggers back with blood spilling down his side, but they don’t retreat, they press harder, desperate and greedy.

You try to stay out of the way, you really do. But one of them breaks past him, too fast for him to catch. A hand grabs your arm, yanks you forward and you scream.

“Got you—”

You flail and try to flee but another hand slams into your chest and shoves you backward. You hit the ground hard, the air punched from your lungs before you can even scream. Snow seeps instantly through your clothes, freezing and suffocating all at once. He’s on you before you can recover. Weight, too much to fight. Your wrists are pinned above your head, his grip iron-tight as he forces you flat into the ground. His knee presses into your thigh, trapping you completely.

“Hold still,” he snarls, breath hot and wrong against your skin.

Panic detonates in your chest.You thrash beneath him, twisting, kicking, anything, but it’s useless. He’s stronger. Bigger. Every movement only seems to tighten his hold.

“Get off—” Your voice breaks. “Get off me!”

He laughs.

“You don’t smell like you want me to—”

Something inside you snaps. Your blood is racing through your veins like fire and ice all at once. Something washes over you, not quite fear, not quite anger. Something mystic that calms you despite the thrashing of your limbs. Your mind goes quiet, only feeling the thud of your heart in your chest as your hand scrambles blindly against the ground, fingers clawing through snow and dirt and frozen leaves, when your nails brush against a stone. You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just swing. It connects with a dull crack against the side of his head. He jerks, grip loosening just enough and you don’t wait, you wrench one arm free and shove him hard. He stumbles off you, disoriented, and suddenly you’re the one moving.

You scramble on top of him before he can recover, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you raise the rock again and bring it down. Again. And again. You don’t feel it. Don’t hear anything except the rush of blood in your ears and the echo of his voice and the thrum still clawing its way out of your chest.

You just keep going. Until hands grab you, strong and unyielding.

“Enough.”

The huntsman.

He pulls you back hard, dragging you off the man as your arm fights against him on instinct, still trying to swing, still trying to finish it—

“Enough,” he says again, sharper this time.

Your body locks and the world crashes back in all at once. The cold air, your shaking breath, the blood on your hands. The man beneath you isn’t moving and your hands start to shake violently, the rock slips from your fingers. You don’t recognize yourself for a second. Don’t recognize the feeling still burning in your chest—hot and terrifying and alive.

He doesn’t let go of you right away, his grip stays firm, grounding. And you’re left standing there, frozen, staring at what you’ve done.

You killed him.

You—

“Move!”

The huntsman's voice rips through the moment. You barely have time to react before he’s in front of you again, dragging you back as another attacker lunges forward. It all happens too fast, you don't see it happen until it's too late. A blade. A misstep as he pushes you back. The third hunter drives his sword forward and he takes it. For you.

The sound that leaves you doesn’t feel human.

He doesn’t go down immediately, of course he doesn’t. He rips the blade free with a snarl and finishes it anyway, driving his own knife deep into the man’s chest before he can pull back, then, silence. The last of them collapses into the snow.

And the huntsman drops to one knee, shaking to hold himself up. Your ears are ringing, your hands are shaking yet you still rush towards him.

“Hey—hey—” you stumble toward him, dropping beside him in the snow. “Are you okay—”

There’s blood, too much of it. Soaking through his clothes and staining the snow a murky red that makes your stomach twist.

“We have to move,” he says, voice rough.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

You shake your head, panic clawing up your throat.

“No—no, you can't, you're hurt—”

“I can. We have to go,” his eyes lift to yours. Still steady. Still him, somehow. “More will come.”

That’s what gets you moving, not fear for yourself. For him.

You don’t remember how you find the cabin.

Only that the forest closes in around you again, thick and quiet and endless, and somehow your feet keep moving even when they shouldn’t. You half-carry him, half-drag, holding his arm over your shoulders as you trudge through the snow with the horse trailing behind, his injury too sensitive for him to ride. His weight is heavy against you, steps uneven, scarlet blood staining the snow behind you in a trail that makes your chest tighten with every glance.

“Stay with me,” you whisper.

“I am.”

“Don’t lie.”

A faint huff of breath… almost a laugh.

“Not lying.”

The cabin appears like something out of a dream. Small and abandoned and barely standing, but enough. It has a door, a roof, four walls to keep the wind out. You get him inside.

The world narrows after that. To fire, blood and him. You don’t think about what you did, you don’t think about the man you killed, you can’t. Not yet. You tear open his shirt with shaking hands, breath catching when you see the wound clearly, deep and ugly and pooling crimson.

Your hands hover for a second, then move. You clean it, stitch it with the minimal catgut he had in his napsack on the horse and wrap it. Everything Helena ever taught you comes back in fragments. Herbs. Pressure. Heat. Don’t let him sleep too long. Don’t let him bleed out. Your hands stop shaking eventually, you don’t notice when, only that they do. By the time the fire burns low, he’s lying on the narrow couch in front of the fire, breathing shallow but steady.

You sit beside him, watching, waiting as hours pass, maybe longer. When he finally wakes, it’s slow and disoriented, staggered breaths as his eyes find you almost immediately.

“You’re still here,” he murmurs.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Of course I am.”

Something shifts in his expression, small, but real. You hesitate, then reach for him, gently resting your hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn't pull away or tell you stop. The warmth of his skin under you palm ease a shakeness in you that you hadn't known was stirring. He was still alive, still here with you.

“You took that blade for me,” you say quietly.

His gaze drifts to the ceiling.

“Part of the job.”

“No,” you shake your head. “Not like that. You don't almost bleed out to death for cargo. The evil queens huntsman doesn't purposely risk his life for the job. You saved me. Why?”

Silence stretches between you, his eyes flick between you and the fire. He slowly sits up, your hand right at his back to catch him if he were to slump.

“I wasn’t always… this.” he says after a moment. His face glows in the firelight, showing more of him than you'd ever seen, right down to the slight cleft in his chin.

“James,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and hesitant. “James Barnes.”

The name settles into the space between you like something important, something remembered.

“I was—” He exhales slowly. “I was more than what she made me.”

“I know.”

His eyes flick back to yours, you don’t look away.

“I remember pieces now,” he says, voice quieter. “Not all of it. Just… fragments.”

He closes his eyes briefly.

“Snow. Always snow.” A faint crease forms between his brows. “Wolves. Not like the ones here. Bigger. Smarter.” A pause. “A crest. White… and blue. I can’t—” His jaw tightens. “I can’t see it clearly. She doesn't let me remember.”

Your heart pounds. “Your home,” you whisper.

His eyes open again and something sharper there now.

“Gone.”

“So is mine.”

The words leave you before you can stop them. Silence fills the air as understanding settles in slowly behind it.

“You were there,” he says suddenly. “That day. In the forest.”

His expression shifts, not denial but recognition.

“I was supposed to kill you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

A beat.

“I could have.”

The memory clicks into place, the angle, the arrow cresting your ear instead.

Your chest tightens. “But you let me go.”

“I disobeyed,” he corrects quietly.

Something in your throat closes. You look at him, really look at him and for the first time, you don’t see the queen’s huntsman. You see what’s left of a man who lost everything. Just like you.

“The queen ruined both of our lives,” you whisper.

His gaze softens, barely but enough.

“Seems like it.”

The fire crackles softly ahead you. The world outside is still cold, still dangerous. But something shifts between you, in the walls of this small broken cabin. He—James, lets you sit closer, lets your hand stay on his arm. Seeing him in this new light changes something in you, he doesn't feel like your captor, and you don't feel like something being taken. For noe, you're just two people left behind by the same ruin, trying to remember how to be something more than what it made you.

The quiet after that night lingers longer than it should. It follows you into the next days as you stay at the cabin to let him heal. Into the way your hands still shake sometimes when you're out collecting firewood. Into the way James watches you now, not like before, not like a task.

Like something he’s trying to understand.

The mountains stretch on around you, cold and endless, but the distance between you begins to shrink in ways neither of you name.

It starts with the cold.

It always does.

Nights are worse at higher elevations. The wind cuts sharper through the thin wood walls, the fire never quite enough. You try to sleep curled in on yourself, arms tight around your body, but it doesn’t stop the shivering. The first time he shifts closer, you think it’s accidental, the second time, you don’t move away. By the third, it becomes something unspoken.

Shared warmth. One blanket instead of two.

You lie on opposite sides at first, careful, deliberate distance between you. But sometime in the night, that space disappears. You wake with your shoulder pressed against his chest, your breath fogging faintly against the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t move you, doesn’t say anything, just stays. And you let yourself stay too.

But one night, when sleep won’t come, you sit up and find him already looking at you.

“You should rest,” he says.

“So should you.”

Silence, then, his voice just above a whisper. “I will.”

He doesn’t, you know he won’t. So you shift closer instead, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you, and lean lightly against his side, carefully of his wounded side.

His body goes still for a moment.

Then slowly he relaxes into it. Your head dips forward before you can stop it, resting briefly against his shoulder, you don’t pull away this time.

And after a long moment—you feel it. His hand, lifting, hovering, then brushing a loose strand of your hair back from your face. The touch is hesitant, like he’s relearning something he forgot how to do. You lean into the touch, pressing your face into his shoulder. You sleep with something close to a smile that night.

The closer you get, the more something else begins to change.

You notice it in the quiet moments.

In the way his jaw tightens less when you speak. In the way his shoulders don’t lock every time you step near him. In the way that strange, unseen pressure, the one that pulls at him, bends him, owns him doesn’t feel quite as strong as it did before.

It’s still there. You see it sometimes in the flicker of that faint glow beneath his shirt, in the moments his expression goes distant, like something is trying to pull him away from himself. But it doesn’t last as long anymore. Not when you’re close, not when your hand finds his arm, not when your voice pulls him back. And he feels it too. Even if he doesn’t say it. Because the closer you are the quieter the commands become, the less they hold, the more he remembers.

And the more he wants.

Not in a way he understands, but it’s there, growing and unavoidable. Like something waking up inside him after a very long sleep.

One night, something almost happens.

You’re sitting across from each other in the cabin, the fire low, the world quiet around you. No danger or urgency. Just stillness. You've checked and rebanaged his wound twice already, the list of things to do dwindling by the second. You say something, a soft half joke, something small, and he actually huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh.

It surprises both of you.

You smile and he stares at you like he’s never seen that before, like he’s trying to memorize it. The firelight catches in his eyes. Your breath slows and so does his. The space between you feels different. Closer, too close. You don’t realize you’ve leaned in until it’s already happening and he doesn’t stop you.

For just a second it feels like everything else disappears. The queen, the road, the past. All of it, gone. Just this, just him and you and the warmth from each other.

Then something in him snaps back to reality. That same invisible force, that same pull. His body tenses sharply, like something inside him yanked him back all at once. His expression shutters, breath hitching as the moment fractures between you and he pulls away. You feel the absence immediately, like something warm just vanished and silence settles in its place. He turns away from you, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake something loose. You don’t reach for him this time, but you feel it. That shift, that crack in whatever holds him.

Because it didn’t stop on its own. It fought. And for the first time it almost lost.

Morning comes too quiet, something wrong lingering in the air. The snow is untouched, no wind, no birds just a stillness that presses too close against your skin. James is already awake when you stir. Sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense beneath his shirt, gaze fixed on nothing. The bandages at his side are cleaner now, the worst of the damage healed, but you can tell—he’s listening.

“We should go,” he says.

You push yourself up slowly, blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Already?”

He nods once.

“Too exposed here.”

Something in his tone settles it so you don’t argue. You pack quickly. What little you have is easy enough to gather—herbs, cloth, the last of the dried food. Your fingers brush his once when you pass him the water skin, he doesn’t pull away, just looks at you for a second longer than necessary.

Then stands.

Outside, the cold hits hard. The world is blindingly white, the path nearly erased beneath fresh snow. For a moment, it almost feels peaceful. Like nothing has found you yet. Like maybe—

James goes still beside you and your stomach drops.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Then you hear it, the sound of boots, crunching through the snow, erupting the white powder all around you. They come from all sides, the trees, the ridge, the path behind you. Completely surrounded. Not the worn leather boots of bounty hunters. Steel rings and echoes from chain covered horses. Soldiers from the capital. From the queen.

Your breath catches.

“No—”

James moves instantly, pulling you behind him, body shielding yours in a motion that’s become instinct now. But this isn’t like before, there are too many. James stiffens and you see it before he does, that faint glow beneath his shirt. Bright, violent and wrong. You feel the shift in him, watch as his shoulder baldes fight and pull back together, his entire body at war with itself..

“No,” he echoes.

His hand tightens around yours. Then it stops. Not the glow, but him. His body locks, shoulds straightening, spine rigid. That emptiness returns to his eyes all at once, like something has reached inside him and pulled him back into place.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“James,” you whisper, stepping in front of him, grabbing his arm. “James, look at me—”

His gaze flicks to you for a second, just a second he’s there, fighting it. Then the glow pulses again harder and stronger than ever before and he’s gone. The soldiers don’t even need to move.

“On your knees,” one of them says.

You don’t listen. You reach for him instead, both hands gripping his shirt, your voice breaking.

“James, please—”

His hand comes up and grabs your wrist, not rough but not gentle either, just final.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice is empty, not his.

Your chest caves in.

They take you easily after that. There is no fight, no struggle. Because the one person who would have fought for you is the one holding you still.

The northern capital feels colder than you remember, not in temperature but in something deeper. The walls rise high and black against the sky, sharp and unforgiving, like they were carved to keep hope out rather than enemies. It's hard to believe you once called this place home.

You’re dragged through the gates, through the courtyard, through halls you barely remember but somehow still know. It feels like stepping into a nightmare you once escaped. Only this time there is no one coming to get you out.

They separate you immediately. You fight then, you don’t mean to it just happens.

“No—!” you twist, reaching for him, panic surging all at once. “James—!”

He doesn’t look at you even once. That hurts more than anything and they drag you away, your voice still echoes through the halls long after you can’t see him anymore.

The tower they put you in hasn’t changed, not really. The same narrow windows, the same stone walls. The same silence that presses in until it feels like it’s sitting on your chest. They lock you inside without a word, the door slams and just lke that you're trapped again.

You don’t know how long it takes before she comes, hours, maybe less.

The door opens slowly as she steps inside like she owns the air itself. The queen is just as you remember. Beautiful and terrible, untouched by time in all the ways that matter. Her gaze finds you and she smiles.

“So,” she says softly, voice smooth as silk. “The little ghost finally comes home.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You don’t bow, you don’t speak. You don't give her anything. Her eyes flick over you slowly, taking in every detail, assessing.

“Where is he?” you ask.

You hate how your voice sounds, not strong enough, not steady enough.

Her smile deepens.

“Ah,” she murmurs. “Straight to him.”

You don’t respond, you can only fight the tremble of your lip as she steps closer.

“He’s exactly where he belongs,” she says. “Back at my side.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Her head tilts. “You think you changed him?”

You swallow hard yet keep quiet, this doesn't go past her.

“Ah, I see now. You thought love would be enough.”

For a moment something sharp flashes in her eyes, then it’s gone, replaced by amusement.

“Sweet girl,” she says softly. “Alphas like him don’t choose love.”

She reaches out and tilts your chin up with cold fingers.

“They choose survival.”

Your stomach twists.

“He remembers me,” she continues. “Remembers what I made him. What he is.”

Your heart pounds relentlessly and you feel warmth spread across your fingertips.

“He’s already obeying me again.”

The words hit harder than anything, your heartbeat falters and you shake your head.

“No.”

But doubt slips in anyway, quiet and poisonous. She sees it and her smile turns sharper.

“You’ll see,” she whispers. “Soon enough.”

Then she steps back, turns and leaves you alone with the echo of her words.

Below the castle, far beneath the stone and silence, James kneels in chains. His head bowed, his hands bound, the glow at his chest burns brighter than it ever has. And somewhere deep inside him, something is still fighting to remember your name.

The first day, you don’t believe her.

The second, you tell yourself you won’t.

By the third, the silence starts to press in.

There are no windows wide enough to see the sky properly, only narrow slits that let in thin, colorless light. No voices beyond the guards who never speak to you. No footsteps except the ones that come and go without pause, without pattern.

No him.

That is the part that unravels you. At first, you hold onto it stubbornly. The way he looked at you in the cabin. The way he said your name. The way his hand had brushed your hair away like it meant something. Like you meant something. You replay it over and over until it starts to feel distant and unreal.

Because the longer you sit in that tower, the quieter everything becomes. Including him. Whatever it is you felt between you doesn’t vanish, but it dims. Like something struggling through layers of stone and distance and magic. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the thin blanket, eyes fixed on the door.

Waiting.

For footsteps, for him, for anything. Nothing comes. By the time the queen returns, you are already tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. The door opens slowly, like she has all the time in the world, and she steps inside with that same measured grace.

“You look smaller,” she observes lightly.

You don’t respond. You’ve learned that much, but your silence doesn’t bother her, it never has. She walks the room like she owns it, because she does, fingers brushing along the stone, the furniture, the edges of your cage.

“I gave you time,” she says. “I thought perhaps you would come to your senses on your own.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I don’t need time.”

Her lips curve faintly.

“No,” she agrees. “You need truth.”

You look at her then, because something in her tone has shifted into somethign sharper, more certain.

“What have you done to him?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she moves toward the small table near the window. There is something resting on it, you hadn’t noticed it before. A single apple, red and perfect. Too perfect.

Your stomach twists. The queen picks it up delicately, turning it in her fingers as if admiring her own reflection in its skin.

“Do you know,” she says softly, “how old magic binds itself to blood?”

You don’t answer but she continues anyway.

“It doesn’t need force,” she murmurs. “Not always. Sometimes it only needs… the right vessel.”

She holds the fruit out slightly.

“Someone beautiful. Someone pure. The fairest in all the land.”

Your pulse quickens. “What is it”

Her smile deepens.

“A gift.”

“No.”

The word comes out sharper than you intend and she tilts her head sickly.

“You’re not curious?”

“I’m not stupid.”

A flicker of amusement crosses her face.

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not.”

She steps closer.

“There was a time,” she continues, “when your kind ruled through bonds like yours. Through scent. Through devotion. Through love.” Her voice softens on the last word, like she’s tasting something bitter. “It made you powerful.”

You don’t move.

“But power like that…” Her gaze sharpens. “Was made for so much more, and you squandered on it. But it doesn’t disappear. It only waits for someone smarter to come along and take control of it.”

The apple gleams in her hand.

Your chest tightens. “What does it do?”

Her eyes meet yours and for the first time, there's no pretense in them.

“It ends you,” she says simply.

Your breath stutters.

“No—”

“And when it does,” she finishes, “he will return to me completely.”

The room tilts and you shake your head.

“He won’t.”

“He already is.”

Your throat closes.

“You’re lying.”

She steps closer, close enough that you can’t look anywhere but at her.

“Am I?”

Her voice drops.

“He hasn’t come for you.”

The words make your chest ache.

“He hasn’t broken free.”

Harder.

“He hasn’t chosen you.”

Your hands shake.

“Stop.”

But she doesn’t.

“Alphas like him don’t defy control for long,” she murmurs. “Not when survival is on the line.”

You close your eyes, try to block it out, but the silence of the tower wraps around her words and makes them echo. Louder. And louder.

Until—

“Eat.”

Your eyes snap open and the apple is in front of you. Closer now, too close and your stomach churns.

“No.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Eat.”

“I won’t.”

Something shifts then, subtle, but deadly.

“Do you think you have a choice?” she asks softly.

The air tightens and your chest constricts. You try to step back you can’t, your body refuses. Your breath comes faster.

“What—”

“Old blood magic,” she says. “Yours is not the only blood that remembers.”

Your hand lifts but not by your will and your fingers close around the apple. Terror floods your chest.

“No—no, please—”

Your arm moves slow and unstoppable.

“Stop—!”

You try fight it. Every muscle straining, every thought screaming—but it doesn’t matter. The apple touches your lips and the queen watches, smiling.

You bite, it tastes sweet, too sweet. The world tilts immediately and your knees give out. The apple slips from your hand as you collapse, the floor rushing up too fast, you barely feel it before everything goes distant.

Your breath slows and your heartbeat follows. The last thing you see is her standing over you.

Victorious.

Then, nothing.

The palace whispers by nightfall. The lost omega princess is dead. Gone.

Far below, something breaks. James jerks against the chains with a violent force that rattles the stone around him. His breath comes sharp.

“No.”

The word tears out of him, because something is missing. Not fading. Gone.

Your scent is gone. The thread that had been there, quiet but constant, woven into him whether he understood it or not, severed.

His chest heaves.

“No,” he says again, louder this time.

The glow at his sternum flares violently and commands flood in. Obedience and stillness overcome him. He fights it, ignore it, to silence the submission in his head.

“Where is she?” he demands, voice breaking into something wild, something unrecognizable even to himself. No one answers, not even the wind. The chains hold, the walls don’t move but he doesn’t stop, he pulls and strains. Fights like a man trying to claw his way back to something already lost. Your name sits on his tongue but he can’t say it, not fully not through the magic choking it down.

Stil he tries.

Again. And again. And again.

Because even without whatever bond you two had, without your scent, without anything left to guide him something in him knows something is wrong.

And he is too late.

War comes easily to her.

By the time the sun dips behind the black stone towers, the queen has already begun carving the world into something new. Maps stretch across her war table, inked borders slashed through with impatient hands, territories reduced to nothing more than places to be taken.

“There is no one left to oppose me,” she says, calm and certain.

Messengers bow, generals listen. Your name is not spoken.

“Bring me my huntsman.”

The command echoes down into the dark where he is kept. James doesn’t feel the pull the way he used to. It’s there—but distant. Frayed. Like something reaching for him through water instead of iron. Still, it tries. He sits in the dim of the dungeon, head bowed, breath slow, when the door creaks open.

Bootsteps, not from the same guard. Slower steps, familiar in a way he can’t place.

“You hear her, don’t you?” the voice says quietly.

James lifts his head. An older man stands in the doorway, lamplight flickering across a face lined with years and something heavier than age.

“I hear enough,” James mutters.

The man studies him carefully, then steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“They told you she was dead,” he says.

James goes still. The words land like a blade.

“She—”

“She isn’t gone,” the man interrupts gently. “Not in the way they want you to believe.”

Something cracks open in James’s chest.

“What did she do?” he demands.

The man exhales slowly.

“Old blood magic.” His voice lowers. “The kind meant to preserve… or to pause.”

James’s hands curl into fists.

“Where is she?”

“The tower.”

A beat, then the man steps closer.

“There are stories,” he continues, quieter now. “Older than this kingdom. Older than her.”

James doesn’t move.

But he listens.

“Of a northern prince,” the man says, “and an omega princess hidden away by war. Bound not by crown—but by choice.” His gaze sharpens. “Destined to find each other, bound together by the moon goddess herself. Their bond was said to outlast everything. Curses. Kingdoms. Even death.”

James swallows and something deep inside him stirs.

“And you think… that’s us,” he says.

“I think,” the man replies, “this is your chance to prove it is.”

Silence stretches. Then the man reaches for the chains, the metal clicks and falls away.

James stares when the man doesn't make any moves towards him.

“You’re supposed to take me to her.”

The man just shakes his head.

“Go.”

James doesn’t hesitate.

The castle feels different when you’re not being dragged through it. He moves fast, faster than thought. Up corridors. Through shadowed halls. Past guards who don’t see him in time—or don’t see him at all. The tower door stands open as candles flicker inside, the flames still in the air.

His chest tightens before he even crosses the threshold and then he sees you, laid out in white like something already mourned. Flowers surround you, soft and pale, arranged with careful hands. Your hair is spread gently around your shoulders. Your hands folded over your chest as you lay still as stone.

“No…”

The word leaves him broken. He crosses the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid touching you will make it real.

“Hey,” he says, voice unsteady. “Hey—no, this isn’t—”

His throat closes as his hand finally settles over yours, cold and still. It hits him then all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. The words spill out before he can stop them.

“I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve— I should’ve found a way—”

His forehead presses against your hand.

“I remember now,” he whispers. “Everything.”

Snow-covered courtyards. Wolves in the distance. A crest stitched into winter cloaks. A name spoken with pride.

“And you—you gave that back to me.” His voice shakes. “You made me remember what it felt like to be… human. You saved me even when I was… when I wasn't worth saving.”

Silence answers him, but he keeps going.

“I didn’t say it,” he admits. “I should have. Back in the mountains. Before she took you.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

“I love you.”

The words settle into the room like something sacred.

“I love you,” he repeats, quieter now. “You gave me something worth choosing. Something worth fighting for.” His breath falters. “And I would rather die than go back to what I was… than live in a world where you’re not in it.”

He looks at you, still silent, eyes unmoving thinking about what he would give to see the firelight reflect in them one last time.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

And then he leans in and presses his lips to yours, soft and careful, sealing his apology in something stronger than words, holding onto the last fragile piece of something he refuses to lose. For a moment, nothing happens, the candles still flicker gently and the tower bricks groan in the wind. Then—you gasp. Air rushes into your lungs all at once, your body jolting as your eyes snap open, hands clutching at his shirt.

“James—”

Your voice is raw and ragged and alive. He freezes as his mind tries to wrap around the miracle in front on him, then you grab his hand and he exhales like the world has been given back to him.

“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m right here.”

At the same moment, a crack splits the air, sharp and violent that makes him go stiff. The glow at his chest flares once, then shatters. The talisman fractures apart, pieces falling from beneath his shirt and striking the stone floor with a hollow sound that silence follows.

You and James both goes still. Waiting. For her voice, for the pull, for the command that has lived in his bones for years, yet nothing comes. Not even an echo.

His breath catches. The absence is so complete it almost feels loud.

“James?” you whisper, still disoriented, your hand tightening in his. He looks at you and there is nothing in his eyes now but himself, gone is the slate grey that you came to know, in their place is a crystal clear steel blue reflecting the setting sun.

“I can’t hear her,” he says, voice quiet with disbelief.

Your lips part. “Good.”

A breath breaks from him, half laugh, half something else entirely. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, the silence in his head beautifully disorienting with the quiet truth that he is finally, undeniably free.

"We have to go," you whisper, longing to stay in this moment with him but knowing it must end. That all of this must end. You can't wait any longer. There is no time for it, no space left for hesitation or fear or the quiet, careful steps you learned to take just to survive.

This time, you choose to be seen.

The halls blur as you move, hand locked in his, your steps matching his without needing to think about it. The castle feels different now. Not endless or suffocating, but something breakable. Doors slam open as you pass. Servants freeze and guards turn when they see you. Alive. Whispers follow in your wake like sparks catching fire. By the time you reach the throne chamber, the air is already shifting, the doors are thrown open and there she is. Seated on her throne like nothing in the world has changed, like she has already won. Her gaze lifts lazily and then she sees you and she falters for half a second.

“…no,” she breathes, the word is quiet and uncertain. "Impossible."

You step forward, unbroken and her composure snaps back into place like glass reforming.

“Kill her.”

The command is immediate, sharp and absolute. It echoes through the chamber as every guard stills, every breath holds. But James doesn’t move and the silence stretches.

“Kill her,” she repeats, rising from the throne now, something desperate creeping beneath the surface. “That is an order.”

Nothing happens, he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he steps in front of you and the room shifts. You feel it, the barricade he's made, the choice he shows. Everyone does and the queen’s eyes widen, not in rage this time but in fear.

“No,” she says, quieter now. “No, that’s not—”

Her gaze drops to his chest to where the talisman used to be and her breath catches seeing it gone.

“You—” Her voice sharpens, cracking at the edges. “What did you do?”

James finally looks at her and there is nothing obedient in his expression. “You don’t get to command me anymore.”

The words land like a blade, sending something fractured across her face. You step forward then past him and into the center of the room, into the light.

“Look at her,” you say. Your voice carries, it cuts through the tension like something older than the walls around you. “Look at what she’s done.”

The room is full now. Servants, guards and nobles lingering at the edges, all watching and listening.

“She took this kingdom,” you continue, your gaze fixed on hers. “Not by right. Not by loyalty. By lies. She destroyed entire kingdoms to sit on that throne, she had my mother murdered and poisoned my father,” you say, louder now. “Burned cities to the ground. Took their heirs. Their people. Their lives.”

The queen’s expression twists. “Silence her—” No one moves and you don’t stop.

“She bound men to her will,” you go on, your voice rising. “Turned them into weapons. Into things they were never meant to be.”

Your hand finds his and pulls him slightly forward.

“Ask him.”

All eyes turn. James stands there, no longer the queen’s shadow, not just the northern prince, something else entirely.

“She didn’t rule you,” you say, sweeping your gaze across the room. “She controlled you.”

Soon a guard shifts, another lowers his weapon slightly.

“She made you afraid,” you press. “Afraid to remember who you were before her. Afraid to stand against her.”

Your chest rises and falls with each breath.

“But you remember.” The words soften. “You remember your homes. Your families. The lives you had before this place became something else.”

Silence drapes over the room.

“We can rebuild,” you say. “The kingdoms she broke—we can bring them back. Together. You don’t have to serve her anymore. Stand with me.”

James laces his fingers through yours, holding you tight.

"With us.”

The first weapon drops. It hits the stone with a sharp clang, then another, and another. The sound spreads through the chamber like thunder. The queen steps back.

“No,” she snaps, voice rising, cracking. “No, you will obey me—”

Her hand lifts and black magic surges, wild and in its own air. It lashes out, striking one of the nearest guards and throwing him back. Screams break the silence.

“Kill them!” she shrieks. “All of them—kill her—kill—”

The last of her loyal guards surge forward and James moves. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He meets them head-on, fast, brutal and precise. But different, no longer is he an empty fighting machine, every movement is chosen, every strike grounded in something real.

You don’t stay back, you just can’t.

You grab the nearest fallen blade and step in beside him. The first guard lunges and you move instinctively, flashes of the fight in the mountains cross through your mind but it's different now, with James by your side. The fight spills out of the throne room, down the halls, through corridors that echo with shouts and crashing steel. The queen retreats desperately. Her magic lashes out wildly, cracking stone, shattering glass, forcing people back as she stumbles toward the courtyard.

“This is mine!” she screams. “This kingdom is mine—I built this—I took this—”

“No,” you say, breathless but unyielding as you follow. “You stole it.”

James takes down the last guard in your path turns and finds you instantly. Together, you push forward, step by step driving her back out into the open into the courtyard where the entire palace can see, where there is nowhere left for her to hide.

Her magic flickers, unstable now.

The courtyard holds its breath. Snow drifts softly from the gray sky, settling over stone still cracked from her magic, over fallen weapons, over the remnants of something that is already ending. She stumbles back as her power flickers violently around her hands, wild and unfocused, striking the ground instead of you, splintering stone instead of bending it.

“This is mine!” she screams again, voice unraveling. “I took this kingdom—I earned it—”

“No,” you say, stepping forward despite the chaos, despite the way the air still hums with danger. “You destroyed it.”

Her gaze snaps to you and several emotions cross her eyes, rage and fear, something desperate and cornered. Behind her, the high window stands open, shattered glass scattered across the floor, the drop beyond it steep and endless, cliffs swallowed by snow and fog. James moves first, he closes the distance between them in seconds, forcing her back another step, his presence unyielding, solid, final. There is nowhere left for her to go as her back nearly touches the broken edge.

“Stay back!” she hisses, power flaring again in her hands but it doesn’t land, doesn’t hold. Whatever she built is failing her now.

You step up beside him and for a moment it's quiet, just the three of you and the gentle winter wind carrying the end of something long and terrible.

“You can stop,” you tell her. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

Her lips curl.

“Spare me,” she spits.

“I’m offering you a choice,” you say. “Surrender and stand down. Let this end without more blood.”

The courtyard around you listens, every person gathered there, every life she touched. Her eyes flick between you and James and something shifts in her expression.

“You think you’ve won?” she laughs, sharp and broken. “You think this ends with me?”

Her power lashes out again, wild, uncontrolled—and she steps back, just slightly and her heel catches. For a single, fragile second she falters when she realizes there is no one behind her to steady her, no magic left to hold her in place.

She falls.

The drop swallows her instantly, her scream cut short by the wind and the distance below, and then silence. It settles over the courtyard like snowfall. No one moves, no one speaks, wondering if it's finally over. Truly over. You stand there, staring at the empty space she left behind, your breath slow, uneven, your heart still catching up to what just happened. James steps closer, his hand brushing the back of your arm, just letting his presence solidify behind you.

The first person to move is a servant, then another, then a guard, then more. They gather slowly, cautiously, like they’re afraid this might disappear if they move too fast, but it doesn’t. You’re still standing, both of you, not as what she made you, not as what the world feared. But as what you chose to become. Someone kneels. Then another. And another. It spreads through the courtyard, through the people, through the space she once ruled with fear but this is not forced, not commanded. It's given freely. James’s hand finds yours and you hold on tight, knowing that whatever lies ahead of this, you'll do it together.

The days that follow feel unreal.

The castle changes quietly. Windows are opened. Doors unbarred. The heavy, suffocating presence that once clung to every wall begins to lift, replaced by something lighter. Something uncertain, but hopeful. People speak more, laugh, sometimes but mourn, too. Because there is still loss, there always will be but it no longer feels like the end.

The ceremony is held beneath an open sky. Snow still blankets the ground, but the sun breaks through for the first time in what feels like years, light spilling across the courtyard where everything changed. You stand beside him as the crown is placed on your head first.

Light, but heavy with meaning.

“By blood and by right,” the elder declares, voice carrying across the gathered crowd, “we name you, the lost princess of the north, returned and restored.”

Then James steps forward. There's a moment, just a moment where the past flickers across his face. Everything he was, everything he lost, everything he found again. The crown settles onto his head.

“By blood stolen and returned,” the elder continues, “we name you, the true prince of the north, returned and restored.”

A pause.

“Together, you stand as the rightful rulers of the north. Long may you reign!”

The words echo across the crowd, applause deafens any thoughts of doubt and suddenly it all becomes real. Then the crowd bows and James’s hand slips into yours again, the familiar warmth spreading through you. When you glance at him he’s already looking at you, he looks different than the first time you saw him. There's something fuller about him, a pink dusting to his cheeks, the smoothed skin of his used to be chapped lips, his hair swept back into a tight little knot at the nape of his neck.

He looks… handsome, you've never really noticed how much until now.

The palace feels too big now. Not in the way it used to, all looming and suffocating and cold, but in the quiet spaces between things. Rooms that echo a little too much. Hallways that stretch a little too far. You’re still getting used to it, both of you are.

“You’re walking like you’re being hunted,” James mutters from behind you.

You glance back, half-offended, half-amused. “I am not.”

“You are,” he insists, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway, watching you navigate the room like the floor might give out beneath you. “You keep checking the corners.”

You pause because… you had been.

“Well I was kidnapped for a time, tends to put people on edge afterwards,” you shoot back.

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. Well now you don’t have to be anymore.”

You huff softly and move to the table, eyeing the carefully arranged plates waiting for you both. Everything too neat, too polished.

“This doesn’t even look edible,” you mutter, poking at something that has been sliced into impossibly perfect pieces.

“It’s fruit,” he says.

“It’s ruined fruit.”

He laughs under his breath, pushing off the wall and coming to stand beside you.

“Give it a chance.”

“I miss stealing bread,” you say flatly.

“That’s not something you’re supposed to admit as queen.”

“Well, I preferred it,” you reply, picking up a piece and inspecting it suspiciously. “At least it didn’t look like it had opinions about me.”

James snorts.

“I miss not having to wear this,” he adds, tugging lightly at the collar of his formal shirt like it’s personally offended him.

You glance at him. “Liar.”

His brow lifts.

“You like looking like a prince.”

“I liked not freezing in the mountains with you more.”

“That’s fair.” A beat, then your voice slips into something softer. “I liked that too.”

He looks at you as something quieter settles between the humor and the silence lingers, not uncomfortable, but telling. You turn away first, reaching for the water, trying to ignore the way something in your chest tightens without warning.

“So,” you say, a little too casually. “They said the first group to go back to the sister kingdom leaves in a few days.”

“A week,” he corrects.

You nod too quickly. “A week.”

He watches you, you can feel it. “Yeah.”

You busy your hands with nothing, rearranging the fruit by biggest to smallest.

“They said they'll send someone to oversee things,” you continue. “Organize supplies. Make sure it’s… done properly.”

“They will.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to go.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

“I know,” he says carefully.

“You could send someone else. There are plenty of people—more qualified people—”

“Hey.”

His voice cuts through it gently and you stop to look at him. He’s leaned in closer now, you hadn’t noticed him move.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

You open your mouth, close it, and try again.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says.

“I’m not lying.”

“You are,” he counters quietly. “You’re just… not saying it out loud.”

Your chest tightens and you look away, those near cerulean blue eyes impossible to face with the truth.

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But it’s true.”

Silence stretches between you, but he doesn’t push, just waits. And that somehow makes it worse because now you have to say it. You stand from your seat and take a few steps from the table, needing some sort of seperation to manage your dignity should you lose it.

“I don’t want you to go,” you admit finally, the words quieter than you meant them to be. There it is, out in the open. You brace yourself for denial, amusement, rejection. But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off.

“Okay,” he says instead.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs slightly, standing from his seat to walk over. “That’s what you said.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You hesitate, because now it’s harder, now it’s real.

“It just…” you exhale shakily. “After everything, after the road and the mountains and all of it, it doesn’t feel right… when you’re not there.”

Your voice softens.

“Like something’s missing.” You finally look at him fully again. “And I don’t like it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “There was something the old servant told me,” he says slowly.

You frown slightly. “What?”

“About the north,” he continues. “Before all this. About… a prince and an omega princess.”

Something flickers in your memory.

“They were meant to find each other,” he says. “No matter what happened. No matter what tried to keep them apart.”

“I’ve heard something like that,” you admit. “Stories. Helena used to tell them sometimes.”

He nods.

“People think that’s us.”

You let out a small, uncertain laugh. “That’s a lot to put on two people.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”

He pauses, like the next words are lingering in the air just waiting to be said.

“Some of them say… a true mate bond can break anything.”

Your heart stutters as your feet draw you closer.

“Even magic,” he adds, watching you like he’s still trying to piece it together himself. “Some people say that’s what happened,” he continues. “That a—”

“James.”

He stops as you step even closer, close enough that there’s no space left between you.

“Stop talking,” you murmur.

His brow lifts slightly.

“Oh, I—”

You don’t let him finish, your hands grab at the linen of hist shirt and pull him down and you kiss him. It’s not hesitant or careful, but certain. Like something you’ve been holding back for far too long finally finding its way out. He stills for half a second, then he’s there meeting you, returning it. His hand finds your face, steady and warm, like he’s anchoring himself just as much as you are. When you pull back, your breath is uneven.

Your forehead rests against his.

“I heard you,” you whisper.

His brows knit slightly.

“When?” he asks.

“In the tower,” you say. “Before I woke up.”

“I didn’t know if—”

“I did,” you interrupt softly. “I just didn’t get to answer.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I love you too.” The words settle between you.

“And I don’t want you to leave,” you add, quieter now. “Not yet. Stay with me.”

Something shifts in his expression and he leans in again, pressing another kiss to your lips—slower this time, grounding. When he pulls back, he presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

He finds you some days later. Not in the throne room, not in the halls where people now bow and watch and whisper. Somewhere quieter, a side corridor that opens out toward the gardens, where the light is softer and the air doesn’t feel so heavy with expectation.

You hear him before you see him. That steady, familiar rhythm of his steps. You turn and when you catch his eye he stops like he hadn’t entirely decided what he was going to say until this exact moment. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s… different now, not distant but just new.

“Hey,” he says finally.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“Hey.”

He shifts his weight, subtle, but you notice.

“I was thinking,” he starts, then pauses like the words don’t quite line up the way he wants them to. “We’ll probably be… doing a lot of this.” He gestures vaguely—toward the castle, the responsibilities, the everything. “And not a lot of anything else.”

You smile faintly.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah,” he huffs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So I thought—maybe—”

He stops again and you just watch him through it.

“Would you—” He exhales, then tries again, more straightforward this time. “Would you have dinner with me?”

You blink.

“Dinner?”

“Not—” he shakes his head quickly. “Not like that. Not formal. Not… any of this.” His hand gestures again at the castle around you, like it personally offends him. “Just us.”

Something soft settles in your chest.

“Okay,” you say.

He looks almost surprised you didn’t make it harder.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling a little more now.

A breath leaves him—relief, maybe.

“Good,” he says. “Good. Then… meet me in the gardens. At dusk.”

You nod.

“I’ll be there.”

Dusk paints the gardens in gold and blue.

The last of the sunlight stretches long across the grass, catching on the edges of the stone paths and the early bloom of flowers that have started to return. You follow the sound of quiet movement. And then you see it. He’s already there kneeling in the grass, adjusting something with a focus that feels almost out of place for him. It takes you a second to take it all in, it’s not elaborate or overly polished but it's intentional. A blanket spread across the ground—no, several blankets, layered unevenly, some folded over each other, others half-bunched like he couldn’t decide where they were supposed to go. Candles scattered around in small clusters, their light flickering softly against the growing dark.

And food, simple food.

Bread, still slightly warm. Fruit—unsliced this time. Something wrapped in cloth that smells faintly savory. It's not royal and draped in gold, but it's him and it's utterly perfect. He looks up when he hears you and for a second, there’s something almost unsure in his expression, like he’s waiting for you to decide what this is worth.

Your gaze drifts over the blankets again then back to him.

“…you made all this?” you ask.

He shrugs, a little too casual.

“Yeah. Well—some of it. I didn’t exactly bake the bread.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth as you step closer, eyes catching on the pile of blankets again. There are a lot of them, more than necessary. Some mismatched. One folded into itself like it gave up halfway through.

You glance at him.

“James.”

“Yeah?”

“…what is all this?”

He follows your gaze and hesitates.

“I—” He exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I tried to make a nest.”

You blink.

“A nest?”

“Yeah.” He gives a half-shrug, like he’s trying to play it off before it can matter too much. “I don’t know. I don't remember much from how courting works… only bits of it. Not really. Just—” He gestures vaguely at the blankets. “This is probably wrong.”

You don’t say anything right away.

“I know I’m just an alpha,” he adds, quieter now, almost under his breath. “I don’t know how this is supposed to look I just know that in my offering needs my scent and I—.”

“It’s perfect,” you say softly stopping him as you step closer, close enough that the space between you disappears again, like it always seems to now.

He huffs lightly.

“It’s really not—”

“It is,” you interrupt gently.

“Not because of how it looks,” you continue, softer now. “Because you made it.”

You can see the tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly.

“Besides,” you add, glancing back at the blankets with a small smile, “I think you overdid it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. I got that feeling halfway through.”

You step onto the blankets, sinking into them a little as you settle down. It’s warm and soft, his scent crowding you in the best way possible, teakwood and ocean salt, comforting in a way that feels familiar. He watches you for a second like he’s making sure you actually like it, then joins you.

You reach for a piece of bread and break it in half to hand him the other. He takes it without hesitationn and you eat, quietly. No ceremony or royal flare, just this. The candles flicker around you, the sky deepening into night overhead, at some point, your shoulder brushes his. Neither of you moves away.

“You know,” you murmur after a while, “this is better than the dining hall.”

“Yeah?”

“Much.”

He nods.

“Good," he pauses, brushing crumbs from his palm. “I wanted something that felt like before.”

You glance at him.

“It does.”

Another pause, quieter this time, full in a different way. You shift slightly, settling more comfortably into the blankets, into him. The candles flicker lower, their light softer now near fading, shadows stretching across the blankets. Somewhere beyond the gardens, the palace continues on in the distance, voices, footsteps, life, but it feels far away from here.

From this.

You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until you notice he has too. The conversation fades naturally, like it’s run its course without either of you needing to force it and in its place something else lingers. You glance at him and he’s already looking at you. It’s not sudden, not sharp, just a moment that stretches a little longer than it should. Your breath catches slightly, not from nerves, not really but from the weight of everything that led here. The road. The mountains. The fear. The choosing. All of it sitting quietly between you now, and neither of you looks away. He shifts first slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him if you want to. You don’t so you meet him halfway. It’s small, the way it happens, subtle and gentle. The space between you closing inch by inch until it isn’t there anymore. His hand finds yours again and your fingers curl into his without thinking.

Then he leans in when your lips meet, it’s soft at first, testing, like both of you are still learning what this is allowed to be now that nothing is forcing it apart. But it doesn’t stay uncertain for long, because you already know each other, know the way the other breathes, the way the other moves, the way everything settles into place when you’re close. It deepens like embers glow hot in a flame, like something finally clicking into alignment. You shift closer without thinking, your shoulder pressing into his, your hand tightening slightly in his as if grounding yourself in the moment. He leans into you in return, steady and warm, like he’s anchoring himself there too. When you finally pull back, it’s only barely. Your foreheads rest together, your breathing a little uneven, your eyes still half-focused on each other.

There’s a quiet there again, but it’s different now like something you didn’t fully realize you were holding onto has finally been set down.

His thumb brushes lightly against your hand.

“You okay?” he murmurs and you nod, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“Yeah," you hum through a smile. “Better than okay.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, the tension in him easing in a way you can feel.

“Good,” he says.

The moment lingers, your forehead still rests against his, your breath slowly evening out, the quiet between you no longer uncertain but settled, warm, steady, and real.

And then the light changes, it’s subtle at first. A shift in the shadows. A softening of the dark. You feel it before you see it, both of you do. James’s hand tightens slightly around yours as his gaze lifts, something instinctive pulling his attention upward.

You follow it to see the clouds part without warning. And the moon—full, bright, impossibly clear breaks through the sky. Its light spills over the garden in a way that feels… different. Not just illumination, but presence. It washes over the blankets, the candles, your hands still tangled together, over both of you and everything stills. The air goes quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty but feels held. Like the world has paused just for this. The garden fades at the edges, not disappearing, just softening, like it’s no longer the center of what matters.

And something else settles in. You can't see it, but you feel it in your bones. Something ancient watching. Your fingers tighten in his without thinking and the connection between you shifts, deepening, opening into something wider than just the moment. You feel it in your chest, in your quickening pulse. In the quiet place inside you that has always known there was something more, even before you understood what it was. Images flicker through your mind, not quite memories, not quite dreams.

A home you’ve never stood in, but somehow recognize, stone walls that feel safe instead of cold. Snow falling outside a window that doesn’t feel like something to survive but something to watch, together.

Laughter, yours and his. Your hand in his, the feeling of belonging, not to a place, not to a crown, but to each other. It moves through you like a quiet truth unfolding. You glance at him and he’s already looking at you and you know he sees it too, feels it, understands it in the same wordless way.

Not just what you are, but what you’ve chosen to be. Something ancient threads through it all, the echo of stories whispered long before either of you were born. The northern prince. The lost omega princess. Fate bonded through destiny.

The presence lingers just long enough for it to settle fully into you with a quiet certainty, a promise without words. Then just as gently as it came it fades, the garden returns, the candles flicker back into focus and the night breathes again as the moon passes over the garden walls. Sound trickles back in—the distant rustle of leaves, the faint crackle of flame.

Nothing looks different but everything feels it, there’s no question left now. James exhales slowly, like he’s just come back from somewhere far away. This time you don’t hesitate, you lean in first and he meets you immediately. The kiss is deeper this time, grounded in something deeper than love, every bit of it anchored in what you just felt, what you now understand. His hand comes up to your jaw, steady and sure, holding you there like something he has no intention of ever losing. You shift closer again, the last of the space between you disappearing completely.

Then, something shifts.

His exhale shudders against your mouth, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump. The kiss deepens, slow but inevitable as his tongue traces your lower lip, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to claim more, his other hand sliding around to cradle the back of your neck. The sweetness melts away, replaced by something darker, hungrier. The air between you grows thick, charged with the scent of Alpha and Omega, of need and promise. You can feel the moment his instincts surge forward, his growl vibrates through your chest as his teeth graze your lip, not quite biting, not yet. But the threat of it, the promise of his control slipping, makes your body arch against his without thought as he pulls you into his lap.

His fingers flex against your skin, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no distinction between where he ends and you begin. The kiss turns messy, consuming, tongues tangling in a rhythm that mimics something far more carnal. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down the fabric of his shirt, needing more. And James answers without hesitation. His palm slides down to your waist, gripping hard enough to near bruise as he tugs you flush against him, letting you feel the hard length of him pressing insistently between your thighs. A whimper escapes you, high and needy, and he swallows it greedily, his free hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back.

There’s no more gentleness. Only heat. Only want. Only the two of you, lost in the pull of the moon and something deeper, something inevitable.

He groans into your lips as he kisses you harder and deeper like he's trying to devour you whole. The slick heat between your thighs is impossible to ignore, your scent saturating the air, and James growls against your lips, low and possessive.

"You smell so fucking good," he rasps, his voice rough with want. "Like mine."

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling the tie loose until his dark strands spill free, silken and soft under your touch. You tug, just enough to make him groan against your mouth, his hips bucking up instinctively beneath you.

His hands are everywhere, rough palms skimming your waist, gripping your hips before sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples through the thin fabric of your dress. The growl that tears from his chest is pure Alpha, possessive and starving. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “Knew you’d feel like this—soft, warm n' mine.”

You rock against him, the hard line of his cock pressing into your core through his pants, and the friction is almost too much. A whimper slips from your lips as you grind down, chasing the delicious pressure, but James' hands tighten on your hips, halting you just as pleasure starts to crest. “Not yet,” he growls, though his own breath comes ragged. “Gonna make sure you’re ready for me.”

His free hand slips under your skirt, calloused fingers dragging up the inside of your thigh, his touch is firm but unhurried as his fingers slide beneath the soaked fabric of your panties, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet rasp that makes your thighs tremble. You nod ferevently, as his fingers glide through your slickness with agonizing slowness, circling your entrance before slipping just the tip inside teasing you, maddeningly.

You whine, arching into his touch, but he hushes you with a kiss, deep and slow. “Easy, omega. I’ve got you.”

When he finally sinks a finger into you, it’s with deliberate tenderness, curling just right to make your breath hitch. His thumb swipes over your clit in gentle circles, coaxing pleasure from you in waves rather than sharp bursts. His lips trail down your jaw to your throat, sucking lightly at the tender skin there, still marking you without claiming yet. “That’s it,” he praises softly. “Let go for me.”

You shatter under his touch with a cry with hardly more effort, your orgasm washing over you like warm honey, slow and syrupy sweet. But before the aftershocks even fade, you’re writhing against him again, hands clutching at his shoulders. “James—please.”

He smiles against your skin, fond but predatory before easing you back onto the soft grass beneath you. His body covers yours completely as he lines himself up at your entrance, his gaze dark but warm. “Gonna be good for me?” he asks softly, brushing a kiss over your forehead. “Gonna let me take care of my queen?”

You nod frantically again, legs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer still. The first push is slow, agonizingly so, his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he groans, voice rough. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he moves, a deep, rolling thrust that punches a gasp from your lungs. His hips snap forward again, harder this time, and your nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure coils tight in your belly. “More,” you beg, “harder—”

He obliges with a growl, fingers tangling in your hair as he drives into you, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside until you’re sobbing his name. “That’s it,” he rasps against your neck, sucking bruises into your skin, everywhere but where you need it most. “Gonna fill you up every damn day, keep you round with my pups. My perfect queen.”

You’re close again, so close and then his teeth finally sink into your scent gland. The world explodes. Pleasure rips through you like lightning, your body clamping down around him as he spills deep inside, his knot locking you together as he murmurs sweet nothings against your skin, “Mine. Always mine.”

The bond settles between you like a promise, eternal and unbreakable as he licks the mark clean and pulls you tight against his chest. The night hums with satisfaction around you both... but it’s far from over.

Winter comes again, but it no longer feels like something to survive. Snow settles softly over the rebuilt northern kingdom, over stone set back into place by steady hands and quiet hope. The palace breathes differently now—windows open to light, laughter where silence once lived. You find him not in the grand halls but in the nursery, standing by the window with the mountains stretching beyond him, hanging up an hand carve mobile. You pause in the doorway, watching the way he has become both stronger and gentler all at once, how the past is no longer something that owns him.

When he looks up and finds you, something in his expression settles like this, here, is where he was always meant to be.

ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › god BLESS the pea in my pod miss aluri buchanan barnes for dealing with me and my crashouts during this and making me laugh regardless. i love guys

[chateaubarnes]

(un)invited guest!

vampire!bucky x reader | 19.2k

warnings: mentions of blood, mild gore, brief scene with dead animal, mentions of PTSD, mentions of death, depictions of loneliness/grief, slowburn to end all slowburns(?), yearning, blood drinking, kissing, slight suggestive themes, mild torture, character death (just the bad guy), bucky is largely called james in this, don't let bucky in your house that dude's a vampire!!!

author's note: okay when i started this, it was meant to be sort of campy and fun, but... well, i'm writing this author's note beforehand so if it became something else i'm sorry. yapping and yapping and yapping... bro... what the hell is this so long for?

It wasn't every day that a person found themselves living near a vampire. But for you, that was a reality.

To his credit, James didn't like that word. He much preferred the term 'creature of the night', to which you would roll your eyes, unable to prevent the spiel of reasons why that was a more justifiable name. He lived in the house way up high on the hill, in an ironically Gothic style townhouse. There were never any visitors up there. No delivery drivers or lawn maintenance people. The Homeowners Association never crossed through the wrought iron gate, up the pebbled path to the glossy black door. Only you had walked that way in recent years, and you were pretty sure it was just the house's aura that kept people away. The gargoyle suspended above the attic's roof probably didn't help, its face twisted into a gnarled hiss. It looked ready to spring to life and devour whoever stood on the dusty front step.

It had been by mistake, really, that you'd found out about James. After your parents' nasty divorce, they'd liquidated their assets and gotten the hell out of dodge, to opposite sides of the country, leaving what was supposed to be their retirement home to you. Your job being remote made the move easy. You could dial in from anywhere, really, so why not a sleepy little town? It was nice enough, you supposed, but your first time seeing it was when you pulled the U-Haul truck into the driveway to start unloading.

Your neighbours were nice, if a little nosy, but you didn't foresee any real friendships there. But the house on the hill—you could see it peeking through lush trees—its roof crested with ravens, seemed interesting. You thought that maybe, as you drove past it for your first grocery trip, a young and hip whimsigoth might live there. It was a far-fetched hope, maybe, but so far everyone you'd seen in this town was married with kids, or an empty nester. You hadn't seen any twenty-somethings at all.

You weren't one to back down from a challenge, so you packed some muffins (store-bought—you weren't about to waste time in the kitchen if they were to be rejected) into a basket and set about heading up to the hill.

It had been the beginning of fall, at the time, but it seemed like all of the trees on the property had begun their change of green to yellow and orange earlier than the others in town. You wondered if it had something to do with being at a higher altitude. There were no cheery lawn ornaments like the homes near yours. No wind chimes or ceramic frogs or funny little gnomes. The grass had been cut, but it was mostly blanketed by leaves. Distantly, you realized all you could hear was the rustle of the branches in the breeze. There were no chirping birds. Tipping your head back, you saw the row of beady eyes on you, a silent brigade of midnight black ravens considering you, tilting their heads, snapping their beaks curiously.

There was no driveway, no garage, and also no car parked on the street. That was really what made you pause. But you braved the porch step, the wood so faded it looked gray, and fixed your fingers around the heavy knocker. It protruded from a ram's head, the ring clasped in its jaw. Maybe the homeowner was a pagan, or something.

There was no doorbell, so you knocked with enthusiasm, hoping it was loud enough. All the windows were covered by gauzy curtains in wine red or a faded cream, so you couldn't see in. The thin strips of glass on either side of the door were of the stained variety, different pieces making up a pattern you couldn't quite catch. All you could tell was that it looked dark inside.

You waited, tapping your foot against the soft wood. There was no welcome mat, either. Yet you hesitated to believe that the house was abandoned, because otherwise, who had taken care of the lawn? After a full minute of standing still, listening to the house, trying to tell if someone was coming to answer, you knocked again. The knock knock knock sounded like the banging of a gavel.

It seemed to do the trick, though. Another thirty seconds of waiting, the house completely silent, and then the door flew open. You stared in surprise at who stood before you.

He looked a little young to inhabit the place alone, as he blinked eyes of crystalline blue at you. But that wasn't what had you trying not to gape at him. No, the man before you stood in pajamas of black silk, an eye mask pushed up over his forehead, his brown hair sticking every which way. "I don't want whatever you're selling. And please, be considerate. I was resting."

His words curled around you like smoke, and it almost made you shiver. You didn't think his tone was meant to be seductive, but for some reason, it had you flushing. So, this mysterious stranger must work nights, or something. "Oh, I—I'm not trying to sell anything. I, um, I just moved in? Down the hill." You jerked a thumb behind you, as if he needed the clarification. "Just introducing myself."

He peered at you sleepily, looking largely unimpressed. "Are those meant to be for me?" His eyes travelled down from your face to the basket.

You'd forgotten it had been resting in the crook of your arm. "Oh, um, yes!" You unfolded the checkered dishtowel on top to reveal the muffins. "Best way to get into people's good graces is with food, yeah?" You were aiming for upbeat, though the feeling felt like it had been leached from you the second he'd fixed you with that disdainful look.

"No, thank you." He said tersely.

Of all the people you'd imagined to live here, he wasn't one of them. "N—no?" Who the hell rejected muffins?

You felt yourself deflate, your spine curling to hunch in on yourself. Rejection never felt nice. But then you remembered, as he went to close the door, that you weren't some pansy. He was already looking at you like you were slightly more stupid than the general population. You drew yourself to your full height, though he was still taller than you. It didn't matter that he'd been polite. You knew he was just trying to get you to go away.

"Is that all?" He asked, clearly ready to close the door in your face.

"I guess so," your eyes narrowed. "But for future reference, the considerate thing to do is take the damn muffins. I don't need to know if you immediately throw them in the trash."

He remained unperturbed. It was mildly infuriating. "Alright. Goodbye."

Before you could blink, the door was closed. You felt like the ram's head was judging you. "Dick." You muttered, turning on your heel.

You thought you heard something on the other side of the door, but decided not to pay it any mind. It wasn't until you'd reached the gate that you heard the door open again, followed by that same seductive lilt: "Close, but my name is actually James."

You didn't see James again for a couple of weeks. You didn't want to ask your other neighbours about him, but you certainly didn't stop them when they brought him up. From what you'd come to understand, people hardly ever saw him. In fact, you were probably the person that had spoken to him the most in recent months. He worked nights somewhere, though no one knew where. But it sounded like his house and lawn were always in pretty pristine condition, though no one ever actually saw him out there doing maintenance. He was, in large part, a great big question mark to your small town.

You planned to never interact with him again. The key word there was 'planned'. But one night, just as you were planning to cozy up on your new couch and watch an episode of the police procedural you'd been hooked on, there was a gentle knock on your door. You snuggled your cardigan around yourself—it was a wearable blanket, really—and padded to the front of the house. You assumed it was a neighbour with leftovers—they really loved bringing you food, pitying your single status.

It was dark out, the sky the blue of a jewel, but your porch light washed everything with yellow. You were more than a little surprised to see James standing on the other side. He was wearing a long black coat over what looked to be tailored trousers and an expensive looking shirt.

"Hello," he said.

Just the one word sounded musical. You kept your arms crossed over your chest. "Hi."

"I wanted to apologize for my behaviour the other day." it had been weeks, but you let it slide, curious as to where this was going. "I realized I never even asked for your name." He looked at you expectantly then.

Well, if you were going to be saying his name in vain, you supposed it was only fair… You gave him your own in a short, brisk tone. You didn't like how you felt when he repeated it back like a caress.

"Did you come all the way here just to ask for my name?" You shifted your weight, staring up at him.

"No, I thought we might get to know each other better. May I come in?" He all but crooned.

He must have thought that turning on the charm would get him into your good graces. "Um, no."

If you'd had your phone on you, you would have taken a picture of the clear shock on his face. "nNo?" He repeated, incredulous. The silky seduction had melted away.

You frowned. "No. Why would I, a single woman, let a strange man into her house at…" you glanced at your watch, "eight o'clock at night? Sounds like a recipe for danger, don't you think?"

It was very obvious to you that James had had no doubt in his mind that you were going to let him in, and this roadblock was something he hadn't considered. He didn't know how petty you could be. The crease in his brow smoothed out, and he met your eyes. You believed that his stare could have been hypnotic, if you weren't already disillusioned by his charm. He said your name again, and it gave you goosebumps along your arms. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. I unfortunately tend to be a tad irate when roused from sleep."

His tone was interesting, to you. The words he used, even. He didn't talk like anyone else you'd met. He fixed you with a pleading look. "I'm not a danger to you. I'd just like to talk to you. Please, can I come in? It's a bit cold."

You felt the irritation pass across your face. If he thought his handsomeness and dulcet tone could make you bend, he was wrong. "I already said no, dude. Come back tomorrow in the light of day and maybe we'll talk."

That was when you saw the frustration in his gaze. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it all the more, the toes of his shiny black shoes kissing the threshold of your home. For a split second, you thought he might force his way in. "I can't. I'm… indisposed. until evening."

You shrugged, unwilling to feel bad for making things difficult. "Well, I guess we'll never get to talk, will we?"

With that, you closed the door in his face, much like he'd done to you. You refused to shoulder any guilt. You didn't have to be nice all the time, and certainly not to him. Still, you, thought, as you made your way back to the living room, to the cozy cocoon of the couch, you wondered why he'd been so insistent.

You were surprised when you heard a knock at the door the next day. It was a little earlier than the day before, but it was still night time, and you were still unwilling to let James in. He stood on your porch looking totally out of place next to your rocking chair. "Hello. I came earlier today." he began, his tone pleasant, hands behind his back. "May I come in?"

You didn't hide your ire this time. "Do you remember what I said yesterday, or do you have selective memory?"

His mouth opened, then closed, a flash of something in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. Finally he said, though you detected an edge to his voice, "Yes, but like I told you, I was regrettably tied up."

"And like I told you, I'm not letting you into my house at night."

You caught the gleam of his teeth in the lamplight. He looked like he wanted to snarl at you, to snap. You got the feeling that it was a herculean effort for him to stay composed. "Would you listen, please?" he asked, his eyes locking onto yours. "I am not a danger to you."

For a moment in time, you felt suspended in honey. It had the cogs of your brain turning very slowly. He did seem harmless enough. Maybe social cues were hard for him. Maybe he just needed someone to take a chance, seeing as your neighbours hadn't tried to befriend him. Maybe you should invite him in, offer him some tea and a slice of cake. Maybe you could be friends after all. He gazed at you imploringly, eyes like shards of ice. He ran his tongue over his teeth as you considered, and that was what snapped you free of your stupor.

"Sounds like something a dangerous person would say." you bit out, feeling lightheaded and woozy. "Now go away, or I'll call the cops."

"Oh, you're a dreadful woman." He complained.

It almost made you laugh, the whine that escaped him. It made him sound like a little boy that hadn't gotten his way. "I'm merely trying to rectify the misunderstanding we had, and you're being incredibly unreasonable." he continued, spreading his hands.

At this, you couldn't help but smile. "You do realize that we could just talk right here, right? I mean, we're talking right now. And unfortunately for you, I thrive on being unreasonable."

"Horrible girl," he murmured. "Alright, have it your way."

You thought he meant that the porch discussion was a go. But no, instead he turned with a flourish that made his coat flap like a cape, and he stole down the steps and to the pavement, walking away without a second glance.

What a strange, strange guy.

You didn't see him again after that. Briefly, you'd worried that he'd try this line of questioning every night until you gave in (which you didn't believe you would), but the next night, there had been no knock at the door, and neither had there been the one after that.

You only enjoyed a week of quiet evenings, though. You had been informed, through word of mouth by your neighbours, that the water would be shut off tomorrow morning for a few hours. Apparently, most of your suburb went to the town hall meetings. It was old fashioned, you thought, to have to learn that information by being there rather than receiving a notice in your mailbox. And unsurprisingly, your mind slid to the house on the hill, to James.

You sincerely doubted that he would know about it. and against your better judgement, you thought it was only right to let him know. Begrudgingly, you made the trek to his house just as the sun had begun to set. You waved to your neighbour as you passed, pointing at James's house, and they nodded, continuing to hose down their car.

You didn't really think you were in danger. Especially not in daylight. But it didn't hurt to let people know your whereabouts, just in case.

The air was crisp and cool. Half of the homes on your walk had already decorated for Halloween, with pumpkins on their doorsteps and cobwebs strung across their windows. It crossed your mind that you'd have to buy a box of candy to give out, this year, rather than your usual wager, which was to keep it for yourself and hide with all the lights off.

When you got to James's house, you heard the mournful hoot of an owl, though you couldn't see one. It was still light out, just barely, his house awash in blazing orange. You caught the faintest glow from behind the set of cream coloured curtains on the left side of the house. So, he was home, and likely awake, if the theory of him working nights was to be believed.

When you went to knock, however, the ram's head greeting you like the last time, you paused. Right by your sneakered foot, in an uneven splotch, was a dark stain, about the size of a baseball. It was soaking into the wood, an unsightly mark. Your eyes trailed back the way you'd come, your body turning to the steps you'd just walked up. They were smaller, in an uneven line, but they were there. You saw them disappear off the path and into the grass. Your focus returned to the biggest one, right next to you, right at the door.

It could have been anything. Motor oil, black coffee, ink. The fading light made it hard to tell. But something in your gut said that it wasn't. Screw the ram's head. You settled your hand on the blackened handle and tried it. The door gave way under your fingers.

It opened like a yawning mouth, to a hallway with a runner of crushed velvet. The walls were a deep mahogany. A slightly dusty chandelier of crystal glimmered above your head. The floor was dark, but if you squinted, you could make out the trail. "James?" Your voice was more quiet than you'd meant for it to be, but you felt like it was all you could manage.

You suddenly envisioned him working in the garden, perhaps cutting himself with shears, and coming inside to try to dress the wound. It could have been anything, really. But you followed the path through a dated sitting room—the room with the cream curtains—and to a kitchen.

"Oh, fuck."

You didn't realize the words had escaped you until James's eyes, bright and alive, settled on yours. You were much more focused on the blood coating his mouth and chin. Specks of it splattered the collar of his shirt. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the doe, its leg still twitching, laying prone on the kitchen island.

It was a horrifying, gruesome sight. So were the red tinged fangs protruding from James's mouth. The entire thing was like a scene from a horror movie, and you'd never much cared for those.

James stayed put. "Don't scream," he said softly, "I'm usually much more tidy than this, but I have been incredibly hungry as of late."

He looked woeful, like a fallen angel, one hand extended towards you like he could hold you in place from there.

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Any air you'd had in your body was trapped somewhere you couldn't access. Your legs had locked up too, a bad sign. You had no idea how fast or strong he was, and instinct told you to run. You watched, disbelieving, as he wiped at his chin with his thumb. There was still an obvious streak of crimson there, and you both knew it.

"You are incredibly calm for someone witnessing this for the first time." He observed.

"Who says I'm calm?" As it was, your voice sounded shaky.

"I can hear your heart. I can smell your fear, but you haven't overreacted." He looked at you curiously. "Though perhaps you are in shock…?"

"Are you going to kill me?" you breathed. It was suddenly very, very clear to you that this was something you should never have seen.

He had the gall to laugh. "No, of course not. Not unless you share what you've seen."

You didn't believe him—why would he spare you under the promise of keeping such a horrifying secret? Sensing your doubt, he smiled. You didn't know if he was banking on his handsome features, but crusted with blood and giving you an eyeful of his fangs wasn't helping his case. "The pretty new neighbour found dead in her home? I feel that would invite more questions than I'd care to answer."

He'd stayed put at the counter. He watched your gaze move, against your will, to the doe. "Don't look at the animal, look at me," he murmured.

You were afraid to. Instead, you focused on the doe's ear, letting your vision tunnel. "If I run, are you going to chase me?"

"Will you keep my secret?" He sounded almost amused.

"Yes." You didn't know if you meant it yet, but it was the only right answer, the only way you could see yourself getting out of this house.

"Then no, I won't chase you. I'm not very good at that game. I get a bit… competitive."

At this, you did look at him. It made you inhale sharply, that statuesque beauty marred by blood. "So I can just… go? You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He spread his hands. "Come now, I believe we have a bit more of a conversation to get through first, no?"

"What's there to discuss? It's clear that you're a—"

"Don't say the term you're thinking. I don't much care for it." He said, dismissive.

You could only blink at his casual demeanour. Vampire danced on the tip of your tongue. You felt like you need to say it, to confirm it for yourself. But he continued. "Creature of the night is more apt. At least I think it is. I do more things than drink blood. I still have a soul." He sounded almost… delighted to be able to talk about this.

"Please," he said, gesturing to you—no, behind you. "Wait in the sitting room while I dispose of this," He patted the doe's flank, "and we can speak this further."

You took a stumbling step backward. He said your name, and you looked up. "Don't run," he said, mouth curling into another smile. "I'll be most disappointed."

You ran.

As soon as he'd begun to heft the deer over his shoulders, you had shuffled into the living room and waited until you heard the back door open. Then you bolted, finally finding your strength. You streaked through the door, letting it bang behind you, and pelted down the path and across the street. You felt like you were bounding down the hill at the rate of a bullet. The sun was gone now. All you could think was home, home, home.

You were breathing hard as you crashed through the door. Your hands shook as you locked it and leaned against it, your mind tumbling wildly. As soon as you were able, you staggered around the house, drawing your curtains. You pushed your dining table in front of the door, then turned on all your lights. You needed it, to feel safe. Of course, light didn't equal armor, but the illusion of it made you feel better.

It occurred to you, as you stood in front of your knife block, that you might actually be safe. It was night time now, yes, but… the two times James had come around, he'd asked to come in. He'd never forced his way through the door. Maybe it had just been him maintaining his façade of politeness. But maybe… maybe that old folklore was true? Maybe he couldn't come in unless invited. You decided it was a possibility, but you weren't about to blindly trust in it.

It was a good thing you had nowhere to be tomorrow. You had a feeling you were about to settle in for a long night of guard duty.

James had hoped, as he'd gone into his backyard, that you wouldn't run. He'd hoped you'd have a little more sense, a little more curiosity, to stay and talk. But he wasn't surprised when he heard the patter of your feet, the distant swing of the front door. He'd merely sighed as he began the long trek into the woods behind his house.

He thought, as he dug a shallow grave for the doe, that you had handled it remarkably well. You hadn't passed out or screeched in fear. You hadn't fallen to your hands and knees and begged for your life. And, he thought with reluctance, clearly you had some sense of instinct to protect yourself. You'd gone to the one place he couldn't simply enter.

The moon was low and round in the sky as he stood in the street in front of your house. Everyone here seemed to have a bedtime of nine pm. The road was quiet. He was in no danger of being hit by a car. He observed your house, the soft glow of lights on in every room. He could sense you, sense your heartbeat. He couldn't make out the churning of your thoughts. He had the vain hope that you would be more reasonable the next day. If you were going to keep his secret, it was only right that you knew all the facts.

But still, he watched your house for a little longer, every detail of it as clear as it would have been to you during the day. He listened to you moving around inside, a mouse in your cage. He wondered what tall tale you were telling yourself, what you were spinning to make it all make sense. The thought made him smile. Whatever it was, it was probably wrong.

You slept a little bit, after the sun came up. You'd camped yourself out in the living room, seated on the floor with your back against the couch. The knife in your hand clattered to the floor, and it roused you from your dozing until you crawled up onto the cushions and napped until mid-morning. You didn't really want to be conscious, at the moment. You were still wrapping your head around what you'd seen.

You didn't really believe James when he said he would let you live as long as you kept his secret. What was in it for him? There was no reason for either of you to trust each other. And what you'd seen of him so far wasn't entirely promising.

When you finally started your day, you remembered there was no water for the next little while, and you stood staring blankly at your shower, which you'd have to go without. Distantly, you thought James must be sleeping. It was a bright, clear day. His 'night shifts' now made sense, at least. The sun must be a real vampire deterrent. At least it meant that you were safe, for now.

Your day passed by slowly, which you were grateful for. You were anxious about nightfall. You had no idea whether he'd decide to show up at your door, try to convince you again to let him inside. You remembered the blood on his skin, the clear blue of his eyes, like he was fully alert. It made you consider the fact that he didn't hear you enter his house. Had he been taken over by blood lust, consumed by the taste and smell, to the point that he hadn't noticed? It was hard to believe.

When the sun melted away, you prepared to be vigilant again, though you knew you couldn't keep it up forever. As it was, you ended up falling asleep sometime in the night, only to wake up sore from sleeping on the floor. Your bones creaked as you stood and stretched.

When you left your house, intent on heading to the store for groceries, when morning came again, you found a note tacked to your door. It was on clean white parchment, tidy handwriting at its center.

You are formally invited to dine with me this evening. I promise that you aren't on the menu. - James.

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. At the invitation, and at the poor joke. It did nothing to reassure you. Your first thought was to crumple the note up and fling it into his yard as you went past. You hesitated though, your hand not quite making a fist, not quite creasing the paper. Instead, you walked it back inside and left it in the dish you usually kept your keys on.

You weren't going to go, you decided. It was foolish. And there was no time indicated on it, either. Evening could mean four o'clock or eight o'clock, and you weren't keen to venture outside at night, not anymore.

But as you went about your day, the idea kept writhing in the back of your head. What if you brought yourself some protection? What if you went, but stayed firmly on the doorstep, firmly in the sunlight, where he couldn't get you? If that idea was true. You found yourself picking up more garlic than you needed to buy. If only you knew how to get your hands on some holy water… or a stake.

It was with great reluctance that you found yourself at the scene of the crime. You must be stupid, you decided, as you stepped onto the porch in the golden sun. It was just after five. A small assortment of things were hidden in your purse. You hoped you didn't have to use them. The bloodstain was gone from the wood, like it had never been there at all.

You didn't have time to knock, though you'd stood out there considering for a good few minutes. As soon as you raised your hand, the door opened, though James wasn't standing on the other side—at least, not where you could see. "Please, come in," You heard from behind the door.

You scoffed. "Not on your life."

You heard him make a tsk sound. "You're in no danger. I've left the curtains to the dining room open. you'll be perfectly safe in there."

You wanted to be suspicious, but you detected no lie—you'd seen yourself that the heavy red fabric you were used to seeing hadn't been blocking the window. You were quick, guard up, to scramble into that room. You heard the echo of the front door closing. And, with some dismay, you could smell garlic, along with butter and rosemary. So, the half-crushed bulb in your purse would be of no use to you, you surmised.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you suppressed a shudder. The last time you'd been in there… Well, you'd rather not think about it. Especially not if you were expected to eat something. The wallpaper in the dining room was dated. It had probably been red once, but now it was a faded pinkish colour. The damask pattern was almost invisible to your eyes. The table was made of dark, polished wood, with matching chairs, the cushions made of golden fabric. It was a room made for lively dinner parties, you thought, the table easily able to seat eight people.

You chose a chair right near the middle, letting yourself wear the sunlight on your skin. Tiny dust motes danced through the air. "Do you drink wine?" James called, his voice echoing through the house.

Yes, you did, but something told you that you should have your wits about you for this meeting. "Water is fine."

You drummed your fingers over your thighs. It felt strange to sit here, waiting for him, for whatever he was going to bring out. What if it was something drenched in blood?

You were about to find out, you supposed. James came in carrying a pitcher of water first, filling a glass and setting it down for you. You gave him an uncertain smile, but waited until he'd gone again before picking it up and squinting at its contents. There was no telling if he'd drug you and drink you dry.

After sniffing the rim and deeming it safe—or so you hoped—you took a sip. It tasted just like the water at your own house. You took it as a good sign.

It was only a couple more minutes before he came back with two white plates. The first one he placed in front of you with flourish, the second directly across the table, before taking a seat. That side, you noticed, was just barely out of the sun. You hid a grimace. You'd be subject to that piercing stare, that catlike smile, the entire time.

You were mildly surprised by your dinner. It was a beautifully seared steak, nestled between roasted potatoes and asparagus. It looked like something from a recipe book. James was already cutting into his, a decidedly rare one, by the look of the piece he speared and put in his mouth.

"You can eat real food?" You asked, not reaching for your knife and fork, not yet.

He smiled, amused, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "Yes, I can. Though it's not very fulfilling."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes roamed the room as he thought of how to answer, before settling on you. "For you, I suppose it would be like chocolate. You can eat it and survive on it, barely. But it doesn't benefit you at all."

It was an adequate answer. "And the sun?"

He laughed then, before chewing on another piece of steak. "If you're asking if I'll turn to a pile of ash, the answer is no. But it can be extremely uncomfortable for me. Like a sunburn. It will make my skin peel and flake, and I'll become quite ill. I am able to withstand it more than I used to, though."

It was curious. James was answering your questions with seemingly no caution, like he believed you'd never repeat what you learned. Like he was certain. His eyes flicked to your plate, still untouched, before settling on you again. "Is it not to your liking?" He considered you for a moment. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"No," you picked up the knife and fork hastily, "I'm not. This is all just very weird. I'm sitting across the table from a va—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, waving a finger. "We don't use that word, if you please."

You cut into your own steak. It was—thankfully—not nearly as rare. As you eyed his plate, you felt his own could have still been mooing in the field it came from. "What's your aversion to that word?" You met his stare as you took your first bite.

And damn it all to hell, you had to suppress a moan. Who knew that an ageless being could cook a steak so well?

Though you gave no outward reaction, James still seemed to know that you were enjoying the food. He seemed utterly delighted, in fact. He didn't respond until you'd stabbed a potato onto your fork and really began to chow down.

"The word carries a… negative connotation, for me. I was turned against my will." He looked to the window suddenly, his expression wistful. You suspected his mind was far away.

"I at death's door, you see. And then I wasn't, but I was reliant on that coven for decades. It isn't something I would wish upon my worst enemy."

You sat in the silence of the admission. You wondered how long ago he'd been turned, how long ago he'd been free from the rule of other vampires. You weren't exactly sure how open he would be. Instead of digging into his past, you sipped your water and asked, "Ever kill someone?"

He made an amused sound, though not quite a laugh, his gaze snaring you once again. "Of course I have. There's a steep learning curve. The human body is oh so delicate." His eyes roamed over your neck. "But I haven't in recent years. Most of my kind hunt for sport. The thrill of the chase, the unique taste of fear. It is a mere appetizer before the main course. I, however, prefer to leave my prey alive. I'd rather keep my sources around for repeat visits, rather than have to find new ones each time."

"And the doe?"

The half-smile he gave you then wasn't quite enough to bare his fangs, though his teeth still glinted. "I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten for a while. It can sometimes be easier to hunt in the woods, hidden by the trees. I didn't want to wait until dark to let myself into somebody's home."

At this, you couldn't stop yourself from gaping at him. "You don't—you don't mean that you take blood from people in town, do you?" Surely not. Qouldn't that have been the first thing your neighbours told you?

Your gobsmacked expression had James letting out a laugh, the sound rich, musical. Enchanting, really. "Why travel far when I have a veritable buffet right down the street? Though you shouldn't worry. They've all invited me in. They just didn't know that once they did, I was free to come and go as I please. And they don't remember, afterwards. I'm very good at what I do, now."

The knowledge made you drop your fork with a clatter. "Was that what you were going to do to me?"

You remembered his insistence at coming in.

He had the decency to look chastised, borderline embarrassed. "I apologize for that. As I told you, I was utterly ravenous. And you're new, fresh blood. I admit I was curious to know your flavour." He paused, before adding, "I'll do my best to behave myself around you, but you should know never to invite me in. I can't make the promise that I won't still try one day, if I'm desperate."

It should have scared you. But the second half of his admission, the gentleness with which he said it, had disarmed you. He seemed to be able to tell. "At least you're honest," you finally said.

"You aren't afraid. Why?"

"How do you know I'm not?"

He sat back in his chair. "I can get a glimpse of emotion. If they're strong, especially. But you aren't afraid. And your heartbeat is strong, healthy. You're taking this very well. Why is that?"

You shrugged. "I wish I could tell you. I don't really know, myself." You voice was little more than a whisper, your thoughts turning inward.

Because the truth was, you didn't know. For all that he was being perfectly gentlemanly right now, you'd seen him with blood on his mouth. He'd just admitted to you that he'd wanted to drink yours, to leave you none the wiser, a stupid little snack roaming around town. But there was something about him, about the way he'd spoken so openly, that had you believing him. You shouldn't have been sympathetic, but you thought that maybe he was lonely. If the only other vampires he'd known had been bad ones, it was no wonder he kept to himself. And you didn't doubt it was difficult to make friends with prey, because that was what you were. You'd grow older, and he'd stay the same. He probably wouldn't live here forever, not if he didn't want people to notice that fact.

You'd both lapsed into silence, your plates untouched. You were the first to resume. "So, what does this make us? This unholy alliance. Am I supposed to be your friend now?"

James considered you. "I suppose it does. I haven't had one in a very long time. I don't know whether I'll be very good at it."

The answer was melancholic. You wondered if he was thinking of that person right now, his last friend. "I guess we'll find out."

Against all odds, you did settle into some semblance of a friendship. You would visit him in the day, if he was awake, keeping to sunny spots of his house. He'd given you a grand tour, though he'd kept you at arm's length and stuck closely to the walls. He'd opened every set of curtains so that you would feel safe.

The attic had been your favourite room. The window was circular, made of stained glass, like the ones at the front door. The floor and walls were a grayish wood, and there was a grand piano tucked away in one corner. Various chairs, lamps, and side tables were clustered together. Much of it was turn of the century. You'd dragged your fingers along the keys, more noise than melody. "Do you play?"

"I used to." He admitted, leaned up against the wall out of the sunlight. "I was the entertainer for my coven most nights."

You knew that those weren't fond memories for him, though he still hadn't told you much more. "But you kept the piano?"

"I try not to think of it very much, but it's a hard aspect of my past to leave behind." He admitted.

Aside from the attic, it had been interesting, delving into his possessions. You'd seen many things that looked like they belonged in museums. looking through his armoire, you'd found remarkably well kept clothes from over a century ago. Judging by the way he continued to dress now, you believed he had a soft spot for the time he'd left behind. His current attire was much more modern, the tailored trousers and shirts, but everything carried an echo from the romantic period.

You could imagine it easily, James strolling a street at night, the roads lit by oil lamps, cobblestones slick from rain. And he would have been dapper in a top hat and long coat, a handsome young man on the hunt. You believed that smile could open doors without him having to say much of anything.

You liked listening to him when he talked. Sometimes, he sounded like someone from today's time. But most others, his speech was antiquated, like something he'd never quite shaken off. It was one of his more endearing qualities. He spoke like he'd come out of a classic novel.

James came to you, sometimes, though you kept it to your front porch. He hadn't asked to come in since the first time, but you would catch his eyes straying to your door while you talked. You didn't know whether he was curious about your own belongings, about how you decorated, or if it really came down to wanting to drain you dry.

You continued to dance this strange two-step with him, as the leaves turned brown and brittle. As Halloween passed, and you and he walked through town, looking at the groups of families decked out in costume, the decorations strung up in storefronts—everyone here seemed to take part, really. James almost fit in completely that night, standing beside you. He'd worn his more dated clothes. He looked like he was in costume. Of course, only you knew that it was the real him. The most you'd managed for your own costume was a headband complete with sparkly red devil's horns, picked up at the dollar general.

He'd smiled at a woman as you'd stopped at a crosswalk. You could see her flustered smile. If it had been daylight, you were sure you would have seen a blush across her cheeks, too. "Was that you using your evil powers on her, or is that just a quality you have?" You'd asked him, glancing sidelong.

The smile he'd given you was decidedly more toothy, his canines visible. "I've always been charming, creature of the night or not."

"Right…" your tone was dry, but it was only to cover your own reaction to his attention. You'd never admit it out loud, but sometimes looking at him was like staring directly into the sun. He was wildly dazzling, especially when he was having a good day.

On a good day, he was charming. It was dangerous, actually. More dangerous to you than his fangs or his speed or strength. It was dangerous because he had the ability to make your head spin with nothing more than a rakish grin and a few choice words. His chivalry was also unmatched.

But you also knew him enough by now to know there were an equal amount of bad days. He'd vehemently denied it, but when he was approaching hunger, he was quite difficult to deal with. Petulant, fussy, and altogether irritable, you'd send him away from you and tell him not to contact you again until he could act right. He'd usually part from you with a frown and a muttered, "You are a wretched girl. I'm being perfectly reasonable."

He would never admit to you that you were right, every time.

You couldn't get a sense of how often his feeds were. You didn't know if it depended on amount or the span of time, and you didn't want to ask. But you always knew when he had. Over time, his eyes would become less blue, more an icy gray. It would draw you back to when you'd discovered his true nature, to the piercing shade of blue they'd been after he'd drank from the doe. Blood brought life back to him, in a manner of speaking. You kept the knowledge to yourself.

After the year's first frost, you started seeing Christmas decorations popping up. The town square, a place that was known for holding events during holidays, had lights strung into its trees. It started to get darker earlier. It would soon be too cold to sit with James on your porch. Your visits would be more limited.

But for now, you kept to walking around town with him. You were safe among other people. As it was, you were listening to him complaining about the cold. You hummed, hands in the pockets of your puffy coat. "I would have thought you'd enjoy the winter."

He frowned at you. "The cold makes my reflexes slower. I may not be able to stand in the sun, but I crave the heat. Why do you think I chose a home with such a large fireplace?"

It was an interesting aspect to learn of. "How much slower?"

"Hmm?"

"How much slower does it make you?"

He exhaled with an irritated whoosh. "It depends on how cold it is, how hungry I am. I would still be faster than you," he said, looking you up and down, "but not by too much. If you had a stake, you'd have a better chance of using it."

You raised a brow. "Is your weird, witchy hypnotic power still strong?"

Because yes, you'd learned about that. He'd explained that it was something to do with pheromones and eye contact, though you didn't really understand. And you'd refused a demonstration.

"Yes, unless the person I'm using it on is strong willed. And we already know that you are."

"We do?"

At this, he looked guilty. "Well, yes. The first time I asked to be invited in, I, ah…" He ran a hand over his mouth. "I tried it on you. I wasn't at my full strength, but I still should have been able to overpower you. But you have a strong mind. I couldn't bend you to my will."

You scoffed, shaking your head. You weren't offended, not really. You could have guessed as much. "Just for that, I feel like I should be allowed to take a stab at you just once."

"Mmm, maybe one of these days, you will."

His comment drew you both inwards, for a time. Already you rejected the notion. You couldn't imagine a circumstance that he would allow himself to be so hungry and also in your presence, to the point of real, mortal danger. Of course, it was a possibility, a small part of you argued. But knowing him, knowing how his mind worked, at least a little… No, you didn't believe there would ever come a time where that would happen.

You'd just walked the perimeter of the square with him, passing by what was now a quite dead rose bush, sagging against a small cluster of nearly bare trees. James's gaze settled somewhere around your shoulder. "Hold still," he instructed, hand reaching for you, "you've got a leaf in your hair."

You shouldn't have felt such a prickle of awareness. You couldn't detect the touch of his fingers between your strands of hair, pulling the offending foliage free. The following touch, however, the barest brush of his fingertips on your neck as he pulled away, had you holding your breath. Inexplicably, you felt your heartbeat speed up. If he heard it, which you guessed he did, he was kind enough not to comment.

You pivoted, needing to break the contact. "Does hot chocolate do anything for you, or does it hold no appeal?" You asked, willing your voice to come out evenly.

He watched you for a moment, thoughtful. "It's not my preference, but I suppose I could be persuaded."

The trust between you had grown, though you were still careful to heed his warnings. James had asked you once, playfully, if he could come in after he'd walked you home. You'd almost said yes, not wanting the conversation to end there, your fingers frozen from being outside, but you'd denied him, like you promised you would. He'd given you a satisfied look, like he was proud of you for passing the test.

That didn't mean there weren't a couple of times where it hadn't been so light and breezy.

To your knowledge, James had used his power to get himself access to a few homes in the neighbourhood. He would go in when necessary, take what blood he needed, and steal away into the night once more without a trace of what he'd done. But you had a feeling that sometimes, James ignored his thirst in order to spend time with you. It was made more obvious one evening, when he was bidding you goodbye. Or well, he was supposed to. You were caught off guard when you turned to say goodnight after unlocking the door. Suddenly, he was right there. You caught his scent, smokey and warm, as he leaned over you, one of his hands finding purchase on the brick by your head. His voice was a low rasp by your ear. "We've had such a wonderful evening, my darling, why end it here? Let me come in with you, hmm?"

You felt like you'd had too much to drink, though you hadn't had a sip of alcohol. You were off-kilter. He certainly didn't stand in such close proximity to you like this often. You should have seen the signs of his hunger earlier—his eyes had been a more glacial gray, and he'd been a bit fidgety—but you had been distracted by the lighthearted debate you'd been having about what made books classics. He, being around for the birth of many of them, had had some interesting takes. And that was one of the things you loved most about being in his company. the ease of which you could let a conversation whisk you bad in time. He made you feel almost like you'd lived it, too. And now, you were dealing with the consequences of his company.

You came to your senses, though just barely. His eyes were boring into yours, but the briefest flicker of his teeth showed in your periphery. His mouth was just slightly open, and you got the idea that he was breathing in whatever intoxicating aroma your blood gave off, coursing through your veins like a current. You put a hand up, brushing the lapels of his coat. Of course, you'd be no match for him if he really wanted to bite you, but your hand on him seemed to give him pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, James. When's the last time you ate?" You kept your voice soft, unguarded. You didn't want him to feel any guilt.

He blinked once, like he was breaking the spell, and then closed his eyes. You saw the guilt anyway. "I'm—I'm sorry, I forgot myself. I'll go."

He had put distance between you in the span of a second, already on the street. He turned to walk up the hill. "James?" You called out, tentative.

He didn't speak, but he stopped to turn and meet your eye. "It's okay. just please go and eat."

He nodded once, a complicated mix of emotions crossing his face, and then kept going. Even though you were friends, you were both very aware that he was predator, and you were prey, and that wasn't likely to change, no matter how comfortable you felt.

He was much more careful after that. You almost never saw his eyes as anything other than blue, and you started to wonder if maybe he was taking care to drink every time he planned to see you. It was sort of flattering, though you'd never tell him that. You got the idea that he wouldn't be very happy, if he knew.

You'd never asked James about his time with his coven. You knew it was a sore subject, and didn't want to risk upsetting him. You figured that if it was a story worth telling, he would come to you when he was ready. You could only tiptoe around the subject.

Your hunch was right.

Cold, crisp morning light filtered in through the attic window, and you stood in the center of it. James was tucked away in the shadows, dragging an idle finger across the piano keys. Even though he wasn't playing a composition, it still sounded musical to you, each note precise. "I know you said that you mostly played for others," you said, treading carefully, "but did you have any favourite songs?"

James shook his head. "They all played much the same to me. But my coven's leader preferred Horowitz or Rachmaninoff. We had private audiences with them many times."

It was the most he'd told you so far. You warred with not wanting to push it, and being wildly curious. You settled for the safest question you could ask. "I take it you played at your leader's request, then."

"Yes. Though they were more demands than requests." He pressed down on a key, the low thunk ringing across the room. "One could never say no to Johann."

Johann. Immediately, you didn't like the man. "And if you did?"

James sounded very far away, when he responded. Like he was coming to you from a different stretch of time. "Then you would learn what true pain felt like."

It was a foreboding answer. You stood in the silence, unsure what to say, but James turned on the bench to face you. His fingers played some sort of melody, even though he was no longer looking at the keys. "There's no use telling you his name, because you'll never meet him, but I supposed it makes the whole thing easier to tell. When I was with him, he ruled with an iron fist." His eyes flicked away, a distant expression painting his face. "Some of our kind don't care to use their power to make their feedings more pleasant to the host. Some drink up the pain and fear as well as the blood." He looked directly at you. "To Johann and his underlings, it was a fun, sick sport. Many of them were old enough to forget what humanity was."

There was a warning in those words, you were sure. James was telling you that while he might be affable and pleasant to interact with, there was potential that he wouldn't be, one day. That he would become a true monster, a yawning pit of hunger in the place of a soul.

"But not you?" you asked. In many fictional vampire tales, you remembered them saying that blood lust was an untameable beast.

He twisted away, back to the keys. "No, not me. My transformation was… traumatic." He laughed, though it was flat. "They usually are. But I refused to be like him, like them. It was my only way to defy him, to keep my conscience. I thought I would die under his rule, and I often thought my actions to resist were pointless. I didn't have any hope of being free." The admission sank in your gut like a stone. "It was pure luck that I got away, and that I managed to stay away."

You itched to cross the room and slide onto the bench beside him. To hug him and tell him that as long as you were around, he would only have blue skies and better days ahead. But you refrained, glued to your spot in the sun. There was nothing you could say to take from the decades of torture he'd endured. All you could do was make sure there was no way for it to happen again.

You both let the topic drop, unwilling to press on the wound anymore than you already had. He'd already given you much more than you'd ever expected to get. You admired him, cast in shadow. His side profile, the shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead, only to be raked back by his nimble fingers. The cut of his clothes, so unlike what other men wore. He was like no one you'd ever met before, no one you would ever meet again. Your very skin felt warm at the thought, but you pretended it was just the sun heating you to your bones, instead. "What matters is that you are away. This town doesn't even have a population of twenty thousand. And unless Johann is looking to join the HOA meetings, this place probably won't be very interesting to him."

You didn't now what spurred it on. You'd known James for a full season, now. Christmas had come and gone, and he'd respected your wish to not exchange presents. Instead, you'd shared dinner on Christmas Eve before you left town to stay with your mother for a few days. It was the night before you were due to come back to what had become a cozy little town, to you. You had been trying to curb your enthusiasm, but your excitement to see James again couldn't be cured.

It started when your head hit the pillow. The sheets were cold, and you shivered, burrowing deeper under the blankets. The moon peered through the edges of the curtains, and you shifted away from the window, intent on sleep. And you fell through the layers of wakefulness, teetering right on the edge of deep, dreamless rest.

But you felt more than heard the rustle of fabrics. Distantly, with your last bit of awareness, you imagined it to be your own sheets, shifting with your movement. You thought you could almost smell something smokey, woodsy, rich. It was familiar. You couldn't place it. The tethers of consciousness were beginning to snap, but some part of you was still clinging on. The sigh, the soft murmurs were whispered to the recesses of your mind, like a caress. You thought you heard your name, but it was mumbled. A comforting touch, trailing along your skin like soft sparks of electricity. The graze of something against your neck. You felt it twice, three times more, before there was a firmer press. You thought it would hurt, the pressure, but instead, it felt like a release of every fear, every worry, tension you didn't even know you were carrying. Your own voice, slurred and thick as syrup.

"James."

You woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a hand flying to your neck. It was smooth, untouched, no slick blood. No wandering hands on your body. The air smelled clean. You'd dreamed it, dreamed him.

You should have been unnerved, uncomfortable with the idea. But your body, traitorous as it was, only felt a buzz of energy, a surge of contentment. A thread of… longing. You'd never asked James if being bitten was painful. He'd alluded to using his influence to make it as pleasurable as possible for his hosts, but you had no idea what that truly meant. Especially since his influence seemed to slide off you like water off a duck's feathers.

Would it really be so bad, to offer a vein to James? If he'd been feeding from the other residents in town like he said, he must have had some semblance of control. No deaths had been reported. The only murder you'd seen had been the deer. You had a feeling that causing the end of a life, at least a human one, would haunt James. Despite his lack of social gatherings, you knew that he enjoyed being among the living. You could see it every time you went out together. You thought that perhaps he yearned to soak up the sun with you sometimes, when you mentioned going shopping in the middle of the day, or walking your neighbour's dog as a favour. Was there really a threat of harm in being another source for him?

You rubbed at your neck again with a heavy sigh, before curling up in your bed once more.

Sleep was not to be had after all, it seemed.

You took care to erase the dream from your mind. To your credit, you greeted James normally, upon returning to town. You went for dinner at a popular restaurant as soon as the sun went down, and he asked you questions about your family, eyes curious in the candlelight. For all intents and purposes, your return was as unceremonious as it could have been, both of you on your best behaviour. But still, as you filled the silence, the thought began slinking around in the back of your head like an unwelcome guest.

You waited until you'd both ventured back outside. You paused under the awning as James reached to fix your scarf, fishing it from the collar of your coat to lay it properly around your throat. You'd become used to such ministrations, though sometimes you could feel your heart skip a beat. His tongue poked out just a little as he concentrated. "I think this colour suits you quite well," He said, straightening. "It brings out your eyes." His hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to.

You tucked your chin into the plum coloured cashmere. "This was one of my Christmas gifts."

The streets were mostly empty, the lamps dotted along the sidewalk illuminating the way. It was around a twenty minute walk, to make it to your house. Gallantly, James offered an arm, and you folded your gloved hand around it, leeching some of his body heat. The twinkle of stars overhead seemed to make the snow sparkle. You hesitated before speaking. "When you use your influence to feed… Is it taxing, for you? Does it take a lot of energy?"

You felt his eyes on you, but kept staring ahead. "…It depends," he started slowly, "on who I'm influencing, and how weak I am. I've built up a good enough rapport with most of my hosts. It's as taxing as lifting a pebble, for them. For you, to truly bend you to my will, it would be more akin to pushing a boulder uphill. I could do it, but it would take time and focus. There are some rare humans with such iron wills that it would be as difficult as trying to move a mountain. It's easier to go for a weaker, more malleable target than expend my energy working on a stubborn one. It takes less effort than physically overpowering someone, but it can still be draining."

"And… Have you ever had a host that you didn't need to manipulate? That just… offered themselves up?" You could hear with your own ears how unsure you sounded.

At this, James looked at you until you met his eye. "No, never. Any human that's done that has had some sort of altering of the mind. Some of my kind will push hard, even when their target is weak willed. And pushing too hard can splinter a human's psyche, damage them completely." He paused, swallowing, looking away. "Johann used to do that, sometimes. Keep the human around, half-gone and pleading to be useful, until he got bored of them."

An bird cawed as you passed the last of the shops, and you saw the brush of inky black feathers in one of the trees. You were starting to get towards the residential part of town. You hadn't truly thought through how you would offer your… services, as they were. But now you felt too afraid to. Not because you were scared of James, but because you were afraid he would say no. He hid it well, but he treated you as delicately as spun sugar. Even if you told him that he wouldn't have to try manipulating you, that you were willing, you knew he would turn inwards, blame himself for making you think it was okay.

Still, as you traversed, arm in arm with him, you considered it. Maybe you'd be able to work up the nerve, at some point, but it wouldn't be tonight. The tiny shred of your thoughts that you kept locked away peeked out then. They were the ones that made you imagine the sensation of James's mouth on your neck, his hands on your body, the way he might say your name. You desperately willed the ideas to dissipate into mist. You doubted he was interested in you that way anyway. A part of you bitterly thought, from time to time, that you were only close because you'd happened to divulge him of his secret. As far as you knew, you were the only human soul to know of his true existence.

You shifted the conversation to something lighter, instead focusing on what had gone on in town while you'd been away. "I take it you completely ignored the fireworks display that they put on for New Year's?"

He scoffed, drawing you closer when a heavy gust of wind buffeted you. "So much excitement over some loud noise and repetitive lights. I've never quite seen the appeal."

January brought some of the coldest temperatures you'd seen since moving here. And what better way to pass a day off than to while away the hours until nightfall than to lose yourself in the town's library? James had told you a little of the town's history, something he'd looked into during his endless spare time, and it was the perfect day for you to do so, as well. You'd already finished your work for the day. Remote jobs certainly had their perks. So you'd braved the subzero temperatures and settled in one of the wingback chairs near one of the big windows, flecks of snow idly swirling by.

You got lost in the archives. Newspapers going back one hundred years were still mostly preserved, with old, yellowed photographs of earlier residents. You noticed relatives of your neighbour, Virginia, easy to spot by their light hair and tall statures. Some last names stuck out to you as well, and you traced your finger over the likes of Wilson and Parker. Some of their offspring still lived here, too.

It was downright cute to read about winners of the annual gardening competitions—something that still went on to this day—as well as to spot when new traditions had been formed. You liked knowing more. If you were going to stay here for a while, it was nice to brush up on the town's history. At the very least, it would give you something to talk about at the next gathering you were invited to, rather than standing awkwardly to the side or clinging to a passing neighbour.

When you deigned to look outside again, night had already fallen, a soft dusting of snow across the pavement. The wind shook the branches of the trees planted outside. In the summer, the area in front of the window was an outdoor reading nook, but now, the benches were blanketed by ice. You stretched, standing and shuffling the archives into a neat pile to give back to the librarian. You weren't surprised to find James lingering by the front desk. He'd known of your plans, had offered to meet you when he woke up. He still looked adorably sleepy, his hair a bit of a mess, though you didn't know if it was bedhead or the result of the weather. He straightened when he saw you, brushing his hands down the front of his coat, though the fabric was already perfectly smooth. "I'll warn you, it's quite biting out there," He said by way of greeting, already extending his arm for you to take.

You waved a hand, unbothered. "Yes, well, I'm not as… delicate about the cold as some people."

He huffed when he pushed at the heavy doors. "You really are a wicked girl. I'm merely sensitive to it."

You weren't able to keep a straight face, nor hold in your laugh. "Sensitive is certainly one way to put it."

You loved moments like this the most, where there was nothing heavy to discuss. as much as you were unfathomably curious about James and his entire sordid tale, what you really enjoyed were the pockets of time that you spent together with no agenda other than each other's company.

The wind whistled as you cut through it together, up the main street. There were no cars or other people out tonight. Really, it was too cold to be traipsing about. Your fingers and toes were already starting to tingle with discomfort. You kept your head bent against the frigid air, your forehead practically touching James's shoulder from how closely you clung to him.

James's change in demeanor was as abrupt as a shift in the air. One moment, your laughter had been carrying across the street, and the next, you could feel the change in his body, muscles coiled with tension. It was like when you could feel the sky, close and low, an impending storm on the horizon. "No… I was so careful," He murmured to himself.

You didn't have time to ask him before your senses became aware too, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up in warning.

There had been no one there in one breath. By the next, he was standing a little ways away, under the intersection's stoplight. Tall, imposing. If Dracula had been based on anyone, it would have been him. He was stick thin, his long coat hanging off his frame. He was built more like a scarecrow than a man. You could make out his widow's peak even from the distance at which you stood. You didn't understand how he could look so sickly, the heavy circles under his eyes making them look sunken in. His skin was pallid—you could still tell, even though the only light was coming from the moon. You would have thought someone who took blood and life so voraciously would look to be in better health. You wondered if it had something to do with his humanity, or lack thereof.

You knew who he was, without having to be introduced.

"Ah, Bucky. it's been so long, my old friend. I've been looking for you for quite a while." He stood in the middle of the black street, the moon low and full, painting him in ivory.

Johann, in the flesh.

There was no time to run—no use to try. You knew you wouldn't get a single step before Johann would be there, snapping your neck as easily as a twig.

"Don't call me that," James snarled, teeth bared. You were rattled. You'd never heard him so affected before. He'd stepped just a little bit in front of you, your hand falling from his arm, like he was preparing for a fight.

"You've brought us a nice meal, I see." Johann was observing you, paying no mind to James. He cocked his head to the side like a magpie spotting a shiny trinket.

James reached behind him, finding your wrist and gripping tight enough to bruise. It wasn't on purpose. You believed he might have been as scared as you were. "Play along." It was whispered so quietly, you thought you'd imagined it.

To Johann, he said, tone firm, "I don't share my food. This one's mine; This whole town is."

Everything about you and James screamed tense, but there was nothing you could do except follow along with whatever he decided to do. You'd long since thought that James was a lover over a fighter, and you supposed you were about to find out. You didn't know if Johann would entertain the notion or not. He steepled his fingers together under his mouth, his eyes still on you, before making a soft tsking sound. "Ah, Bucky. You always were such a valiant boy." His tone was mildly chiding, like he was scolding a pet or a small child. "But do you really think I've come to you alone?"

James's fingers flexed on your skin. Whatever look passed on his face amused Johann. "Yes, yes. I've brought a few of your old friends with me. You remember Margaret, I'm sure? Aldrich? You always used to have fun together. Ivan too, yes. He's such a fan of quaint little hovels like this one." At this, he glanced around, his look of disdain clear.

The next thing he said was in a hushed whisper, almost too faint for you to hear, but it sent a chill racing down your spine. "If you don't wish to complicate things, you will give me the girl as an offering for forgiveness, and you will come along when I have finished here. Or would you like to see how many families we can eat our way through instead?" Johann smiled, then, like he was doing James a simple kindness.

You waited, your every cell singing with fear. But not for yourself. It had taken James years to get away from his coven. You were sure it would destroy him to go back. But he would do it, if it meant keeping you, and everyone else, safe. The silence made your skin hurt. Whatever Johann could see in James's eyes, he revelled in it. "I'll do you a courtesy, give you a day to decide, yes? Let this one," he gestured to you, teeth on show as he grinned, "say her goodbyes. That's the same courtesy I afforded you, you'll remember. I let you lay side by side with your loved one. Until then, Bucky. And do take care to be prompt. You know how much I hate being made to wait."

He was gone with a swish of his coat, like you'd imagined him there. Like he'd never been. The cold night came rushing back to you. You were shivering, shaken. Your teeth clicked together, the rattling uncontrollable. You weren't sure if it was due to shock or the weather.

You hardly noticed James's arm coming around your shoulders, tucking you close, nor the brisk pace he set. He didn't stop until you were blinking into the warm yellow light of the chandelier in his foyer. It looked so merry, the glow, that you really did start to wonder if you'd dreamed Johann up. It took a few minutes of him standing in front of you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, inviting heat back into your body, before you zeroed in on the matter at hand. "They can breach your house. Invitations don't work for you, do they?" You asked it, but you already knew the answer.

"Yes, that's right."

"Come to mine, then. We'll be safe there while we figure out what to do." It was the easiest thing you'd ever offered up.

James gave you a searching gaze, hands stilling on your shoulders. The worry in his eyes was as clear as a neon light. "I told you never to invite me in."

"I trust you, James."

He looked wounded when you said it, instead of pleased. "No," He said brokenly. Saying your name seemed to cost him something, the way it was wrenched from him like it was a piece of his soul. "You should go. Once you're inside, you'll be safe. I can take care of it on my own."

He was putting on a brave face. It made you so impossibly sad. You knew that by 'taking care of it', he'd go to Johann. He'd bargain in some way to spare you, and sentence himself to more misery. And you were sure that this time, Johann would ensure that no repeat attempts to escape would work. "No. Come with me. Stay with me, please. You'll be safe too. He won't be able to get to you."

His touch on your face was hesitant, gentle as a butterfly's wing. Your lids fluttered at the feeling. "I need to keep everyone else safe. I can't do that if I'm with you. And what good is my life if I let humans die in my wake, when I'm the one he wants?"

You put your hand over his, holding tight, like if you were strong enough you'd be able to keep him there. "Let me do something. Let me help you."

James closed his eyes, like it was painful to look at you. He leaned forward, his forehead tipping to yours. "I promised you that you wouldn't be in danger. I have to keep that promise, you dreadful girl."

You felt tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, your throat tight. You had a horrible feeling that if you let him out of your sight, you'd never see him again. "James," you breathed. It was all you said. You couldn't force any of the other things you wanted to declare out. The words coated your tongue, your teeth, instead.

"Let me take you home." Home was imprinted in your skin, his lips brushing your forehead before he pulled away from you.

"Why did he call you that? Bucky?"

He flinched, eyes downcast. "It was something… something my sister used to call me. That's all. He used it to mock me."

It wasn't all, not by a long shot. But a story from the past wasn't going to help you, not now, and he'd already suffered enough. He swept his thumb across your cheek. "Let me take you home," he repeated.

You let him. James kept you bundled in his coat, the extra layer saving you from the biting temperature. Its hem reached your ankles as he walked with you, his steps quick, his hand firm on your back. You hurried down the hill together, to your house. When you unlocked the door and stepped in, you turned to face him. He gripped the lapels of the coat, more to steady himself than anything, but you imagined for a moment that it was because he couldn't bear to go. "He won't act right away. He likes to play with his food. He'll give me tonight, but it's all I have. I need to prepare."

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated; he was considering lying to you. But his face softened. He was giving you the truth, instead. "I don't know."

He was letting go of you too quickly. You scrambled to catch at his wrists. "James," your voice was more steady than you felt, "I'm inviting you in. Please come in."

It felt like the air around you shuddered, like some great beast you couldn't see was shaking itself free of chains. You thought it impossible for James to look any more heartbroken, but his expression was more stricken than before. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It's a precaution. If your plan doesn't work, come here. Please. Please promise you will." You refused to let go of him, not until he agreed.

He hung his head. He was quiet for the space of three uneven breaths, before he whispered, voice catching on the wind, "I promise, you horrible, wretched creature."

It made you smile, despite the situation. You had never minded when he called you that. You dropped your hands from him, even though your body was shrieking at you to drag him inside. "I'll see you." You spoke like it was gospel. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He couldn't bring himself to be honest that time, so he chose the lie. "Tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the only evidence of him being there the scent of him, and his coat, still wrapped around you.

You paced in your kitchen. The cheery white and blue back splash bore witness to your strides as you thought, chewing on your lip. You had to help him. You couldn't just sit by and let him go back to Johann's coven. It wasn't fair, for starters, and it was just so morally wrong that it left you feeling like you needed a shower, as if you could scrub the idea of it away.

James would be furious if you used yourself as bait, you knew.

But you would be furious with yourself if you didn't do something. There were too many things to consider. Each idea you dreamt up was discarded in a steadily growing pile. Johann was very obviously a god compared to you. Even James would struggle to take him on. There was little that you could do. And you would probably fail.

You'd risk yourself for his freedom. You had this blind faith that he'd save you, if he could. That was what he was trying to do right now, by making you stay here. But even if he couldn't, you didn't care, if it meant that he could evade Johann. It was startling how sure you were. That you'd risk your life for him, without a second thought.

You clipped the corner of your counter with your hip as you turned sharply. Your eyes drifted up, not really seeing at first, but then they caught sight of your fireplace, across the house, in the living room. Tiny as a sprout, an idea started to take shape. You had no idea if it would really even have a chance at working. But as it began to form in your mind, wild, unfiltered hope started to build.

It felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, to keep away from you. James had resisted contacting you for the rest of the night. He knew you wouldn't sleep, knew that if he just stood on your porch step and knocked, you'd welcome him with open arms. He couldn't do that. Not when he wasn't sure that he'd be strong enough to leave you when it came time to. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough. And he couldn't risk damning you. This penance had to be taken alone.

He worked through the night, quick and quiet. Just because he didn't enjoy the hunt like most others, didn't mean he lacked the skills. And he'd always been good at hunting big game. It came at a cost—it always did—but each kill he made brought him closer to the goal. Thinning the herd wouldn't solve the problem, but he was damn well going to make sure he did something about it before he condemned himself.

James was not strong enough.

He'd worked through the night, right up until first light. He felt himself dragging, but wouldn't allow himself to sleep the day away. He was too worried to do that. He was out of his house, a smudge of dark against the snow, as soon as the sun had started to dip away. He ignored the queasy ache he felt as the light grazed his skin, and kept at the job.

But then, right as the moon made her debut, he found himself on your street. He stood there, looking at your house. The shape of the roof, the dark gray of its shingles. The brick, which had been painted white by the previous owners. Your big rocking chair on the porch, its tasselled red cushion. James thought it would be the last time he saw it. He thought he'd already seen you for the last time, the night before. This was to be his final, silent goodbye. But then he saw a shift in the curtains upstairs.

You saw him. Of course you did; you'd been looking outside all day, sequestered safely indoors. Just because James couldn't handle the sun well didn't mean that Johann suffered as much.

You were moving down the stairs, shoes scuffing on the carpeted runner, and flying to the door as quickly as you could. You didn't want him to go before you could say something. You put one foot on the threshold, and—

"Please don't come out." he called, but his voice was soft, hushed, like he didn't want to disturb your neighbours. "It's not safe."

Your foot hovered there, defiant. You set your jaw. "I'll do what I like, unless you come in." You rested the toe of your shoe on the porch, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

He could see you were serious. You were surprised that he didn't try harder to sway you into staying in. You felt a pang in your chest, when he got close enough. His eyes were the silver of steel, flinty and tired. He didn't look well, not at all. His clothes seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. You plucked at his sleeve with your fingers. "Come."

A sigh, a murmured, "terrible girl," but he allowed you to pull him in behind you, your hand slipping to his.

Having James in your house didn't feel any different than it had with him out of it. There was no ripple of awareness, no notion of a protective shell. The invitation has done it all, the day before. Just James, on the beige rug that hid the scratched floorboards. Just James, outlined by the open door, the black night, until you closed it, the lock snapping with a clunk. Just James, bleary-eyed and still, looking only at you, instead of the basket of laundry at the base of the stairs, or his coat that he'd left you with hung on one of the pegs on the wall, or the bills on the side table that you hadn't dealt with yet.

"You need to eat." Your voice betrayed your concern. You crossed your arms, unable to tear your eyes from him.

"There's no time for that. I don't have the wherewithal to hunt, let alone use my influence."

"I'm right here."

You'd finally said the words. They didn't seem the register, the meaning behind them, at first. Confusion furrowed his brow, and you longed to smooth it with your thumb. Then, all at once, realization crossed his face, horror passing soon after it. "Don't say that."

"James, please. You look like you're going to pass out. I'm here, and I'm telling you it's okay. Please let me help you."

He turned away, a hand covering his eyes. "No."

You didn't even think about what you were doing, but the next move you made was to close the distance between you and wrap your arms around him. Your forehead brushed his jaw. You felt it tense against your skin. "You're going to give away your freedom for me." You sounded braver, more sure, than you really felt. "I won't let you do that without offering something in return."

He'd stayed as still as a statue while you'd embraced him, but his body was warm. He settled, infinitesimally, into your hold. Slow as molasses, you felt his arms encircle you in return. You felt the shudder of his sharp inhale, heard the low sound in his throat, because that breath had made him inhale your scent. You wondered how enticing you smelled right now, when he was at his weakest. "You don't even have to influence me. I want to help you, James. Please let me."

"I…" He breathed into your hair.

Then he was really holding you, his arms firm, his hand stroking up and down your spine, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. "You would do this for me?"

"I trust you. You won't hurt me. and you need this. I'd do this for you. I'd let you drain me dry, if it would give you a fighting chance." The admission floated free, tangled around you both like a thread.

He shifted until he was cupping your face, making you look him directly into those wide, gorgeous eyes. "I won't take a lot. Just what I need to… to get by." He swallowed hard, your eyes flickering to the movement and back.

"I want you to be at your strongest. Do what you have to."

Still, he hesitated, tucking you hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing against you skin. You fought a shiver of delight. You hadn't realized how much you'd been craving the touch, any touch, from him. He trailed his hand from the shell of your ear down to the side of your neck, tapping his fingers gently. It was an idle rhythm, one that took a second to identify: it was La Vie en Rose. He'd played it once or twice in front of you, though never in full, and it was a song that you'd always liked. The melody played in your head, in time to his fingers. You felt your shoulders loosen from their tense, tight position, your head tilting a little to the side. "Relax, darling girl. Just relax."

He might not have been using any influence on you, but you could have been fooled. Your body seemed to uncoil at his words. The hand at your neck stopped tapping, turning into a soft caress. You almost wanted to close your eyes. You saw his fangs from the edge of your vision as he bent his head. "Your scent has always been breathtaking to me," His murmur, by your ear, made your stomach do a somersault. "I could smell you as soon as you moved to town. I've never been so seduced by one person's blood before."

You could feel your heart rate picking up, and you knew that James could, too, a breathy chuckle escaping him. "I told you to relax."

"I'm trying," you muttered, though you didn't sound very convincing.

It was infinitely harder to relax at the brush of his mouth right under your ear. You didn't know at first if it was supposed to be a kiss, or if he was just breathing you in. You became more certain at the soft, unhurried trail he left down your neck. It took everything you had to hold back a whimper. Your hands came up shakily, landing against his chest. You didn't know if you wanted to grab him, to hold on, or not. You felt like your atoms would shake apart and reduce you to nothing.

The first graze of James's teeth was welcome. The kiss he placed was messier, more open-mouthed. Your face grew warm at the idea of there being a mark left behind, the reddish colour of a hickey blooming in his wake.

The second touch of his canines was more firm. You didn't quite realize when he'd bitten you, at first. It was more like the prick of a thorn. You'd thought this would be the worst part, his fangs sinking into your flesh, seeking the red river beneath your skin. But instead, your eyelids fluttered closed, your mouth parting on a sigh.

You couldn't feel the blood leaving your body. You weren't really aware of anything, for a long, long time. Only James, one hand secure around your waist, the other cradling the other side of your neck, his lips at your throat. The quiet sounds of satisfaction he made, almost like a purr, his chest seeming to rumble beneath your splayed hands. Your head began to loll. You were sinking into a state of contentment you could only have dreamed of. Nothing else mattered except this. You wanted to curl closer, to lay against his shoulder, to become completely boneless in his wake, and let him take, and take, and take.

There was a small whine of displeasure that sounded like it came from a tunnel, a long way away. You didn't realize that it came from you, because James had stopped feeding. You swayed slightly on your feet, his tongue against your skin. Surely he wasn't done already? Why, he must have only just started! "James," your voice was slurred—you couldn't even tell if you'd spoken out loud or if it was in your head.

A gentle, fleeting kiss was placed over the spot that he'd pierced. "You're alright, my love. You'll be just fine."

At this, your eyes did close, and you felt yourself lean forward—or maybe you were falling—until your cheek rested by his collarbone. You felt very, very tired. The world went topsy-turvy for a moment, and it took a few long seconds to register that James had picked you up, swinging you into his arms, and was walking you into the living room. He was careful when he put you down on the sofa. Your hand shot out when he released you, touching his jaw, his chin. "Your eyes are blue again." Your voice sounded fuzzy.

They'd never looked so blue, you thought. Such a brilliant colour, rich and warm. And you were the cause. You gave him a lopsided smile. Worry creased his brow before he willed it away. "Lay back and try to rest. I may have taken a little too much, but you will recover. I swear it."

"I wish you could stay," you murmured, allowing him to push you back against the cushions.

"I wish I could stay, too." He held your hand in his, thumb rubbing across your fingers, before kissing your knuckles.

The resignation in his eyes felt like it could tear you in two. Distantly, a tiny part of you began to scream, to try to shake you back into wakefulness, into focus. "Do you have a plan?" You asked. You were forgetting why he needed one. Something important…

"To keep you alive." He started to let go of your hand, and you held fast, your other one coming down to stop him.

"I spent last night killing members of the coven one by one. They were scattered around, but I still managed to scent them and destroy them. I couldn't risk them coming back here on their own time, once I'm gone."

The explanation rang a bell in your head. That was right. The reason behind him drinking your blood. He was going away, to protect you. He lifted your hand again, though this time it was to look at your watch. He made a noise of frustration. "I have to go now. My time's almost up."

"Don't go." You pleaded. but you were too weak to put up any semblance of a fight. Even if you had been, it wouldn't have mattered. You were no match for him.

"I have to. For you. Remember? That's what this is all about." He touched your brow, your cheek, your jaw, like he was committing the shape of your features to memory, something to keep him alive once he was gone from you.

"Please don't leave me, James." Your voice sounded small, almost childlike.

He looked at the floor, but not before you saw the flash of anguish in those brilliant blue eyes. "I must. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

James tilted your chin up with his fingers, and pressed one final kiss to the corner of your mouth. You wished you'd had the wherewithal to pull him closer. "Our time together has been some of the best of my life. Please don't let my departure dampen your spirit. You are much too special to mourn someone like me." Then he stood, quick as a bolt of lightning, moving from your grasp. It took effort to sit up again, to try and reach for him, and he had already rounded the back of the couch, striding to the door, before you could try to stop him.

He gave you one last look at the door. If one look could speak, a novel would have poured forth, sprouting into existence, the pages filling with words upon words upon words. You could almost hear them, in the stretch of time where his hand found the lock and twisted.

And then there was nothing but the silence of your house, your slow, sad heartbeat, and a feeling of melancholy so strong you would have fallen to the floor if you'd been standing.

It took much longer than you liked to stop your head from swimming. You felt dizzy, like everything was just slightly off-kilter. But you didn't have time to waste. You had even less time than you'd hoped for. You knew James would likely go hunting for Johann, rather than just meet him. He might be giving in and offering himself up, but you doubted he'd simply lay down and show his belly.

You had the distinct feeling that Johann would know if you left the safety of your house. He expected James to bring you along, anyway, for you to be a sacrificial lamb. Well, you'd already decided that you would be. Just not in a manner that he might expect. If you were to die tonight, you wouldn't be the only one.

The walk uphill was hard. Harder still with what you carried with you, stolen from your neighbour's back porch. Your muscles felt like jelly. Each step was a battle, but you had to keep going. It was the only thing you could do, now. You should have felt the cold, but it didn't bother you as much as you thought it should have. You had a task in mind, and you'd damn well make sure you finished it.

James's house loomed at the top of the hill. Snow covered the roof, and like the first time, a group of ravens observed you curiously. They flew away as a group, a series of flapping wings and eerie caws, as you stumbled up the front steps. It was like they knew what was about to happen, and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. The gargoyle above the attic was a silent sentinel. Your footprints on the snow path were uneven. You were so, so tired.

The ornate looking key was made of iron. It fit in the lock easily. You'd had it since the day before, feeling it in James's coat when you'd hung it at your door. The ram's head kept a watchful eye on the street as you pushed through the door. Snow and slush slid off your boots and onto the rug. It was an antique, golds and reds and blacks in an intricate design, kept as clean as the day James had bought it. The velvet runner stretched down the long hallway.

The fireplace still had logs in it. You were glad—you didn't have the time or the energy to spend building it. You were anxious as you waited for the flames to catch. Once you were satisfied, listening to the crackle and pop! of the wood, a merry little tune, you moved to the next part of the plan. Your load became lighter as you traversed the stairs, weaving a path through the rooms. By the time you made it to the attic, you were able to discard what you'd been carrying, tucking it out of sight behind the piano.

The trips from the attic to all the other rooms in the house were the most taxing. Some lamps were small, the kind you'd imagine belonged on a nightstand. crystal and stained glass, oil and gas. Others were bigger, as tall as you. Lugging those around with both hands had you almost meeting your end at the bottom of the steps prematurely. But you managed, miraculously. You could imagine the cheery glow from outside. It might have looked like James was entertaining guests, from the way each room was lit up.

You stood in the sitting room for a few long minutes, feeling woozy. You might not have been able to smell the evidence of what you'd done, but it was making you lightheaded anyway. Or maybe that was the adrenaline you'd used up. But it wouldn't be long, now.

In fact, it wasn't long at all, as you stared into the flames. He didn't announce himself, only swept through the front door with ease, a brush of his coat, the tap of his boots.

Johann stared at you curiously. "Hello, little mouse. You came out of your house. Where is your protector?"

You made yourself look into those bottomless pits he called eyes. "Ridding the world of your kind, I'd expect." Your voice sounded thin, even to your own ears. At least if Johann killed you, you wouldn't be a very satisfying snack. You doubted you had very much blood left to give.

"And so you decided to offer yourself up to me here? How very poetic. What a gorgeous tableau it will be, for him to find your body here, in this place he calls home." You wouldn't describe the expression on Johann's face as a grin. It was too grotesque, too alien, to be called that, all teeth and no feeling.

His hands flexed at his sides, involuntarily. You thought he might be imagining squeezing the life out of you. "Come and get me then."

"Oh, sweet creature," he crooned, "I enjoy the chase much more. Run, little mouse. Let me enjoy the hunt."

It seemed that Johann was too excited by the idea to notice what you'd done. It had been your biggest gamble. Just because you couldn't smell it, just because it was odorless to a human, didn't mean it was that way to a vampire. But it seemed he was too distracted by you. So you'd give him the chase that he wanted. You needed him closer, anyway.

You slipped away into the kitchen. You couldn't hear Johann as you moved through the room, coming out into the dining room. The glow of the lamp in the corner bathed everything in yellow. You made your way back to the foyer. You couldn't anticipate the blow, but you definitely felt it in your ribs when you made impact with the wall. The gilded frame beside you shuddered and fell from its hook. Johann was silent as a wraith. But he let you go, watched with satisfaction as you wheezed, pressing a hand to your side. "Come now, little mouse. I want to taste your fear."

It was grim. You'd had a feeling he'd want to do it this way, to break you down until you were nothing, until you were battered and bloody, before sucking out your life. He let you dart away, halfway up the stairs, before a strong hand curled around one ankle and pulled. Your chin met one of the steps with a clatter, your eyes watering immediately. Your teeth rattled. Your ribs shrieked in protest. You clawed your way up, staggering to the landing.

And so the game went on.

Johann would let you get a little ways away before throwing you into walls, against furniture. Before yanking a handful of hair from your scalp. Before grasping at your wrist so tightly that you felt your bones bend a little before they snapped. Your scream was a long way off. It sounded like it came from under water. Blood had started to pour steadily from your nose. The last push had sent you face first into an ornate mirror. Your head was ringing.

You couldn't keep going. The spare room was where you decided to take your final stand. Decked out in blue and gold, the colours made brighter by the lamps dotted about, you made it to the window. You couldn't see the moon anymore. It was covered by the clouds, like it didn't want to bear witness to your death. You felt like you were going to throw up, you were so dizzy. Pain wracked every nerve. You had no idea how you were standing upright.

Panic finally started to take over when you couldn't get the window open. It was stuck fast, and you couldn't use the force that you needed with a broken wrist. Your nails started to splinter and break as you pulled and pushed, willing it to open, praying that it would.

"Little mouse, you are a fool to think you could get away from me. Where would you go? The only way out that way is down. Is that your wish?"

Johann was a spindly shadow in the doorway. Your fingers, slippery with blood, left marks on the white paint of the windowsill. Yes, your plan had been to go down. To make it out onto the overhang and try to scuttle down the gutter. It had been your only potential escape route. But it seemed the window had taken an oath to stay closed, and it would be keeping its promise.

Johann inhaled, eyes growing heavy. "Ah, there it is, little mouse. I wish you could smell it. Your fear is so exquisite."

He took his time, steps slow, as he crossed the room. You sagged against the window, too tired to move.

"Did your dear Bucky tell you that he begged me to save his sister? He thought I was an angel come to rescue them from harm, when we met."

His joy made you feel unbearably ill. "All that blood. What a wreck, that train collision. So many dead. So many dying."

Johann stopped in front of you. You had to crane your neck to meet his eyes, and it made your head throb. He looked behind you, then. His teeth gleamed. "Well, he's come just in time to see you meet your end."

Oh, no.

You'd hoped that James wouldn't have to see it. You didn't have time to register Johann's hand around your neck. One moment, you could breathe, and the next, your life was being squeezed out of you. And suddenly, you were cold.

The shattering glass didn't register for you for a long moment. But then you became aware.

Johann had slammed you through the glass. Blood was running from the back of your head, coating your neck. And he was holding you, dangling you like a worm on a hook, outside the window. Your hand scrabbled weakly at his wrist. "Do you remember, Bucky?" He laughed when you wheezed. His voice carried across the night. "Your darling Rebecca? She tasted so sweet when she screamed. I've never quite tasted a terror like hers, not since. But yours," He focused on you, instead of James, somewhere down below. "Yours might be close, little mouse." The curtains billowed around you, drawn out by the wind.

Your was name was shouted with a panic you should have felt. Instead, you were strangely blank. The pain in your ribs, your wrist, your head, fell away to a far-removed sensation. The cold was from the winter air, you thought. But it could have been the feeling of death's fingers reaching for you, too.

You let your hands dangle uselessly at your sides. Your fingers shook as you reached into your pocket. Your legs pinwheeled like they were trying to tread water, like they were seeking solid ground. "Shall I drop you, little mouse? Shall I let him try to catch you? Let him hold you as you die?"

Flick, flick, flick.

Whoosh.

The curtains turned gold, and so did Johann's coat. The lighter in your hand fell away, clattering off the roof and disappearing below. The fire was greedy, seeking anything it could reach.

He dropped you with a howl, his hands coming to his clothes, trying to pat at the fire, but it was no use. He was kindling in that room of gas and oil, the propane you'd lugged through the house. The fire was infinitely more hungry to feed than he was.

Your knees slammed against the overhang, jarring you and slowing your fall.

But you did fall. Gravity was a merciless goddess. She pulled you through the air. The house looked like a small, blooming sun. You didn't remember hitting the ground. All you could register was James, his arms around your prone form, his hands wet and red, his eyes wet too, and so, so blue. His mouth formed words, but you couldn't hear them.

Your plan had worked, and it was all you had set out to do. James would be free, now. A long, dark sleep sounded very nice, indeed.

James didn't know who had called the fire department. A neighbour had seen the house light up like a torch, he supposed. He heard Johann's shrieks of agony as he cradled you, tried to keep you conscious, but it was no use. The sirens racing uphill were all that kept him from panic. Johann was ashes by the time the firefighters pulled out their hoses.

You were light as a feather when James lifted you and brought you to the ambulance that had followed the firetruck up. They wasted no time. As soon as they saw you, they got right to work. The noise and chaos was deafening. James focused on your thin breaths instead. He thought you might have still been alive by sheer will. He'd caught you, but you'd both hit the ground hard, anyway. If he was injured at all, he couldn't tell. You were the concern. If you died…

The questions started as soon as the ambulance raced away. The local police were staring in amazement at the tinderbox on the top of the hill. James used any influence he had to pass off the most believable lies he could think of. It came down to him deciding on you house sitting for him while he was out of town, and an intruder breaking in. He couldn't explain the fire quite as well. It was chalked up to stray embers from the fireplace and the foolish amount of old lamps he'd collected.

As soon as he was able, James made it to the hospital. Your chart was very long. Internal bleeding, broken bones, a hell of a concussion… not to mention the blood loss. You didn't smell like yourself right now. The transfusion had muddied your scent, for the time being.

Your neighbours dropped by—half the town did, really—to drop off baskets of fruit and muffins, cards with well wishes, flowers and teddies. And James accepted them all on your behalf. It was the most the residents had seen of him. You hadn't woken up yet, but he wasn't concerned. You deserved to rest, after what you'd accomplished. You deserved everything.

He took the time to watch you, to listen to your breaths and your heartbeat, a cadence so familiar to him he could have played each beat on his piano. But the piano, like everything else in the house, no longer existed. Still, he tapped the matching rhythm against his knee, loyal at your bedside.

The day that your eyes fluttered open, James had already been gazing at your face. The bruise on your chin was so dark it almost looked black. He had no idea what Johann had done to give you that specific injury, but the doctor had said you were lucky you hadn't broken your jaw.

James scooted his chair forward until his knees brushed the bed and its starchy white blanket. His hand found yours, and he squeezed gently on your fingers. You did your best to squeeze back. You blinked at him, weary. "Did I actually survive that?" you croaked, your voice like sandpaper.

"You did." He helped you sit up enough to drink some water.

"Cool." You said with a wince, reaching a tentative hand to touch your ribs.

James gave you a look that was so severe, you shrank backwards. "You are the most foolish girl I've ever met. What were you thinking? You very nearly died." His anger was a quiet thing, but it was there all the same.

"Yes, well, I did factor that possibility in, you know. Figured it was worth it if I took out that monster in the process." You grimaced at the thought.

"How did you even…?" He shook his head in amazement.

At this, you had the audacity to look smug. "Virginia told me that she had bought this fancy, odorless propane for her husband's barbeque. I wasn't sure if it was really odorless, but it was the only thing I could get on such short notice. I guess I'll have to reimburse her…"

"That was so incredibly reckless."

You nodded sagely. "Well, so is collecting like, a million oil lamps. Probably wouldn't have been so flashy if I hadn't put those everywhere." You paused, out of breath. He could tell it was difficult for you to speak in your condition, but he had a feeling you wouldn't take kindly to being told to stay quiet. "I take it your house is toast, then?"

He nodded, bringing your hand to his mouth. He rested his lips against the backs of your fingers when he spoke. "It's barely more than a frame."

"That's okay. I have more than enough furniture at my house. You're not going to need much. Well, except for a new wardrobe."

You were talking like it was the obvious conclusion. That James, with no place to call home, would stay with you in yours from now on. He stared at you, wide eyed, at your easy smile. Your reaction to his expression was delayed, but your mouth flattened into an uncertain line eventually. You sounded decidedly more shy when you added, "If you want to, that is."

"Wretched girl. I'll go wherever you go, wherever you are. For as long as you'll have me."

It wasn't even close to what James wanted to say. He wanted to prostrate himself at your feet, to worship you until the end of time. And to keep you by his side for lifetimes upon lifetimes. He'd had the tentative, traitorous thought for weeks, but he'd never entertained it. It wasn't the time to now, either. But it cemented itself in his mind much more firmly.

"Be careful what you say. Forever is a long time." Your smile was back, a soft, sure thing. Like maybe you had a thought as to where his mind was at, even if he hadn't spoken it aloud, and you didn't mind one bit.

"Not with you. Forever won't be long enough."

TAGLIST;; @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, @flockoff-featherface, @unificsation, @firingstars, @barnesonly, @54nboo, @earthsmightiestbenders, @its-in-the-woods, @iamthatonefangirl, @winterdecember18, @houseofhyde, @heldbybarnes, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @stellacherryfairy, @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes, @buckysbunnny, @miraclediviner, @macbaetwo, @star-yawnznn, @kisskittenn, @dolcesaints, @akiyhara, @yourstrulymariii, @sassandscribbles, @emilyswortwellen, @colettebarnes, @starfire-irl, @pinksplace, @lunaskye999, @spdrveil, @shackoflove, @bbyanarchist, @venigrantrogers, @idkbeautiful, @randomfanpage

[andyss-world]

Woowowww wooooowww woowww I loveeeeeeeeeee

[brunchable]

Wildest Dreams [masterlist]

You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easy— he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You don’t belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it can’t last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, you’ll both realize the same thing too late—enemies were never supposed to feel like this.

 ݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut.

part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v ᥫ᭡ final

[andyss-world]

Literally my fav I love it I love it. I love it. 💛💛

[brunchable]

Wildest Dreams [masterlist]

You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easy— he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You don’t belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it can’t last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, you’ll both realize the same thing too late—enemies were never supposed to feel like this.

 ݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut.

part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v ᥫ᭡ part vi ᥫ᭡ part vii ᥫ᭡ final

[superbassbuck]

captain american idiot

pairing: teenage dirtbag!steve rogers x nerd!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, college au, banter, alcohol, second chance, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, miscommunication, arguments, fluff, public sex, fingering, finger sucking, dry humping, names: "good girl" "baby"

word count: 14.5k

a/n: its finally out... thank you to the readers who are supporting my dirtbag series! dedicated to my best steve girlies who watched me slave over this: @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @epiphanyrogers

☆ main masterlist || steve's playlist || dirtbag marvel series || bucky's story ☆

synopsis: Years of drift had turned you and Steve Rogers into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Steve is miraculously crawling back.

You remember it as clear as day.

Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.

“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”

“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you. 

It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near. 

“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”

Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”

And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.

Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.

It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy. 

It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky. 

One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.

“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”

You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”

“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”

You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”

Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class. 

“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”

You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.” 

Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer. 

“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”

You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.

“Very funny, Stevie.”

“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”

“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”

“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”

Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”

You knew exactly where this was going. 

After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity. 

As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.

“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”

You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.

“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”

You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”

“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”

You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”

“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”

“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”

You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.

Making you feel small yet again. 

“About what?” he challenged. 

You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway. 

“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”

Steve’s face fell. 

The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.

“Steve… I—”

“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”

Christ.

You had attacked the one thing he loved most.

What kind of friend were you?

“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”

“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”

He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door. 

“I’ll see you around.”

Then the door shut coldly. 

Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.

You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.

It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?

Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.

Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court. 

Unmoved.

You missed Steve dearly.

He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him. 

You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.

“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.

He also looked like he had been working out. 

He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.

Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.

Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.

“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.

You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.

“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.

“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.

“He would want you there, you know.”

You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?

You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.

“No, he wouldn’t.”

It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.

“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”

Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener? 

He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.

Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”

Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask. 

Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.

“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied. 

He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.

“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”

“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.

“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?

“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”

The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.

The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.

“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”

The audience was eating it up. 

Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?

Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.

“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”

The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.

“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—” 

“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”

Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room. 

Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me? 

They were already over their time.

“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”

The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.

“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.

Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more. 

Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.

The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.

It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard. 

It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.

Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”

By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out. 

Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.

“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”

Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.

“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.” 

Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage. 

“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”

And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.

Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice. 

All he could hear was the echo of that name. 

Your name. 

“Steve.”

You.

“Are you okay?”

You had started writing songs? Since when? 

“Steve, we’re up—”

And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?

“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”

“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.

But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.

“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”

And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.

It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.

Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.

You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Steve.

Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.

But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.

Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.

You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.

He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.

Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.

Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.

Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.

“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.

It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”

With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.

You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.

“Not now, Steve,” you whispered. 

Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.

“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”

You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.

“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”

The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.

“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”

The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.

You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time? 

Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.

That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.

With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.

“Where are you going?”

“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.

You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.

You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.

You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”

But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.

“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.

He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.

“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”

You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”

When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”

Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.

“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”

You felt your heart drop.

In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.

You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.

Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.

He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”

But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.

“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”

You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive. 

“Steve…”

“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”

He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face. 

But it never came.

The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.

The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.

“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”

Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.

There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”

But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.

“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly. 

Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.

And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him. 

But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.

You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.

Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.

“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.” 

You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all. 

That’s all?

Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.

But he pulled away.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.

He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.

Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together. 

“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”

Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”

Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”

Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?

He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.

“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.

“I did, yeah.”

“And?” Bucky prodded.

“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”

Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.

“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”

That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”

He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.

The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small. 

Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.

“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”

Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.

He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.

As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.

He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.

He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by. 

The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.

He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them. 

Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.

You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.

Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.

Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.

Your heart ached a little. 

You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.

“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”

He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.

“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”

It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it. 

The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him. 

With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.

“Motivated?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”

You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”

Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”

Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.

The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.

Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.

“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”

“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”

“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”

You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”

“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”

At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!

Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.

Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.

“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”

You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.

“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”

You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.

“I missed you.”

Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.

Fuck. 

Did I just screw this up?

But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.

“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.

Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.

“Right. Study.”

Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.

As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.

But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.

He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise. 

“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”

Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.

“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”

Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.

“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”

“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.

“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”

“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”

The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say. 

You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.

He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.

You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.

“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”

With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.

Fuck. Pull yourself together.

You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him. 

Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.

You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind. 

Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?

No. That sounded too desperate.

Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?

Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?

“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.

You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—” 

You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.

Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.

“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”

Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity. 

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.

Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.

“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.

“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.

He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.

“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend. 

It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.

To someone you wanted.

“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.

His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I know that look.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”

His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.

“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”

A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”

A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.

And him only.

“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”

Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.

“My best girl.”

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.

“Steve…”

He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”

Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”

Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest. 

And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.

“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled. 

With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”

You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind. 

A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.

“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…” 

“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”

He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit. 

It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you. 

“Oh—! Steve—!” 

“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”

You shook your head. “Mmphh.” 

With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?” 

You nodded. 

The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture. 

Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy. 

It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.” 

His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”

A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.

You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.

It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.

“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.

The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad. 

“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”

“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”

Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.

“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”

You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out. 

Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.

“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”

His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming. 

His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.

With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.

“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.” 

Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum. 

“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”

Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.

He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it. 

He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp. 

He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—” 

Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.

He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.

“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath. 

He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle. 

“That was—”

The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle. 

You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.

He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you. 

“Close.” 

Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.

Your bedroom.

Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan. 

To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.

And that was the problem. 

If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right. 

Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent. 

You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere. 

He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.

“Done studying already?”

“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.” 

Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.

“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.

Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.

“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back. 

“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”

You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.

“Is that so?”

You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”

When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation. 

You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.

Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press. 

You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”

His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.

“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”

“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”

You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”

Stopped talking.

Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.

“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”

You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.

“I’m—”

“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”

Fuck.

What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?

He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.

And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.

“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”

You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.

“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.

“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”

He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.

“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”

You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window. 

He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.

I love you. 

But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.

“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”

Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too. 

“It’s fine—”

But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.

“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”

As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.

You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”

Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.

“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—” 

“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?” 

You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush. 

You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time? 

Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away. 

“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”

“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”

“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.

You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.

A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”

“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.

“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”

Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him. 

“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”

Sweetheart.

Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.

“Get out.”

Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”

“Get out of my house, Steve!”

The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.

He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you. 

He let it happen. 

It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.

He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.

Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention. 

“Wait!”

And to his surprise, you actually did.

You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there. 

A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.

“What?” you shouted over the rain. 

Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.

“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.” 

He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined. 

“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”

He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.

“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”

Your hand tightened around the doorknob. 

Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.

“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”

Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you. 

He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.

“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”

When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.

“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”

You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly. 

For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes. 

He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.

You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose. 

You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more. 

Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.

Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever. 

Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.

A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.

Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.

He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him. 

They were best friends, after all.

To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”

Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”

So much for avoiding the awkwardness.

“I see,” was all you could manage.

Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.

“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”

You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”

After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.

Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear. 

“Wait!”

You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.

You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.

“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”

But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.

“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”

You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.

He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.

In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.

My best girl.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”

“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours. 

He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.

“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”

He had written a song? 

For you?

You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.

As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.

“I don’t know what to say—”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”

With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.

“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”

The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.

“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”

He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.

“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”

You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”

The sound made Steve’s smile brighten. 

Another small victory.

“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.

The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave. 

Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow. 

You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen. 

With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.

Then, the acoustic guitar started to play. 

The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.

Then, Steve started to sing.

You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy. 

Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart. 

The song was a masterpiece of us.

It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this. 

By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying. 

first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!

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[superbassbuck]

so, this is love?

pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"

word count: 19.6k masterlist || 𝓹𝓽.2

a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.

synopsis: The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.

You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.

While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.

“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”

You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.

The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house. 

“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”

Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. 

“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”

You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”

“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.

“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.

“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”

Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.

“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.

You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound. 

These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.

You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.

“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”

You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.

“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!” 

You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.

“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.” 

Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately. 

“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.” 

The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom. 

You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.

“… attendance is mandatory for all households…” 

Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”

Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.

“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”

“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”

Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”

“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.” 

The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.

Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards. 

“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”

When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did. 

While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.

As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.

Attendance is mandatory for all households.

You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?

Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house. 

And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?

No. 

It was silly to indulge in such foolishness. 

Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.

But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.

With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.

The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you. 

Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.

You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.

Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.

You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.

Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid. 

You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.

You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going. 

You were actually going to the ball. 

Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood. 

“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room. 

You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.

“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath. 

The three of them froze. 

The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable. 

“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”

You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”

The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.

For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.

“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!” 

Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”

“You’re right, sister. It’s unbearable,” Agnes agreed, nodding.

You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.

“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”

She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you. 

“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”

You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you. 

Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.

“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”

Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.

They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.

A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.

“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”

“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.

Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.

Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.

You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down. 

You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.

Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.

“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”

She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart. 

“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”

As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time. 

“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”

It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face. 

Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.

As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.

“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”

“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable. 

“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”

“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”

“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne. 

“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”

Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”

Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”

He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought. 

“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”

Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.

You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”

Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet. 

“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”

She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.

With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store. 

It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?

Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment. 

Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.

You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips. 

To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.

Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.

“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”

You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him. 

“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”

Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy. 

“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”

Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.

“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”

You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.

“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”

Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back. 

Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.

“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”

As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.

There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him. 

“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”

The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you. 

Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”

You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”

You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.

Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.

“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”

You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.” 

Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.

“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.” 

“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”

“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”

“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”

Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.

You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms. 

As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.

Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.

Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk. 

“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”

“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”

Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves. 

She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.

That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.

“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”

Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”

Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.

“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.

Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that. 

“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”

Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.

“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”

A father?

Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.

You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing. 

“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”

Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.

“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”

Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.

“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.

There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.

“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”

Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view. 

You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.

Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe. 

He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless. 

He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.

Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.

“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”

Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.

“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color? 

“Blue?” you frowned.

“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”

You and Martha just blinked at him.

Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.

The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder. 

“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”

Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.

“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”

He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”

“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”

The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.

“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.

Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster. 

With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out. 

What happened? 

How’d you get these burn marks? 

You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t. 

Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.

“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”

“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”

Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.

Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street. 

The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.

Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”

She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.

“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”

“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating. 

You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before. 

“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”

You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”

Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”

You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh. 

“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”

It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.

They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.

With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you. 

He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust. 

He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy. 

It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.

You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you. 

You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.

You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine. 

The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you. 

If you went, you risked everything. 

If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.

As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well. 

You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.

You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.

You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard. 

You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.

“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes. 

You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.

Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.

The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave. 

“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”

The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.

“Child, what in heaven’s name—”

You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”

“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”

The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.

She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass. 

Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.

“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”

You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement. 

She looked like she belonged in a palace.

“Martha, I… thank you—”

“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.

She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.

Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.

“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head. 

When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.” 

A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.

“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”

“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.

She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight. 

“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”

Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.

He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.

Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.

Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.

He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.

As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

Had he not been clear enough?

Now, he felt like a fool.

Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.

And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.

You were younger.

Much younger.

Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.

He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.

But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.

His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.

But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.

He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.

A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.

“King Barnes?”

Bucky turned to the attendant.

“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”

Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.

He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.

“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”

He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.

He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.

He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.

“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”

“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.

He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.

“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”

“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”

“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”

While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.

It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.

You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.

You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.

The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.

As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.

At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.

You were beautiful.

Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.

You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.

He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.

“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.

The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.

A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.

“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”

“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”

“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”

You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.

You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.

“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”

Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.

The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.

Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.

“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”

Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.

But you already felt as though you were suffocating.

You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”

As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.

There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.

Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.

The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.

You weren’t a princess.

You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.

One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.

“I… I cannot,” you whispered.

Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.

Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.

Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.

“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”

You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.

Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.

It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.

Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.

Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.

It was him.

The man you had risked everything to see just once more.

Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.

He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.

But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.

“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”

Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”

You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.

Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.

“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”

Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.

“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”

You felt like you were going to collapse.

The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.

Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?

Was that why he insisted you come tonight?

The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.

You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.

The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.

“Who’s there?”

Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.

There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.

“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.

Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.

It was you.

You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.

You had heard it all.

Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.

Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.

“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”

Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.

He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”

You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.

Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.

As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.

He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.

“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.

His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.

His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.

Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.

“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.

Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.

“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.

You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.

But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.

You decided right then to spite him.

To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.

Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.

Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.

“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”

You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”

As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.

“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.

Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.

Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.

Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.

“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”

Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.

“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”

Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.

“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.

Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.

It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.

Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.

“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.

Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.

The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.

He didn’t just want to dance.

He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.

As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.

Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.

“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”

You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.

Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.

“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.

You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.

“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.

“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”

“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.

“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”

He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.

“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.

“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”

“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.

“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”

The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.

You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.

That should be more than enough.

But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.

You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.

The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.

Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.

Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.

The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.

You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.

Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.

“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.

“Y-your Majesty—?”

With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.

You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.

“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”

“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.

You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.

“Stop trying to run away.”

You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.

“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”

“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.

“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”

“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.

His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.

“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”

Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.

“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”

His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.

“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.

Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.

“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”

Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.

His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.

“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”

You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.

“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.

“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.

With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.

“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.

He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.

“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”

You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.

“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”

“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”

Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.

“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”

His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.

“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.

“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.

“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.

He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.

“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.

“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”

Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.

Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.

Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.

“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.

“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”

Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.

He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.

He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.

“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”

You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.

“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.

“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”

You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.

The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.

Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.

“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”

Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.

You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.

“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.

Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.

You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.

He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.

“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”

Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.

“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”

Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.

It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.

He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.

He wanted you.

Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.

You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.

Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.

His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.

Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.

“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”

Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.

“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”

He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”

Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.

The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.

“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”

Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.

It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.

“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”

You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.

He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.

But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.

The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.

Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.

“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”

Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.

“Oh my god—!” you whined.

He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.

The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.

Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.

“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”

You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.

As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.

“Y-your Majesty?”

“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.

“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”

You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”

Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.

“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”

As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.

Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.

“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”

Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.

Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.

“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”

Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.

The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.

Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.

“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”

“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.

He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”

As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”

Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.

You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.

The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.

“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”

With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.

“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”

His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.

Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.

Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.

You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.

You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.

But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.

He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.

Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.

When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.

“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”

His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”

Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.

A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.

But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.

“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”

You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.

“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”

He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”

With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.

You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.

As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.

You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.

Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.

You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.

Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.

You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.

It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.

It was an impossibility of worlds.

He belonged to history.

You belonged in a basement.

As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.

“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.

The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.

“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”

Discretion?

You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.

He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.

To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.

You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.

You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.

How could you have been so foolish?

“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”

“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”

Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.

“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”

He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.

“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”

A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.

The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.

He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.

“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.

He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.

Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.

A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”

The word died in his throat and his smile faded.

The room was silent.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.

Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.

He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.

“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”

He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.

His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.

He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.

“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”

He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.

Did you not believe a word he said?

The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.

Did you still think he was that kind of man?

Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?

Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.

He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.

It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.

By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.

He was going to find you.

He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.

Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.

And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.

Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.

He held the glove up between them, snarling.

“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."

19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️

again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!

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[loveshotzz]

If You’re Too Shy Let Me Know

steve harrington x fem!reader two part series master list

summary: you’re an observer of sorts, a wall flower, and the last hire made by the infamous runaway Jimmy ‘fast hands’ Lee. It was a job you took on a whim, a decision made without much thought. You weren’t expecting to ever share a room with Steve Harrington again, but when it starts to happen five days out of the week, you certainly weren’t expecting the now quiet and brooding former king to take up so much space in your mind.

wc: 28k | ✨playlist

warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).

✨ part one | ✨part two

[stevie-petey]

BUT DON’T YOU REMEMBER? (AUGUST, HONEY, YOU WERE MINE)

season four of "come home"

it's senior year and everything has changed. though steve harrington is now your boyfriend, not all of the change has been good. jonathan is gone, dustin is pulling away, the party is divided, and max's sunken eyes remind you of her brother's. all the change threatens to suffocate you. then one phone call, multiple dead bodies, and a song from your past changes everything you thought you once knew. time has never been your friend, especially when it reopens old wounds. (which only complicates things between you and steve). (and the upside down makes everything worse). (as usual).

episode one - the hellfire club

el writes to you as if youre her husband away at war, you debate the intricate nature of liking boobies with robin and steve, lucas is your beloved while eddie munson is your sworn enemy, steve accidentally exposes your (horribly hidden) daddy issues, dustin is an angsty teen, and jonathan really loves to drop emotional bombshells on you. can you believe this all happens in one day ? lol cheers to senior year !

episode two - vecnas curse

you and billy play marco polo, max interrupts a saturday morning breakfast at the henderson household, robin crushes steves dream of becoming a 1950s housewife, reefer rick has an odd taste in movies, boathouses are creepy in the dark, and eddie munson likes it when you pull his hair.

episode three - the monster and the superhero

you and steve can never have a normal conversation, dustin threatens nasa, eddie sadly eats his cereal because youre mean to him, youre once again nancys biggest fan, dustin and steve have an awkward heart to heart, and you and max become felons together and trauma bond (again) !

episode four - dear billy

steve almost hits lucas with a lamp, you try to trick your boyfriend into a gloomy arrangement, steve and nancy have a Talk, robin suddenly becomes an academic weapon, and max threatens legal action, gets really into hallmark cards, and levitating. all in that order.

episode five - the nina project

you and dustin steal pancakes to spite ted wheeler, steve just wants one morning of peace, nancy takes you to a haunted house, cobwebs are surprisingly intimate to remove from someone, and vecna decides to play flashlight tag with everyone. hes so sweet :)

episode six - the dive

dustin rejects the pity pringles you offer, eddie is straight up not having a good time, nancy does some investigative journalism about you and steve (gossips with robin), and steve suddenly decides he wants to take up scuba diving. for some reason. but hey ! title drop time !

episode seven - the massacre at hawkins lab

bats are really fucking annoying to fight, you always somehow end up critically injured, nancy carries the group on her back as always, eddie gives steve relationship advice (embarassing, tbh), interdimensional bike riding is lowkey fun, and you take a trip down memory lane.

episode eight - papa

steve is on the brink of a constant nervous breakdown, eddie questions your taste in music, you and max go halfsies on your lives, angry hicks are scary, and the end of the world is near so of course now is the time for every emotional conversation ever. duh !

episode nine - the piggyback

operation save hawkins is a go. youre eagle one, steve is currently doing that, eddie is youd be lying if you said you havent thought about it, nancy is it happened once in a dream, robin is if you had to pick a girl, and dustin is eagle two. what could possibly go wrong ? spoiler alert: everything. literally everything goes wrong. might as well break a few promises while youre at it. for the plot. but at least its over, right? .... right?

STATUS: complete (for now)

season four title based on this song x

blurbs set within "come home" can be found here x

“COME HOME” SERIES MASTERLIST

this is a part of my stranger things rewrite, “come home”, and other seasons can be found linked above :)

[finelinevogue]

mutual feelings

summary - after a family gathering back home, you can’t help but wonder if your future is here and not in the big city anymore

pairing - clark-kent!boyfriend x reader

word count - ~1k

a/n : image just used as a guiding reference rather than any character claims

<•><•><•>

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

You looked from the stars and over to where your boyfriend was walking towards you, his hands deep in his trouser pockets and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled slightly.

He looked like a dream. The kind of boyfriend you’d only thought existed in your romance novels.

“Hey.” You smiled from where you were rocking slightly in the hammock.

“Room for one more?” Clark asked, stopping short of you.

“Uhh…”

“That wasn’t really a question. Now get out so I can get us both back in please.”

There was no arguing with Clark when it came to boyfriend duties, so you politely took his awaiting hand and pulled yourself out of the hammock net.

Clark didn’t immediately get into the hammock, but rather took his time standing in front of you.

He traced the line of your jaw with his thumb and carefully rubbed over a constellation of freckles you had.

“So pretty.” He smiled down at you with those big, soft, blue eyes.

You smiled back at him, tucking your hands around his waist and pulling him in for a hug - something that Clark realised you loved giving whenever you had the chance. He loved them just as much.

Your cheek squished against his hard chest, but he felt pillowy soft nonetheless.

Clark’s arm closed in around your shoulders so he could hug you tight against him, knowing you enjoyed the pressure of feeling him against you. He kissed the top of your head for good measure too.

“Why are you out back here, honey?” Clark asked.

“Needed a moment.” Your voice sounded muffled, squished against Clark.

“Too many people?”

“Too much pressure.”

“About what? From who? Tell me their names.”

Overprotective boyfriend, you chuckled to yourself.

“Our friends… My mum… They all just… Uh, never-mind.” You stopped, not having the courage to keep speaking.

“Hey, don’t shut me out.” He spoke softly.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t want you to be sorry either. Just want to understand so I can say the right thing and help make it better.” He kissed your head again, giving your shoulders a squeeze too.

“You already are.”

You shuffled your head away from the warm comfort of Clark’s chest and rested your chin there instead, looking up into the eyes of the only man you’ve ever been brave enough to love.

A little curl dropped down from his hair and you smiled when it did, because it was an ongoing joke that he needed to control it otherwise it could totally give away his superman identity.

You blew the little curl and watched it flutter a little before returning to the fallen state.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Clark smirked, clearly teasing you.

“You’re welcome.”

“Lay with me?” He gestured his head to the hammock behind you and you nodded in approval.

You both unlatched yourself from each other, Clark moving in front of you to get on the hammock net first. The trees it was tied up to creaked under his weight, causing him to panic and you to crack up with laughter.

“Laugh now, but when these two trees come falling down and squish me you’ll be sorry.”

“Other than the fact I know they couldn’t squish you, superman.” You teased.

Clark rolled his eyes, realising he wasn’t going to earn any empathy from you.

Once he was securely in the net, slightly swaying from side to side, he gestured both his hands out for you to get in.

“This isn’t going to work.”

“Have a little faith.”

“Faith? Clark the trees creaked underneath your weight, let alone mine.”

“Pfft.” Clark waved you off. “Get in here now or I will drag you in myself.” His deep tone mixed with the demanding order shouldn’t have made you feel hot, but it really did. Probably not the vibe he was going for.

“Can’t wait to say I told you so…” You sing-songed.

You gripped onto Clark’s hand furthest away from you, using one leg to push yourself up into the hammock whilst the other tried to kneel inside.

Unfortunately the wind decided to blow the hammock away from you, causing you to lose your balance.

Instead of falling to the floor though, Clark kept a tight hold on you and allowed you to fall directly on top of him. He didn’t even grunt at the impact. If anything, he seemed to quite enjoy the feeling of your entire weight on him.

“Sorry.” You tilted your head in shame, legs still dangling over the edge of the net and arms braced either side of Clark’s head.

“I’m not.” He replied, using his hands to grip your ass and tug the rest of your body directly over his.

“Clark!”

“What?”

“Is there really any need to be gripping my ass like that?”

“Yes. It was very necessary.” He smirked, still not having let go of your ass even though there was no need for him to be holding on. “Is very necessary.”

“I hate you.” You mumbled as you wriggled to get comfortable, burying your face into the crook of his neck. His scent was delectable. You breathed him in without any shame, revelling in the comforting smell of him.

“Mhm.”

His hands left your ass and moved upwards, underneath your top so they could trace shapes on the bare skin of your back - one of his many favourite pastimes with you.

Your arms linked beneath his neck, also providing Clark a slight pillow.

You gave him a quick kiss to his neck and closed your eyes, slowing your pace down to match the rhythm of his body.

His fingers were slow and delicate on your back.

You could tell he was looking upwards and out towards the same stars you had been looking out at before.

“I’m going to ask you, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that’s why you were upset.”

You opened your eyes as you tried to understand his logic. How could he possibly know?

You stayed silent and left room for him to continue. Clark would be able to sense that you were listening, so you played with the curls on the nape of his neck to occupy yourself.

“I noticed that everyone kept asking when it is going to be our turn to get married. I know i’ve kept you waiting for four years, but… well… I just.” Clark tutted at himself for not being able to find the right words, but you wanted to stop him anyway.

You lifted your head away from his neck and looked down at him, your fingers still playing with his hair.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, honey,” You smiled softly, “I wasn’t upset about that. I’ve loved being your girlfriend for four years and I would wait another four again –.”

“It wouldn’t be that long.” Clark butted in.

“Well, however long it is… I don’t care. As long as it’s you asking.” You leaned down to kiss him gently, pressing your lips hard against his as if to seal that promise between you.

“It better be me asking.” He scoffed, making you laugh.

Your laugh leads him to kissing you again, not able to keep himself away from you for too long. He’s always desperate to have another taste of you. You both love being as close to each other as possible and sometimes it was never close enough unless you were kissing.

Clark pulled away from you, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek.

“But you were upset.”

You gestured that you were undecided.

“Talk to me, please.” He spoke so softly, brows furrowing with worry.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise.” You smiled.

“Okay.”

“I… I just… Didn’t think that coming back out here to the countryside would make me realise how much I miss it here. I miss the endless fields and wildflowers. I miss counting sheep every morning and stars at night. I miss being able to breathe and feel alive again.”

“So let’s move back?” Clark suggested like it was the easiest decision ever.

You spluttered a laugh, “What?”

“Yeah. You wanna be out here, then we’ll move.”

“But what about our jobs? Clark you’re superman, you can’t just…”

“What I can do is try my best to make you happy. That’s all I will ever try to do and if that means moving back out here, then I’m more than okay with that. In fact, I was talking to Ma about the same thing yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Your voiced wavered and your eyes watered.

“She would love nothing more than to have her family around her again. Plus she said the City has made me old and tired.”

You laughed at that.

“I thought…”

Clark cut you off with a kiss, “It doesn’t matter what you thought, what matters is where we are now.”

“So we could move back here? Really?”

“I would move anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

“I love you I could marry you right here.” You kissed his lips and then his cheeks and nose. He giggled throughout like a lovesick school-boy.

“Give me a…”

You shut him up with another kiss.

“No! Don’t tell me!” You stopped him from ruining any timeline. “I want to be surprised when you finally ask me.” You teased.

“I love you.” He smiled.

“Yeah? I’d say the feelings pretty mutual.”

[andyss-world]

Cutiessss

[gurugirl]

It's Good to Be King |Masterlist

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Requested by @tobegoodisgood

Note: 18+ only!! Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible. READ THE WARNINGS! SOME OF YOU WON'T LIKE THIS SERIES! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME. xoxo

Series Warnings: Smut, manipulation, coercion, corruption kink, humiliation, pregnancy, angst, health scare, aggressive behavior, jealousy, misogynistic views, class discrimination, descriptions of poverty, parental death. (may add more to this list as the story progresses)

✨series music inspo✨

🎧 Leonard Cohen | Avalanche

🎧 Tom Petty | It’s Good To be King

Chapter 1 (8.3k)

Chapter 2 (8.7k)

Chapter 3 (8.7k)

Chapter 4 (8.7k)

Chapter 5 (8.4k) [Wedding Chapter]

Chapter 6* (11,631) [Night of the Wedding]

Chapter 7* (8k)

>>> more to come >>>

mean king!harry tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts

@whoreonmondays @archerxnn @daphnesutton @spinninc @haliastyless

@multiplefandomstan @bruhk @sassamanda77 @cherryshouse @montgomery-929496

@cherriesncupcakes @practistyles @matildalittlefreak @imaginexxharry @oifukinloser

@hoolabalooba @jaebeomsblackgf @wildcstdrexms @gilwm @rimaruu

@harrysbigspoon @sittinginthegardern @ariieeesworld @esposadomd @theressaicon

(let me know if I forgot to add you!)