𝖆𝖑𝖊

[blowingbarnes]

Mr. and Mrs.... Rogers?!

Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader WC: 10.5k Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort. Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other. +fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr. ⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify

"Absolutely not!"

Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve. 

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

🥯 glazed donut taglist: @earthsmightiestbenders @love-stucky @epiphanyrogers @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @avgdestitute @allthingswickedpodcast @supercoolswagicornxd

[beckywritinglibrary]

Guess who’s back?

avenger!bucky x avenger!freader

plot: you had to fake your death for save the team during a mission and the only one that know that and planned that was Fury, now you were called to come back into the team, everyone was thrilled but for Bucky it was different

warnings: angst angst angst but with a happy ending i swear

word count : 10k

author’s note: HELLO THERE, i’m back to the business now that i have somehow accomplished my academic duties, this story is kinda intense I would say, i hope you enjoy it. I cried writing it

i write it down using this song:

You’re half-buried in your comforter, staring at the cracks in your ceiling, letting the silence settle over your small apartment. The city sounds outside are muted, almost comforting—a reminder that life moves on even when you feel stuck. Then your phone buzzes, slicing through the quiet. The screen lights up with a name you haven’t seen in months: Fury.

For a moment, you just stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button. You haven’t heard his voice since—well, since you stopped being you.

You swipe to answer, trying to keep your voice steady. "Fury, long time no see..." You try to sound casual, but your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. "I’m cutting it short. You can come home." His voice is gravelly, distant, like he’s calling from another universe.

"Wait, what?" The words slip out before you can stop them. Your heart stumbles, fingers frozen above your screen.

"It’s all clear here. You can come home." You blink, not sure you heard him right. For a second, the world feels blurry, everything muffled except the echo of that word—home. Like something you lost and almost forgot how to want.

"You still there?" Fury’s voice is like sandpaper, dragging you back to reality.

"I-I...yeah. I don’t know what to say. It’s been a year, you know?" Your voice is so small, barely more than a whisper. It sounds fragile, even to you.

"Pack your things. Jet’s picking you up tomorrow morning. You’re back on the team." He says it like it means nothing, like you haven’t spent the last twelve months being a ghost.

"Y-Yes, sir." But the line’s already dead. You’re left staring at the screen, heart pounding, the word “home” echoing around your tiny apartment like a promise and a threat.

A year ago, everything changed. You were declared dead—your own funeral playing out in headlines and haunted faces. Since then, you’ve been hiding, living on borrowed time and borrowed names. Fury’s words from a year ago haunt you, replaying in your mind every night.

“You have to fake your death.” You remember sitting in his office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Steve’s meeting still echoing in the hallway. It was a delicate mission, and if you failed—people would die.

“I beg your pardon?” you’d asked, but your voice trembled and you gripped the edge of the chair like you could anchor yourself to this reality for just a little longer.

“There’s a group targeting the Avengers. If you ‘die’ taking out their headquarters, they’ll think their plan worked.” You couldn’t find words then; you just sat there, numb and silent, wondering how you’d gotten to this point.

“There isn’t another way?” you’d tried, but already you knew the answer.

“Unfortunately, no.” Fury’s voice was almost soft. “When you place the bomb, get ready to run. I have a side plan for you.”

You’d sagged in your seat, feeling all the air go out of you. “Yes, sir.”

And now, a year later, you’re being called back—like nothing happened, like you didn’t break yourself into pieces just to keep them safe.

You press your phone to your chest and let the tears come, silent and sharp. You don’t know if you’re ready to go home. You don’t even know if you’re still the same person who left.

But tomorrow, you’ll have to find out.

______________________________________________

The morning in the Avengers compound crawls in, grey and heavy. No sunlight, just the creeping sound of the rain tapping on the compound’s windows. Nobody really speaks anymore; breakfast is silent, a ritual everyone goes through on autopilot. It’s been almost a year, but the ache hasn’t faded—it’s woven into the walls, into every cup of coffee, every half-hearted smile.

JARVIS’s announcement ruptures the quiet like a thunderclap: “Nicholas Fury J has scheduled a meeting this afternoon. Your presence is required.”

Again. And again.

The words ricochet down the hallways, bouncing off closed doors and tired faces. Tony, hair wild and eyes rimmed red from another sleepless night, finally shouts: “OKAY, WE GOT THAT!” The AI falls silent, but the damage is done—the mood is even worse.

Since you died, the whole team has been splintered into pieces that no longer fit together. The compound, once alive with the sound of laughter bouncing off the walls, with movie nights that stretched until dawn and inside jokes that made even the darkest days seem brighter—now it feels like a mausoleum. You were the spark, the gravity that held everyone in orbit, the voice that soothed arguments and the smile that made the heaviness in their chests lift. Without you, the colors seem washed out, every room echoing with an absence that no one can fill.

Natasha still catches herself listening for your footsteps in the hallway, her head half-turned before she remembers you’re not there. Thor, out of habit, leaves an extra mug on the counter during breakfast, silence falling whenever his gaze lingers on it for too long. Clint opens the fridge and, for a heartbeat, looks for your favorite snacks—then closes it a little too hard, the memory stinging. Steve keeps a spare seat open during briefings, eyes flickering to it before he starts talking, like he expects you to walk in late with a sheepish grin. Bruce finds himself pausing in the lab, almost asking your opinion about a new experiment, fingers hovering over his phone before he remembers he can’t text you anymore. Even Tony, who pretends to be fine, will sometimes input your old code into JARVIS just to hear your custom notification chime echo through the living room, a sound that used to mean you were home. And Sam can’t bring himself to change the playlist in the gym, letting your favorite songs play on repeat, pretending it’s for everyone, but really it’s for you. He still glances at the door sometimes, waiting for you to walk in and mock his taste in music before grabbing the next set of weights.

The kitchen is quieter. The common room is emptier. Even the sun filtering through the windows seems duller, as if the whole world is grieving with them.

But it’s Bucky who carries your loss like a second skin. He moves through the days as though underwater, every motion slower, heavier, as if the air itself is thick with sorrow. Grief is etched in every line of his face, in the way his shoulders hunch, in the exhaustion that lives in his eyes. Sometimes Steve finds him by the window, gaze distant, unmoving for hours—lost in a world where you’re still here, replaying every moment he had with you, and all the ones he never got to have. For Bucky, time hasn’t passed at all. The wound is as raw as the day he lost you.

The night you died is always replaying in Bucky’s head. He remembers kneeling next to you, his hands trembling, desperately searching your eyes for truth.

“You good?” he asked, voice soft, like he was afraid the world would shatter if he spoke too loudly.

“Yeah, bit nervous,” you whispered, trying to sound brave. The jet was landing, its engines roaring, vibrating through the soles of your boots.

Tony forced a smile, masking worry with bravado: “Okay, folks, it’s time to kick some terrorist ass,” he called as the ramp opened, letting in cold air and the smell of rain.

You argued with Steve and Tony, insisting you had to go in alone. “I know the layout. I’ll be faster without backup.” The team hated it, but you were stubborn—always putting others before yourself.

Inside, chaos reigned. Gunfire rattled the walls, shouts echoed, alarms blared. You slipped through shadows, adrenaline pounding in your ears, heart racing as you set the bomb.

Steve checked the comms, voice tense: “Y/N, you good?” No reply. Static.

Tony tried again, urgency creeping in: “Hey kid! You okay in there?” Still nothing.

Bucky’s fear grew, his hand clenching the comms. “Please doll, say anything…” he whispered, voice breaking.

Suddenly, your voice—strained, desperate, barely audible over the chaos: “RUN AWAY, THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME LEFT! GO, GET OUT OF HERE!”

The team barely had time to react. Steve shouted orders, Natasha dragged Clint back, Thor shielded the others, Tony and Sam took flight. Five seconds later, the world erupted—fire and smoke, concrete splintering, alarms shrieking. The shockwave knocked everyone flat.

Dust settled. The silence after was deafening. Clint rasped: “Where’s she?” Tony and Sam swept the blast zone, panic rising. Natasha barked at FRIDAY to scan for your heat signature. Thor and Clint shouted your name. Hulk tore through debris, hands bleeding, desperate and wild.

Bucky stood frozen, numb. Steve tried to call him back, but Bucky couldn’t hear—couldn’t think. Then, driven by panic, he sprinted toward the wreckage, screaming your name, voice hoarse and raw.

Sam landed in front of him, blocking his path, eyes full of sorrow. “Buck, I’m sorry—”

Bucky shoved him, tears streaming, voice shattering: “NO, NO, PLEASE, IT CAN’T BE—” All the anger, all the grief spilled out, uncontained.

“She’s gone,” Steve said softly, broken.

The team was silent—no one moved, no one breathed. And Bucky fell to his knees, the world collapsing around him, mourning you all over again.

The kitchen is unusually busy for this early in the day. Tony is half-arguing with JARVIS over coffee settings, Natasha is perched on the counter, legs swinging as she scrolls through her phone, and Sam is humming off-key as he flips pancakes. The scent of breakfast fills the air, warm and sweet, and for a second, Bucky almost forgets the ache in his chest. He sits quietly at the end of the table, cradling his mug, letting the noise of his friends wash over him. Their laughter is softer than it used to be, but every now and then, a genuine smile breaks through the morning gloom. He watches as Steve nudges a plate of pancakes toward him, and he forces a small smile, murmuring thanks. But even as he sits among them, Bucky feels separate—like he’s watching through glass, the memory of you hovering at the edge of every conversation. He wonders if anyone else notices the way his gaze lingers on the empty seat, or how his hand curls protectively around his coffee, as if expecting you to reach for it and tease him for making it too strong. The world keeps spinning, the team keeps moving, but for Bucky, every shared breakfast is a bittersweet reminder: you should be here, laughing with them, lightening the room the way only you could.

“Any idea what Fury wants?” Sam’s voice cuts through the kitchen, half-hearted and brittle with the weight of too many mornings like this one.

Steve just shakes his head, rubbing at the tension in his jaw. “No idea. It’s new to me too.” He looks over to Tony, searching for a lifeline.

Tony sighs, staring into the depths of his mug as if the answer might float up from the bottom. “Negative. Haven’t heard from Fury in months.” He takes a slow sip, and the silence that follows is thick, a reminder that none of them have really been themselves since you left.

“Maybe it’s some urgent mission,” Natasha murmurs, fingers absently tracing the rim of her mug. Her eyes flicker up, but quickly drop again.

Clint pushes away from the counter, stretching his legs and grabbing an apple. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he mutters, voice rough. “I’m going to the gym—see you there.” He’s gone before anyone can answer.

Natasha slips down gracefully, Sam trailing after her, and the kitchen empties out, leaving only Steve and Bucky, as a photograph fades at the edges.

Steve leans in, voice gentle. “Bad day?”

Bucky doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods, eyes locked on the swirl of coffee still steaming in his mug. Its warmth doesn’t reach him, and the bitter scent is all wrong—too sharp, not enough sweetness. You always teased him about his taste, wrinkling your nose and stealing sips just to make him smile.

He finally manages: “It’s almost a year, Steve. But I miss her. I miss her so much.” His voice cracks, and he blinks hard, but his eyes shine anyway.

Steve’s hand settles on his shoulder, grounding him for a moment. “I know, pal. I know.”

“Go for a run, maybe it’ll help,” Steve offers, and Bucky nods, tossing away the mug—still nearly full, untouched. He forces himself up the stairs, every step heavy, every breath shallow.

He changes into his running clothes, fingers fumbling with the laces, mind drifting. The hallway is quiet, echoing with the ghosts of your laughter. He remembers the way you’d catch him before missions, tugging his sleeve and whispering “Good luck, sergeant” with a wink that made his heart stumble.

He steps outside, the air sharp and cold. He starts running—feet pounding the pavement, lungs aching, muscles burning. But he can’t outrun you. The memories crash into him, relentless, vivid, unyielding.

Flash—

You’re curled up on the couch, feet tucked under you, flipping through channels. “You ever gonna let me pick the movie, Barnes?” you tease. He grumbles, but lets you choose, just to hear you laugh. The sound is sunlight, golden, melting the frost in his chest.

Flash—

It’s late, moonlight spilling through the kitchen window. You steal his coffee, make a face, and hand him your mug instead—sweet, creamy, perfect. “You need to live a little, Buck,” you say, and he almost tells you right then. His heart thuds in his throat, words trapped behind his teeth. He just smiles, and you smile back, soft and understanding.

Flash—

Training in the gym. You circle him, a grin tugging at your lips. He pretends to be annoyed, but he loves watching you move, loves the way you challenge him, push him, make him better. “Don’t go easy on me, Barnes,” you demand, and he pulls his punches, afraid to hurt you, but mostly afraid you’ll see how much he cares.

Flash—

You, suited up before the mission, nervous but determined. “I’ll be quick, Buck. Promise.” You squeeze his hand, and he wants to say “Stay. Please stay. I love you.” But he just nods, watches you walk away, hoping for another chance.

Flash—

Static on the comms. “Y/N, you good?” Steve’s voice. Tony’s voice. Nothing. Bucky’s hands shake, fear clawing at his chest. “Say something, doll. Please.” The silence is unbearable.

Then your voice, frantic and sharp: “RUN AWAY, THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME LEFT! GO, GET OUT OF HERE!” And then— Fire. The world splits open, smoke choking the air, rubble everywhere. Bucky’s knees hit the ground, screaming your name, pain tearing through him like shrapnel.

Now, as he runs, the city blurs past him, but he’s not really seeing it. He sees you everywhere—your smile in the faces of strangers, your laughter in the wind, your touch in the warmth of the sun. His breath catches, tears prick his eyes, but he keeps running, running, running.

He never said it. He never told you how much he loved you. He thought he had time. He thought the world would wait for him to be brave.

But the world didn’t wait. And now, every mile is heavy with regret, every heartbeat a reminder of everything he lost.

The ache in his chest is worse than any wound, sharper than any blade. He loved you. He never got to say it. And now, he runs with nothing but memories and the echo of your name in his heart.

——————————————————————————

The jet hums beneath you, the vibration a steady companion as you huddle in your seat, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to the cool glass. Your reflection stares back at you—eyes smudged with exhaustion, jaw set against the tide of memories. Outside, clouds drift by in lazy swirls, the world below a patchwork you’re almost afraid to return to.

Your headphones shield you from the drone of the engines, your old playlist looping—each song handpicked for someone you loved. Every track is a key, unlocking a memory so vivid it almost hurts.

The gentle, finger-picked acoustic melody—Natasha’s song—fills your ears, soft as the whisper of her hands in your hair. You’re sitting cross-legged on the common room floor, sunlight pooling golden on the rug. Natasha is behind you, deft fingers weaving an intricate braid. “You’re safe with me, always,” she murmurs, her voice low and certain, and you believe her because she’s Natasha and she never promises lightly. You remember the warmth of her knees against your back, the way she’d squeeze your shoulder just before letting go, a silent reminder that you were never as alone as you felt.

A slow, contemplative piano—the kind Steve always chose for his records—draws you back to another night. You’re hunched over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, darkness pressed against the windows. Steve pads in, silent as ever, and sits across from you, sliding a steaming mug your way. “You don’t have to talk,” he says softly, wrapping his huge hands around his own cup. He just sits there, a quiet presence, sometimes reading aloud from his battered journal, sometimes just listening to the rain. You remember the steady comfort of him, how his patience made it easier to breathe.

An upbeat, playful tune with plucky strings—Clint’s favorite—makes you smile through the ache. The two of you sprawled on the rooftop, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a deck of cards between you. Clint shows you how to palm an ace with a magician’s wink. “Don’t tell Nat,” he whispers, and you both laugh so hard you nearly spill your mug of cocoa. You remember the way the city lights blinked around you, how you felt safe enough to lean your head on his shoulder and just exist.

A bombastic, orchestral theme—Thor, of course—rumbles through your earbuds, bright as lightning. The kitchen is chaos, Thor’s laughter booming as he waves you over. “The last pastry is for you, friend!” he bellows, brandishing it like a trophy. He claps you on the back so hard you nearly drop your tea, but you don’t mind—not when his joy is so infectious. You remember the way he always saved you a place at the table, how he’d tell stories of Asgard just to make you smile.

A soft, thoughtful indie track—Bruce’s music—seeps in like dusk. You’re perched on a lab stool, feet swinging, as Bruce explains the finer points of his latest experiment. “Does that make sense?” he asks, eyes hopeful behind his glasses. You tease him about his handwriting, and he laughs, the sound rare and precious. You remember the comfort of those evenings, the sense that your opinion mattered, that you were trusted and understood.

A slick, late-night groove—Tony’s song—brings a bittersweet edge. You’re sneaking down the hall at 2 a.m., Tony at your side, both of you ducking into the kitchen for clandestine bowls of ice cream. “For science,” he insists, grinning as you both ignore JARVIS’s chiding. You remember the night you finally admitted you were scared, how Tony—surprisingly—just listened, nodding, his usual sarcasm set aside. “You’re stronger than you think, kid,” he said, and for once you let yourself believe him.

An energetic, infectious pop anthem—Sam’s gym mix—bursts into your ears. You’re in the gym, sweat-slick and breathless. Sam tosses you a towel, cranks the volume, and shouts, “C’mon, Y/N, sing it with me!” You both belt the lyrics, so off-key even FRIDAY complains. You remember collapsing together in laughter, the echo of it bouncing off the walls, a reminder that sometimes joy was as easy as a song.

But then the playlist shifts, the music slows, and you know what’s coming before the first aching chord. Bucky’s song. A slow, haunting ballad—aching, raw, baring all the things left unsaid.

You and Bucky, side by side on the fire escape, the city’s heartbeat pulsing below. The air is cool, your knees almost touching. He stares out at the lights, metal fingers tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh. “You make it easier, you know. Existing,” he murmurs, voice rough with honesty. The words settle between you, delicate and trembling. You want to answer, to say, “Me too,” to tell him you love him, but the words catch in your throat.

You, returning late from a mission, bruised and aching. Bucky waiting for you in the hallway, eyes stormy with worry. He doesn’t say anything, just takes your hand in his, holding it like a promise. He stands guard outside your door all night, and you fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

You, spinning in the kitchen, barefoot, as Bucky watches from the doorway. You grab his hand, tug him in, and for a moment, you’re dancing, the world shrinking down to the press of his palm, the soft smile he only ever gives you. You almost say it then, almost—but almost was never enough.

The night before you left, both of you on the verge of confession, words trembling in the air. His eyes find yours, so blue and open. “Promise me you’ll come back,” he whispers. You promise, but the truth is, you’re already breaking.

The jet dips lower, wheels grinding down, the compound coming into view through a veil of gathering tears. The music swells, Bucky’s song still echoing in your ears, the memories crowding your heart.

Tears spill freely now, hot and silent, relief and longing mixing with hope so fierce it almost hurts. You press your palm to the glass, the words trembling on your lips, a prayer, a promise, a homecoming.

“I’m coming home,” you whisper to the sky, and let yourself sob quietly for all you’ve lost—and all you might just dare to reclaim

——————————————————————————

The conference room is thick with tension, a storm brewing beneath the fluorescent lights. Natasha sits at the end of the table, legs crossed, gaze sharp and distant. Steve stands near the window, knuckles white where his arms are folded, watching clouds drift by like they might offer answers. Clint fidgets with a rubber band, snapping it against his wrist, restless energy barely contained. Bruce scrolls through a never-ending series of lab notes, pretending he can focus. Tony props his feet on the table, sunglasses hiding red-rimmed eyes, but his facade is thinner than ever. Thor leans against the wall, arms folded, expression unusually somber. Sam paces near the door, earbuds draped around his neck, thumb flicking nervously over the play button.

Bucky sits farthest from the door, jaw clenched, thumb nervously tracing the scar on his metal hand. He doesn’t look at the empty chair beside him—your chair—but everyone knows he’s thinking about

JARVIS’ voice slices the silence like a blade: “Director Fury has arrived.”

A hush falls instantly, as if even the walls of the compound are holding their breath. The door swings open. Nick Fury steps in, his presence filling the room before he’s even spoken. Every detail about him—his long black coat, his deliberate stride, the weight in his single, sharp gaze—commands attention. For a moment, he stands just inside the doorway, scanning the faces gathered at the table.

He lingers on each of them: Natasha’s cool mask and folded arms, Steve’s rigid posture by the window, Clint’s restless fidgeting, Bruce’s tense shoulders, Thor’s anxious pacing, Sam’s thumb frozen above his playlist, Tony’s sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. His gaze catches on the empty chair at the table—your chair—before flicking away, but not before everyone notices.

He finally moves, boots echoing across the floor as he circles to the head of the table. He doesn’t sit; he never does.

“Glad you could all make it,” Fury begins, his voice gravelly, low and measured, carrying authority and something unspoken. “Let’s not pretend we’re here for pleasantries. I know these meetings aren’t exactly your favorite way to spend the afternoon. So I’ll get right to it.”

He lets the silence settle, the tension stretching and winding through the room.

“I’ve seen a lot in my time,” he continues, eye sweeping over the team, “and I’ve seen what loss does. I know what it’s like to carry a wound that doesn’t heal, to walk into a room and feel what’s missing before you even know who’s there. The compound used to be filled with laughter, with hope. You all kept that alive against odds that would break most people.” He pauses, jaw clenched, voice softer now. “But some holes can’t be filled. Some shadows are too deep. You’ve all tried to move forward, but you don’t move on from some things. Not really.”

Fury paces, hands clasped behind his back, letting the words land. Natasha’s fingers curl tighter around her pen. Steve’s shoulders draw up just a little more. Tony leans forward, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Sam can’t seem to sit still, thumb tapping out a silent rhythm against the table. Bruce stares at his hands, jaw working. Thor looks down, brow furrowed, silent for once. Bucky’s eyes burn holes in the tabletop, his metal fingers flexing restlessly.

“But sometimes,” Fury says, pausing by the window, “the universe isn’t done with us yet. Sometimes, what we think is lost isn’t as far away as we believe. Sometimes, stories we tell ourselves about endings… turn out to be just the start of something new.”

He turns to face them fully, and in the wavering afternoon light, he almost looks tired. Older. But there’s a glint there too—something the team hasn’t seen in a long time.

“We all carry ghosts. We all have unfinished business. But every once in a while, you get a second chance. A chance to let the light in again. A chance for the impossible.” He lets the silence stretch, the hope in the air fragile and uncertain, almost painful.

Steve’s hand drops from the window ledge, the realization hitting him with the force of a punch. He turns, blue eyes wide, searching Fury’s face for confirmation. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries, sharp and trembling: “Sir… is this what I think it is? Is—are you saying—?”

For a split second, the room holds its breath. Then the tension snaps all at once.

Natasha’s pen clatters to the tabletop, her mask gone, eyes blazing with hope and fear. Clint nearly falls out of his chair, hands gripping the edge so tight his knuckles go white. Bruce’s glasses slide down his nose, mouth working wordlessly as he looks from Steve to Fury and back again, as if trying to solve an equation that shouldn’t be possible. Sam stands up so fast his chair skitters across the floor, fists clenched, chest heaving as he stares at the door.

Tony’s coffee cup shatters on the table, spilling cold dregs everywhere, but he doesn’t even notice, for once completely silent, jaw slack with disbelief. Thor’s chair creaks under him as he rises, eyes wide, thunder gathering in the stormy blue.

Bucky surges to his feet, metal hand slamming down hard enough to dent the table. “Fury, if this is some kind of twisted—” His voice is a ragged snarl, every word shaking with hope and terror and fury, veins standing out in his neck. “Don’t you dare do this to us—don’t you dare—”

The room erupts. Voices overlap—shouting, pleading, demanding answers. Natasha’s voice cuts through, sharp and trembling: “Just say it, Fury, say it!” Clint’s laughter is wild and desperate, a sound he barely recognizes as his own. Sam’s voice cracks, “No way—no way—” Bruce’s hands are shaking, papers spilling to the floor. Even Thor’s voice wavers as he calls out, “Speak plainly, Director!”

Fury stands silent at the head of the table, letting the chaos wash over him, his expression unreadable but his eyes impossibly bright. He doesn’t have to say another word.

The sound of heels pulses through the corridor, each step crisp and deliberate. The echo ricochets off marble and glass, slicing through the tense hush of the conference room. The Avengers all freeze, heads snapping toward the door—every sense straining, every muscle coiled in anticipation. It’s a sound foreign to the compound, too formal, too sharp, and yet, as it grows nearer, something in it feels achingly familiar.

The door handle turns with a metallic click. The room holds its collective breath.

The door opens. You stand framed in the threshold, haloed by the corridor’s cool light.

You look nothing like the ghost they’d been mourning, and yet you are so unmistakably, devastatingly you.

You are elegant—unapologetically so. A deep navy wool coat, cut to perfection, falls gracefully from your shoulders, the lining flashing silver as you move. Underneath, you wear pressed black slacks, a silk blouse the color of calm seas, and gleaming heels that announce your every step. A slim leather bag hangs from your shoulder. Your hair—once long, unruly, and often pulled back in a messy bun or ponytail—has been cut into a sharp, stylish bob. Sun-kissed highlights pick out the angles of your cheekbones, framing your face in a way that reveals new strength, new stories. The ends flick gently as you move, and the light catches on them like gold.

But it’s your eyes that truly silence the room. They’re not older or hardened—they’re vibrant, brimming with joy, shimmering with relief and hope. Despite everything you’ve endured and all the changes on the surface, the light in your eyes is unmistakable: the core of you, the spark that made the compound feel like home, shines brighter than ever. Seeing your found family again fills you to the brim, and that joy is written in every glance, every tearful smile.

They stare, every one of them, as if you’re a vision conjured by hope and grief.

Natasha’s breath stutters in her chest; her lips part, and the pen she’s been holding drops forgotten to the table, rolling away in the silence. Her eyes, always so controlled, are glassy and wide, tracking every change in you with awe and something like mourning.

Steve’s hand falls helplessly to his side. His jaw works, but no sound escapes. He looks like he’s seeing a miracle—like all at once, the weight of a year’s grief is both crushing and lifting.

Clint’s chair creaks as he leans forward, knuckles white, mouth opening and closing as he tries, and fails, to find words. His eyes dart from your new hair to your clothes to your face, searching for the friend he lost.

Tony’s sunglasses slide down his nose as he blinks, his eyes rimmed red. He stands frozen, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, as if part of him expects you to flicker and disappear. For once, he’s struck utterly speechless—no quip, no sarcasm, just raw disbelief and a vulnerability he almost never lets anyone see. His mouth opens, closes, and he shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes.

Bruce’s glasses fog as he blinks, tears threatening to slip free. His fingers tremble on the edge of his tablet, knuckles whitening, the relief in his eyes raw and overwhelming.

Sam’s hand is pressed over his heart, thumb tapping a frantic rhythm. His mouth twists into a smile, but his eyes glisten with tears, breath coming fast as if he’d just finished a marathon.

Thor’s usually vibrant presence is muted, his voice stolen, his blue eyes wide as they roam from your face to your clothes to your hair. He looks almost reverent, as if in the presence of a returned god.

You take a cautious step forward, the click of your heels impossibly loud. Your coat shifts, releasing a trace of your perfume—something subtle, clean, but somehow the same scent you always wore. Your hands twist together, nerves betraying you, but when you look up, you’re still Y/N. Changed, but unbroken.

Steve is the first to find his voice. It’s a whisper, hoarse and aching, as if the word itself is a lifeline: “Y/N…?” There’s hope, terror, disbelief, love—all tangled in those two syllables.

A tear slips down your cheek. You nod, voice trembling but sure. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Fury steps forward, the only one in the room who isn’t visibly shaken, though even his eye seems softer. His coat sways as he moves to your side, his voice low but ringing with certainty.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” he begins, scanning the room, “but it’s time you heard the truth. The mission you lost her on—it was all a cover. The threat against us was inside and out. The only way to beat it was to make the world believe Y/N was dead. Only a handful of us knew—she was pulled deep undercover, with a new face, a new life, no contact, no comfort, no home. She’s spent every day since then dismantling the organization that targeted the Avengers, risking her life over and over.” He glances at you, pride flickering in his features. “It was never her choice. She did it for all of you. And now, with the threat gone, she’s finally home.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and electric. The team stares at you in silence, the truth sinking in like sunlight after a long, dark winter.

Natasha is the first to move, her chair scraping back as she closes the space between you in three quick steps. She pulls you into a crushing hug, arms trembling. “You absolute idiot,” she whispers, voice thick with tears. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Steve’s arms wrap around both of you, his whole body trembling as he buries his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe it,” he chokes. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Clint is next, laughing and crying all at once, his hands shaking as he claps your back, then pulls you into a hug that nearly knocks the wind from you. “You better not be a ghost,” he jokes, voice breaking.

Sam’s eyes are overflowing, his smile radiant as he squeezes your hand, then pulls you into a hug, holding you tight. Bruce’s hug is gentle and tentative, but his relief is physical, radiating from his whole body. Thor, finally breaking the spell, sweeps you up in a bear hug, his laughter booming, tears streaming down his face. “By the gods, you have returned, little one!”

Tony looked you one last time, then, after a long moment, he scrubs a hand over his face and steps forward, pulling you into a quick, fierce hug. “Welcome home, kid,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Took you long enough

Through the chaos—through the laughter, the tears, the crushing embrace of your family—one thing is missing. Bucky.

He stands apart, rooted to the spot, every muscle rigid. His face is a storm of emotions—hope, anger, longing, betrayal, love—all crashing together. His eyes are fixed on you, searching, desperate, almost wild.

You take a step toward him, your voice soft, pleading. “Bucky?”

But he flinches as if struck, jaw tightening, hands curling into fists. His gaze drops, and without a word, he turns and storms from the room, boots pounding out a ragged rhythm on the marble. The door swings shut behind him, the echo lingering, sharper than the click of your heels.

The door slammed so violently that a picture frame toppled from the shelf and clattered to the floor. You flinched, your breath caught in your lungs, your skin prickling with cold. The silence that followed was almost worse than Bucky’s outburst—thick, suffocating, and heavy with memories no one wanted to revisit.

Steve was at your side in an instant, kneeling so his eyes were level with yours, his hand warm and grounding on yours. “Y/N…” His voice wavered, gruff with feeling he rarely showed. “Don’t think for a second that this is your fault. Buck hasn’t been himself since the explosion. He’s been… lost.”

You struggled to meet his eyes, tears already threatening. “I thought if I could just get him to talk—force him, even—he’d let me in. I didn’t know…”

Natasha settled beside you, her presence silent but fierce, her hand squeezing your shoulder. “You couldn’t have known. He won’t let anyone in. Not after what happened.”

Sam’s voice was raw, anger and sadness tangled together. “That night… When the alarms went off, Bucky ran into the fire like he didn’t care if he lived or died. He was screaming your name, Y/N. I barely got to him in time—I had to drag him out, kicking and fighting. I can still hear him begging me to let him go, cursing me for holding him back.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ve seen him take bullets without blinking. But that night, he was… terrified.”

Steve’s gaze grew distant, lost in the memory. “He searched through the wreckage for hours—his hands were bleeding, and he wouldn’t stop. When the first responders called off the search, he threatened to take the place apart brick by brick. He kept muttering, ‘She’s out there. I know she is. I should’ve gotten to her.’”

Natasha’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He didn’t sleep. He’d wander the halls like a ghost, every night, just waiting for you to come home. Sometimes I’d find him standing outside your room, staring at the door, clutching your dog tags. He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t cry. He just… existed.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “And then the funeral. God, Y/N, I wish you could’ve seen it—but I’m glad you didn’t. He wouldn’t let anyone touch your things. He stood in the rain through the whole service, didn’t say a word. When they lowered the empty casket, he just turned and walked away. I found him hours later, sitting by your gravestone, soaked to the bone, whispering apologies like prayers.”

Steve’s voice broke. “He left flowers every week. White lilies. He’d sit there for hours, talking to you. Sometimes he’d tell you about his day, sometimes he’d just stare at the stone. Once, I heard him say, ‘If I could trade places, I would.’”

Natasha’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “He started wearing your dog tags. He never took them off, not even once. When he thought no one was watching, he’d hold them so tightly his hand would shake.”

Sam continued, voice trembling, “He’d freeze up whenever there was an explosion or loud noise. He’d call your name before he even realized it. The nightmares got worse—sometimes he’d scream for you, sometimes he’d just sob. I tried to wake him once and he nearly broke my wrist.”

The weight of their stories pressed down, each memory like a stone added to your chest. The guilt, the grief, the raw devastation—they’d all lived it with Bucky, but you hadn’t seen how deep it went.

Steve’s voice was gentle, but his words cut deep. “He never stopped loving you, Y/N. He just stopped believing he deserved to.”

You wiped your tears away, voice trembling but determined. “I have to find him. I can’t let him drown in this. Not now, not again.”

Natasha squeezed your hand, her own voice thick. “Go. He needs you more than he’ll ever admit.”

You stood, legs shaking but resolve burning bright. Whatever wall Bucky had built, you would tear it down brick by brick—because you finally understood: his anger was only the shadow of his grief, and his distance was just love, twisted by loss.

——————————————————————————

He couldn’t breathe.

The room had been too full—of voices, memories, expectations he couldn’t meet. Something inside him broke loose, and in the next instant, Bucky was out of his seat and running. He fled the meeting, the corridors blurring around him, every step echoing the desperate need to get away.

By the time he hit the cold, open air, the rain was a wall—hard and stinging, soaking him in seconds. He hardly felt it. He barely registered the slippery metal under his hands as he scrambled up the fire escape, lungs tight, vision tunneling.

The rooftop. Their place. It was where he always ended up when he couldn’t take the weight of the world anymore. The spot by the old ventilation unit, where he and Y/N used to talk away the sleepless nights, felt like the only safe place left.

Except now, as he collapsed to the wet concrete, knees to his chest, the air refused to come in. His breaths turned shallow and fast, panic blooming like fire under his skin. He clutched at his chest, trying to force the air in, but all he could feel was the memory—the fire, the alarms, the choking smoke.

He remembered coming here the night of the explosion. He’d staggered onto the roof, hands bleeding from tearing through rubble, his throat raw from screaming your name. He’d waited in the rain for hours, hoping you’d appear through the rooftop door, soaked and smiling, mad at him for worrying. But you never came.

He remembered the funeral, too. After everyone left, he’d climbed up here in his suit, rain pounding down, clutching your dog tags so tightly the chain left marks on his palm. He’d sat in the exact same spot, trying to feel something other than the hollow ache. He’d talked to you—begged you for forgiveness, for one more chance, for any sign at all.

Now, with you back and the relief crashing into the fear, it was too much. His heart hammered against his ribs, each breath a struggle. He squeezed his eyes shut, the rain and the memory and the guilt all blurring together, drowning him.

His hands shook violently. He pressed his metal palm to the ground, grounding himself, feeling the cold seep into his bones. He tried to focus on the sensation, tried to pull himself back from the edge as the panic rose, but every inhale still felt like it might not be enough.

He wanted to call your name, but he was terrified it would echo back to him, empty, the way it had so many nights before.

So he sat, shivering and soaked, the city blurred and endless around him, and let the panic and the memories take him—because for now, he didn’t know how to let anything else in.

——————————————————————————

After Natasha’s words, you didn’t hesitate for a second.

You tore from the room, urgency burning through every muscle. The storm outside was a blur as you burst through the doors, rain lashing your skin, soaking you immediately. All you could focus on was Bucky—finding him, reaching him, no matter what.

Your heels slipped dangerously on the slick metal fire escape, each step a battle as you gripped the rail for dear life. Twice you nearly fell, ankles twisting, but you pushed on, breathless and wild, ignoring the pain and the cold. Nothing mattered except getting to him.

You stumbled out onto the rooftop, lungs burning, rain pelting down so hard it stung your face. Then you saw him—crumpled by the old ventilation unit, knees drawn up, body hunched in on itself. He was shaking violently, gasping for air, panic twisting every muscle.

His metal hand was splayed flat against the concrete, fingers digging in so hard you could hear the scrape even over the rain. The sharp sound cut through the storm—a brutal, agonized screech as his titanium fingers gouged deep, jagged lines into the rooftop, chunks of concrete flaking under his grip. His other hand clawed at his chest, as if trying to open his lungs by force, breaths coming in short, shallow bursts—barely breathing, barely there.

“Bucky!” you cried, nearly slipping as you dropped to your knees beside him, heedless of the water soaking your clothes and slicing chill through your bones. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. His eyes were wide, frantic, blank with terror, rain and tears streaming down his face.

You reached out, hands trembling, gently covering his metal hand first—feeling the tremor, the tension, the cold. “Bucky, you’re here. You’re safe. Listen to me—listen to my voice.” You pressed your other hand to his cheek, grounding him, forcing him to see you.

He gasped, entire body rigid, the metal hand scraping another jagged groove in the concrete. The sound was raw, desperate. His entire frame shook.

“Breathe with me, Buck,” you whispered, voice urgent and steady despite your own fear. You leaned in, forehead pressed to his, feeling the rain run down both your faces. “In… and out. Just match me. In… and out. Just us. Right here.”

For a moment, nothing changed—he was lost, trapped in panic and memory, digging his metal fingers deeper into the concrete as if anchoring himself to reality. But you didn’t leave him. You squeezed his hand, refusing to let go, repeating the rhythm of your breaths, your words a lifeline in the storm.

Little by little, his gasps turned to shuddering breaths. His grip eased, leaving deep scars in the rooftop. His eyes, wild and red, finally found yours—pleading, desperate, alive.

You wrapped your arms around him as he slumped forward, sobbing with relief, the storm inside him easing just enough for him to cling to your warmth. The rain hammered down, but you held him tight, soaked and shaking, refusing to let go.

“I’m here,” you whispered, again and again, rocking him gently on the broken rooftop where you’d both always found each other before. “I’m not leaving. I’ve got you, Bucky. I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, the world shrank to just the two of you, holding on through the storm—together, battered, but unbroken.

You held him until his sobs faded, your warmth anchoring him through the storm. When his breathing finally steadied, you cupped his cheek, brushing away rain and tears. “Bucky, you’re freezing,” you murmured softly. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up. We can talk after, I promise.” He nodded, still trembling but no longer lost in panic. You helped him to his feet, keeping a steady arm around him as you led him back down the slick stairs and through the compound’s halls, uncaring of the curious glances you drew. Inside your room, you handed Bucky a towel and gently nudged him toward the bathroom. “Shower first, okay?” you urged, your voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be right here.” He hesitated, but you squeezed his hand and gave him a reassuring nod. When the water started running, you sat on the edge of your bed, listening to the distant, comforting sound. When he emerged—skin flushed from the heat, hair damp—he looked steadier, wrapped in one of your soft robes. You took your own turn in the shower, letting the warmth wash away the chill and the ache from your frantic dash up the rooftop stairs.

When you returned, Bucky was sitting quietly on the bed, hands curled around your pillow. You smiled softly and excused yourself, promising to be right back. In the kitchen, you fixed two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon the way you both liked.

Bucky sat on the bed, cocoa forgotten, his hands clenched tight. The tension in the room was almost electric. Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking. He stared at you, eyes bloodshot and wild, hands shaking as he set his mug aside. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, but it cut through the room like broken glass.

“Why?” His voice trembled with something deep and wounded. “Why did you fake your death, Y/N? Why did you let me think you were gone?” His hands balled into fists, metal joints creaking. “Why did you make me bury you?”

You felt the accusation like a slap. Guilt surged through you, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Bucky, I—I didn’t have a choice. The op was compromised. If the people after us knew I was alive, everyone would’ve been in danger. I had to disappear. I did it for the team. For you.”

His eyes narrowed, anger sparking through the grief. “Don’t say it was for me. Don’t you dare.” His voice rose, rough and raw. “You left me with nothing. No explanation, no warning. You let me believe you were dead. You let me lose you, Y/N.” His breath came fast, his hands shaking harder. “You have any idea what that did to me? I thought I could handle losing people after all I’ve been through, but you—” His voice cracked. “You broke me.”

You felt your own temper flare, the pressure of months of silence and regret boiling over. “It wasn’t about you!” you snapped, standing your ground though your voice shook. “It was about all of us. If anyone had even suspected I was alive, they would’ve come after the team. After you. I had to make it real. I had to disappear or the people we care about would have died. I didn’t want to hurt you, Bucky, but I had to.”

He stared at you, chest heaving, caught between fury and heartbreak. The silence between you was deafening, alive with everything neither of you could say.

Then, slowly, the fight drained out of him. He looked down at his hands—one flesh, one metal, both scarred. His voice, when it came, was stripped bare.

“You want to know what it was like for me? After the explosion?” He let out a sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “I lost it. I ran straight into the fire. Didn’t care what happened to me. Sam tackled me, tried to hold me back, but I fought him. I didn’t feel anything—didn’t care when glass ripped up my arm, when flames burned through my jacket. I just needed to get to you.”

He blinked, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I ripped through the wreckage with my hands—these hands.” He held them up: the flesh arm marked by angry, faded scars; the metal one dented, the plating scratched and warped at the knuckles and wrist. “Didn’t care if I bled or busted the arm. I threw myself at the rubble, punched through walls, ripped open doors. I didn’t stop until Steve and Sam dragged me away. Even then, I kept thinking if I just tried a little harder, you’d be there, waiting for me.”

He shook his head, voice breaking. “The medics had to stitch me up. My arm was sparking, locked up from how hard I’d forced it. But none of it hurt as much as knowing you were just… gone.”

He pressed his metal hand to his eyes, breathing ragged. “The funeral… I stood in the rain and listened to them talk about hope, about sacrifice, like it was something beautiful. All I felt was empty. I left before it was over and just… wandered. Couldn’t be around anyone. Couldn’t bear to see the team’s faces, or your grave. It felt like every good part of me died with you.”

He let his hand fall, finally meeting your gaze, voice trembling. “After that, I barely slept. Kept waking up in a cold sweat, thinking I heard you screaming. I’d go to the roof—our spot—every night, just to sit in the rain and talk to the darkness. I left flowers, talked to your grave, begged for forgiveness, for a sign, for anything. Sometimes I hated you for leaving, but mostly I hated myself for not saving you.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks now, unashamed, his voice the smallest you’d ever heard. “I wasn’t living, Y/N. I was just surviving—empty, angry, broken. I thought if I just kept hurting, it would mean I still had something left to lose. But there was nothing left. You were gone, and I was lost.”

He reached for you, hands trembling, needing you to anchor him—needing you to understand. “I love you. I always have. Please… please don’t leave me again. I couldn’t survive it a second time.”

The confession hung in the air between you, thunderous and fragile, every word a piece of his soul laid bare.

You could hardly breathe. Bucky’s confession crashed through you—every word, every tremor in his voice, the raw pain in his eyes. It was almost unbearable, knowing how deeply he’d suffered, how much he’d lost in your absence. You felt your heart break open, overwhelmed by grief, guilt, and a love so fierce it left you shaking.

Without another thought, you surged forward, hands reaching for him—one trembling on his jaw, the other gripping his metal shoulder, fingers digging into the cold, dented plating as if you could hold all his pieces together.

“Bucky,” you choked out, voice thick and desperate, “I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing—I thought I was protecting you, protecting everyone. But I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I needed you safe.” Your tears fell unchecked, mingling with his as your foreheads pressed together, breaths coming fast, your bodies trembling in sync.

He shook his head, chest heaving with sobs. “You are my safe,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I needed you here, with me. Not gone. You’re the only thing that ever made me feel human—made me feel hope.”

The words broke you both. You crashed together in a kiss that was frantic, bruising, and wild—a collision of grief and longing and love starved for too long. He clung to you, his flesh hand tangled in your hair, his metal hand gripping your waist with desperate strength. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the way your lips moved against his—all the nights you’d ached for him, all the pain and hope and love finally set free.

When you broke apart for breath, your noses brushed, both of you gasping, clutching each other as if you might dissolve without that contact. “I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice a vow. “I’m not leaving. I’m yours. I’ll always come back for you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, tears streaking down his face, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world. “I love you, Y/N. I love you so much it hurts.”

You kissed him again, softer but just as intense, your hand still gripping his metal shoulder, grounding him in the present. You kissed his cheeks, his brow, the line of his jaw, whispering, “I love you. I love you. I’m here. You’re not alone. Not ever again.”

He buried his face in your neck, sobbing openly, every tremor of his body met by your steady embrace. You rocked him gently, your hand never leaving his shoulder—cold metal beneath your palm, a reminder of everything he’d survived, and everything you’d survive together.

In that tangled, trembling embrace, every scar and every nightmare began to lose their power, and for the first time since the world had fallen apart, hope felt real again.

The rain had faded to a hush outside, leaving only the sound of your breathing and the soft thud of Bucky’s heart beneath your ear. You lay together on the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if letting go for even a second would undo everything you’d just rebuilt.

He tilted your chin up, searching your face in the dim light. “Y/N, I need to know this is real,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Not just tonight. Not just until the nightmares stop. I want to be with you every day. I want… us. For real. Will you stay with me? Will you be mine?”

Your heart beat so hard you thought he could feel it. You reached up, brushing your thumb along his jaw, feeling the stubble and the heat of his skin. “Bucky,” you breathed, “I’ve wanted that every day since I met you. You’re my home. I want to wake up with you, fall asleep with you, fight and make up and just—live, with you. No more hiding. No more pretending we’re not everything to each other.”

He let out a shaky laugh, tears glimmering in his eyes, and pressed his forehead to yours. “God, I love you,” he said, voice breaking with relief. “I love you so damn much.”

Your lips met—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, pouring all the pain and hope and longing of lost months into that kiss. His arms tightened, pulling you flush against him, as if he could imprint your presence onto his soul. You felt his tears mix with yours, tasted the salt and the promise in every breath.

You fell asleep tangled together, bodies pressed close, your head on his chest and his metal arm a solid barrier against the world. Occasionally you’d wake, feeling the warmth of his breath on your hair, his hand tracing gentle circles on your back, and you’d tighten your hold, both of you silently vowing: never again.

For the first time in forever, neither of you dreamed of fire or loss. You only dreamed of each other.

——————————————————————————

One Year Later

The Avengers Compound was alive with the kind of joy that only came from family forged in the fires of hardship. Streamers in your favorite color crisscrossed the hall, and a banner stretched over the dining room: HAPPY NEW BIRTHDAY, Y/N!

The team was all there. Steve, eyes sparkling, led a round of applause as you entered. Tony, wearing a ridiculous party hat, delivered a toast that was both hilarious and surprisingly heartfelt. Natasha wrapped you in a fierce hug, whispering, “You’re the toughest damn thing I know.” Wanda and Vision brought flowers, and Clint’s kids made you a card covered in glitter and stickers.

You sat at the heart of it all with Bucky, his hand a constant, grounding presence on your thigh. He leaned close, murmuring private jokes that made you snort with laughter, the kind of laughter that made old wounds ache—in the best possible way.

Sam raised his glass, voice booming. “To Y/N! The only person stubborn enough to fake her own death, scare the hell out of all of us, and come back looking better than ever.”

Laughter exploded around the table—genuine, unfiltered, a sound that healed something inside you. Bucky pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering, his eyes shining with pride and gratitude.

When it came time to blow out the candles, you paused, looking around at the faces that meant everything: friends, teammates, found family. Your eyes met Bucky’s, and for a moment it was just the two of you—every hardship and every joy reflected in his gaze.

He squeezed your hand, voice low and fierce. “Make a wish, doll. But I think we’ve already got everything we need.”

You smiled, tears burning your eyes—but this time, they were happy. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, not caring that the whole team cheered and wolf-whistled.

As the evening wore on, the team swapped stories—some embarrassing, some heroic, all filled with warmth. Natasha told the story of the night Bucky almost broke down the medbay door searching for you. Steve recalled the first rooftop sunrise you and Bucky had shared as a couple, both of you wrapped in a single blanket. Tony even admitted he’d tried (and failed) to hack your “death file” just to get one more clue.

Later, as the party faded and stars glimmered outside, you and Bucky stood on the balcony together. He pulled you into his arms, breath warm against your ear. “You saved me, you know. Not just when you came back, but every day since. I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks as you pressed your lips to his, slow and deep and full of all the love you’d built together. “We saved each other, Bucky. Here’s to a thousand more new birthdays.”

He hugged you tighter, and the world felt impossibly right. The pain had become part of your story—but so had survival, and hope, and the fierce, unbreakable love you’d found in each other.

And for the rest of the night, surrounded by laughter, warm arms, and the family you’d chosen, you knew that this—this life, this love—was the truest wish you’d ever made.

[sinner-as-saint]

mastermind

Dark!Bucky Barnes x Ex-bully!Reader AU 

Summary: You were mean to him back in uni, always teasing him and making fun of him. Always chasing away the few friends he had and always ruining the chances he had of making new ones. He could never figure out why he was always the butt of your jokes, why out of all the other people you could unleash your cruelty on, you picked him. But those uni years were long gone. His desire to get back at you however, was not. So now, about a whole decade later, Bucky Barnes is out for revenge. You made his life hell for years after all. But now that he’s older and stronger than he was back then, he deserves to have a little fun with you, doesn’t he? 

Themes: author!reader, ex bully!reader, mentions of bullying in the past, mild angst, smut, stalker!bucky, dark!bucky, degrading kink, fluff

Bucky stepped into the hole in the wall bar with confidence. 

He knew what he was here for. Or rather, who. 

And he spotted you right away. He’d been preparing for this meeting for the last decade, and he had all his ducks in a row now. He grabbed a beer and walked right over to where you were sitting, in a booth by yourself. A half pint of something on the table, with papers scattered everywhere while you were busy noting something down rapidly in a notebook. 

You looked good, he admitted to himself. Dark burgundy dress with a leather jacket, as if you wanted to blend into the dark and moody aesthetic of the bar and disappear. But you were one of those people who just couldn’t exactly blend in and disappear. Even when you didn’t say a word, your presence was rather loud. Sure, you’d been one of the most horrible people he’d come across in uni years ago, but you were charismatic and he couldn’t deny it. 

You had this certain pull to you, attracting everyone and everything towards you. And here he was, gravitating towards you as well. But, he reminded himself, he had a plan this time. 

“Excuse me,” He spoke in his smoothest voice, “Is this seat taken?” 

He watched you intently as you looked up from your notebook and seemed a little surprised as you gave him a slight smile and pointed at the seat across from you. You didn’t recognise him. Of course you wouldn’t, he looked entirely different. 

Bucky was used to it. That surprise on women’s faces. He looked good and he knew it. Tight black t-shirt, purposely two sizes too small just so he could show off the big arms and the back muscles that the people loved. Tattoos all over his arms, and some on his neck. He had them all over his back as well, but it was currently hidden. Small, discrete lip ring on his lower lip. Yeah, he made the ladies go crazy. 

He could tell you were having trouble looking away as well. “Aren’t you too beautiful to be here all by yourself?” He gave you a smirk, one that he knew accentuated his lip ring. He watched your gaze drop down to it quickly before looking back up into his eyes. 

You smiled, then explained. “I don’t know anyone in this city, I’m here temporarily for work. I leave in a couple of days.” 

Bucky listened with fake interest, he knew all these things already. He knew everything about you. “Oh?” He faked curiosity, “What do you do for work?” 

“I’m an author. I’m currently on my book tour.” You answered in a shy voice. 

Weird. You used to be so confident and cocky all the time in uni. This was new. Bucky quickly recovered and said, “Wait, was that you I saw on the poster outside the bookstore down the street? There was quite a crowd there.” 

You nodded sheepishly, “Yeah, that’s me. I have another book signing there tomorrow.” 

He nodded, taking a sip of his beer. “You must be really good.” 

Again, you gave him that shy shrug that confused him. Since when were you humble, or shy? 

“I’m okay, I guess. People just like to read what I write.” A pause, as you stared into his eyes, then asked, “What do you do in the city? You know, other than flirting with random women.” 

Bucky chuckled, “Oh you’re not random. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve met.” He waited to see you squirm in your seat like he knew you would. He watched how you rolled your eyes at him and shook your head. Then he said, “I own a security company. I created this app that people use whenever they need help. All they have to do is press a button and my guys show up. Anywhere, anytime. Anything from needing medical help to needing help escaping someone, domestic violence, robbers, a hostage situation, harassment, or you know,” He looked right at you as he said, “Bullies.” 

You listened, nodded and said, “That’s noble. What pushed you to make that your life’s mission?” 

Bucky leaned back into his seat. “I know what it’s like to feel defenseless. I never want anyone to feel like that. So if I can at least help some people, it makes me feel better. I guess I became what younger me needed.” 

“Why?” You questioned. “Were you hurt in the past?” 

“Yeah,” He shrugged. “But that was a long time ago.” 

Bucky began talking about something else but then noticed you were watching him a little too intensely. For a brief moment he panicked, wondering if you’d recognised him. But surely not. He didn’t look anything like he did back then. 

So he had to ask, still in the same flirty tone he’d been using the whole time, “What’s that look for?” 

He watched as you blinked a couple times, lowered your face as if shy then shook your head and said, “Nothing. It’s…,” You chuckled, “It’s gonna sound insane but you just… look so much like one of my main characters from my last book.” You then grabbed your phone and clicked a couple times before showing him a fanart. “See? Even the lip ring, and the neck tats.” 

Bucky grabbed your phone, analysing the fanart with interest. “And this guy, you like him? Is he a good guy?” 

You sighed, “He’s complicated. But yes, I love him. He’s one of my favourite characters that I’ve ever written.” A coy smile, then you said, “I just never thought I’d meet someone exactly like him. I mean, it’s like you walked out of my book.” You laughed. 

Bucky laughed too. “Well, maybe I did.” 

“Maybe.” You whispered, still looking up at Bucky dreamily. Giving him that soft look women often gave him before they invited him into their beds. 

Perfect. 

Oh. He had you right where he wanted you. It’s like you walked out of my book. He scoffed internally. For the last few years he’d been studying all your books like they were religious texts and he was a zealous man. Over the years he noticed that all your MMCs had a few features in common – tattoos, muscles, piercings, so he became them. 

Sure, maybe this was him taking it too far. After all, uni ended about a decade ago. Sure, this was petty and maybe even a waste of time. But he needed to do this for the younger him who was always so passive and never in control of the narrative. Being bullied and never having friends or anyone on his side is what made him create his app and company. Sure, this was childish revenge but it was his to take. He didn’t care. 

Besides, the look on your face would be priceless once he reveals who he is. But not yet. He had so much to do before that. So many fantasies to fulfil. So much fun to have before he told you the whole truth. 

“It’s getting late,” You told him as you began gathering your papers and notebook, “I should head back to my hotel. I have that book signing thing rather early. But, um, if you want I could leave you my number and we can meet again tomorrow?” 

Bucky smiled at you, his tongue toying with his lip ring knowing full well it would catch your attention. “Yes, please.” 

He already had your number. Screw your number, he had all your home addresses – both the penthouse, as well as the small beach house that you owned, your email addresses, your passwords, where you liked to eat, where your friends lived, where they worked, what your parents did, where they worked, all of it. He’d been keeping a close eye on you for the past decade, of course he knew everything there was to know about you. 

So he took the number, and walked you out of the bar and promised to meet up with you the next day. 

—

“Have dinner with me,” Bucky said when he saw you the following evening. “I know a cute spot, it’s lowkey and quiet. You’re gonna like it.” 

You smiled at him and nodded, “Alright.” Then you took his elbow and let him take the lead. 

He walked slowly, using the short journey as an excuse to ask you things. General stuff, things people ask on first dates. Where you grew up, what is your family like, etc. But it was hard coming up with questions when he already knew everything. Plus, he had to be careful not to ask specific things, like how did you find Bari, Italy where you vacationed with your family last year? 

Luckily the place where you were headed wasn’t too far. 

“So tell me, what is it like going from city to city and meeting all your fans?” Bucky asked you once the two of you had placed your orders. 

You smiled, as if at a memory, and said, “It’s amazing. I can’t quite put it into words. I mean, I started writing as a way to cope with just, I don’t know, life I guess. And I never thought people would end up reading, let alone even like what I write. And it kinda just happened, and next thing I knew I was receiving messages and emails and letters from all over the world. I guess, you never get tired of someone telling you just how much they like the stories you made up in your head.” You sighed again, happily this time. “It’s cliché, I know, but it’s so pure and genuine. Like these characters don’t exist in real life, I made them up. But people found them interesting enough to read about them, and like them.” You giggled. 

Bucky felt like someone had slapped him the moment he heard that giggle. What the hell was happening to him? Did he, dare he say, find you endearing? What the fuck. 

You continued, unbeknownst to the internal turmoil Bucky was going through. “So yeah, the fans are literally the reason why I do what I do. They give me so much strength and they don’t even know it. Sometimes just reading or re-reading a sweet message someone left me months ago can turn a bad day into a really good one, or make a terrible day slightly more tolerable.” You paused, gazing into Bucky’s eyes. “Writing saved me, but my fans, my readers, they made my life so much more beautiful and worth living.” 

Well, he wasn’t expecting that. At all. He knew you didn’t have ghost writers or anything. He knew you’d been consistent with your book releases. But he never knew you had such… depth. He always only ever saw you as the bitchy girl who bullied him in uni and made his life hell. For the first time in years, Bucky wavered a little bit when it came to you. For the first time in years, he wondered whether this was worth it. 

“I see,” He spoke quietly, “So no downsides to being a well-loved author?” 

You chuckled, “Some. Like most things. I mean, this doesn’t happen a lot but a couple of times I’ve had people show up to my hotel room or my house even, demanding to know what happens in the next book. It’s scary, but, I mean I’ve dealt with it and I hope it doesn’t happen again.” 

Perfect. Bucky smiled, then said, “You know, you should hire security. At least when you’re touring. I can arrange it, I’ll send you some of my best guys. They’ll be discrete, and you won’t have to worry about anything.” 

He was pleased with how easily you agreed. Now he could have eyes on you all the time without all the secrecy. 

And the rest of the dinner went by smoothly. 

He thought he’d have to put in a lot more work. But when he dropped you off at your hotel lobby, and you asked him if he wanted to come up for a drink, he was pleasantly surprised. But of course he agreed and followed you to your room. 

You offered him a glass of red wine, he accepted. 

You made small talk, your eyes never leaving his. Bucky put on a show. Touching your hands, your face, but just enough to leave you wanting more. He watched how you lowered your head each time he gave you a compliment. But none of the compliments were lies, even despite all the hatred he felt towards you he had to admit, you were very beautiful. 

He also noted the way you kept scooting closer and closer to him on the couch. Out of nowhere, Bucky said, “You know, I googled you last night. And I came across some rather… naughty stuff that you’ve written.” 

You laughed and said, “In my world, we call those spicy scenes.” 

Bucky nodded, “I see. And are any of those based on real life?” 

There was that shy look on your face again. “Some are.” 

There was this unexplainable wave of discontent that washed over him upon hearing that. He didn’t know why but the thought of you having sex with someone else and it being good enough for you to write about it almost made him want to get up and leave. He hated it. 

“So if I fuck you, will you write about it?” He asked, so serious all of a sudden. 

You didn’t look away from his eyes as you replied, “Only if you’re memorable enough.” 

He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his mouth. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He shook his head and reached for you, “Come here then,” He guided you over his lap so you could straddle him. He leaned in and whispered, “I’ll show you memorable enough.” 

You placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling all the hard muscles underneath his thin t-shirt while his hands slid up and down your sides as his lips kissed all over your neck. He hummed and breathed and chuckled right into your ear as he explored your body. Then, getting impatient he asked, “Can I please take your dress off?” 

Within the next few seconds, you were completely bare in his lap. 

“So beautiful,” He murmured, looking at you with those gorgeous eyes that he knew could make people melt so easily. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He whispered along your collar bones, kissing and licking your skin. You inched closer to him, rubbing your crotch against his clothed but erected cock, making the both of you gasp and moan. “Yeah? Is that what you want?” He teased, tightening his grip on your waist just a little and pulling you closer to him, nuzzling your neck again. 

You slid your fingers into his hair and whispered into his ear, “Yes, please.” 

He hid the fact that your voice made him shiver. He shook it off as quickly as he could. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. 

Bucky recovered, and smirked against your skin the moment he heard you gasping and whining under his touch. “What do you want, huh?” He wrapped his arms around you and hugged you tightly, grounding you on his clothed cock in the process, “My fingers?” He reached up to grab the back of your neck, tilting your head back so he could kiss and whisper against your skin, “My mouth? Or my cock?” 

You whined, then said, “Your cock, please.” You begged him. And fuck, it was satisfying to hear. Just what he wanted. 

He chuckled, letting his hand rest at your butt, bringing your body closer to his. How long had he waited to have you at his mercy like this? He was gonna have all the fun he’d dreamt of having. “Well then you have to work for it.” He said, teasing you. “Now come on, take it out and slide it in you.” 

Bucky leaned back and watched each one of your moves. The desperation in your eyes as you stared up at him, how your eager hands rapidly undid his pants to free his throbbing cock. How you handled him like he was nothing but just a hot fling. 

Oh baby, Bucky scoffed mentally, you have no idea who I am, do you? 

He caught the way you whimpered under your breath at the sight of him, like the rest of him, his cock was nice and thick too. 

He watched as you wrapped your hand around him, slowly stroking his veiny cock, making him throw his head back and groan under his breath. “I said put it inside you, baby.” He bit his lower lip to keep from moaning too much. 

Bucky watched you as you lifted your body off of his lap and aligned the tip of his cock to your hole and then slowly, slowly sank down on him. You both moaned, watching his cock disappear inside of you. 

“Fuck…” You moaned, looking at him with that damned innocent look in your eyes. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. “Come here,” He growled once he was nice and deep inside your warm, wet hole. Grabbing you by the throat, Bucky pulled you closer and kissed you hungrily. Growling into your mouth about how good it felt to be inside you, “You did such a good job. Look how pretty you look, filled with my cock, huh? Do you realise how pretty you look, baby?” 

You whined against his mouth, begging, immediately grinding your hips against his, desperate for some friction. For any kind of movement. Just needy. 

“Please…” 

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you now.” He whispered against your mouth, your warm breaths mingling. “I’ve got you. I’ll make it feel good, okay?” His hands grabbed you by the hips as he carefully helped you lift your lower body up and then slowly, lowering you down his cock again. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” 

You nodded, looking down to see where your bodies connected and the sight of it, of his cock stretching you out was just sinful. 

“You feel perfect, you know that?” Bucky grabbed and held your hips in place, gently thrusting his hips up, making you moan as he filled you up, “Just a perfect girl for me, aren’t you? Who would’ve thought, huh?” 

It was a good thing you were too lust-drunk to fully process his ramblings. 

Bucky leaned in to kiss your open mouth again, moving your body gently, rocking you back and forth on his cock to get you to get used to the girth of him. His cock throbbed against your walls, causing the tiniest bit of friction which drove you insane and turned you into a teary, mumbling mess. “Aww baby, what is it? Is it too much? Hmm?” He teased, placing his thumb against your clit and rubbing it slowly while still moving your hips back and forth. “Is that too much?” 

You looked into his eyes with your teary ones and said, “You… feel so good.” You whined. 

Bucky smirked. Right where he wanted you. He let go of your hips, no longer helping you to move. “Go on then, take what you want. And make it good for me.” 

Sheepishly, you lifted your lower body slightly, before sliding back down on his cock. Now that he wasn’t helping you, it was way harder than earlier. You struggled to make him fit for a moment. But only for a moment. 

You whimpered and he groaned once he fit snug inside of you again. The tip of his cock reaching sensitive places you never knew existed. 

“That’s good, baby.” Bucky murmured, caressing your thigh. “But open your eyes. I want you to look at me while you take my cock so perfectly like my good girl. You hear me?” 

You looked right at him, nodding as you began riding his cock as best as you could before you finally found the right pace and rhythm. You moved faster then, impaling yourself down on his cock each time, whimpering shamelessly as you felt him filling you up completely each time, feeling him reach deeper into you with each thrust. 

“That’s it. Take it, take all of me in that tight, perfect little cunt…” He leaned in to kiss you, biting down and tugging at your bottom lip while you sped up, his cock stretched you out each time he filled you up.

His hand circled around your waist, his muscular arms caging you in and he pulled your warm body closer to his. You were nothing but a moaning mess at this point. 

You bounced on his cock moaning and whining, feeling him stretch you out. Bucky now held you at your waist and rhythmically thrust his hips up each time to match your movements. Brows furrowing and panting while you rode his cock, throwing his head back and growling in pleasure. 

“You feel so fucking good…” He tried to contain his grunts, “Oh fuck, you’ll get me addicted to this cunt, huh? And I’ll want it every day now. But you’ll give it to me, won’t you? You’ll let me fuck it, or taste it, or both, won’t you, angel?” 

“Yes,” You whined, nodding helplessly. “Whatever you want.” 

He chuckled, kissing down your neck and whispering against your skin about how perfect you felt around him. He panted against your skin, kissing you all over, “This cunt is mine now, you hear me? All fucking mine. All of it.” 

“Yes…”

You didn’t slow down when you felt your orgasm wash over you, and Bucky kept thrusting his hips up into you even as your eyes rolled back and you moaned out loud as you came.

“Oh fuck!” You cried out, your walls squeezing and clenching around him as you came undone, all that pressure exploding in a satisfying way. 

Bucky came right after you, his warm load spilling inside of you, filling you up as he wrapped his arms around you and pressed your trembling body closer to his. 

— 

“I wish I could stay in the city a little longer.” You mumbled against his chest. 

Bucky smirked, his fingers mindlessly tracing random shapes on your skin. “Where are you going after this?” 

You told him which city you were off to the next day for more book signings and readings. And Bucky pretended to be surprised, as if he didn’t know already, “I’m headed there too. One of our offices there needs me for something.” Lies. “I’ll leave in a day or two.” 

You sat up at the sound of that, looking down at Bucky with a mischievous look in your eyes. Bucky smirked because he could already see your thought process. 

“Could we, um, see each other again?” You asked, still a little shy. 

Bucky reached out to touch your face, playing the part of the enamoured stranger too well. “Of course we can, angel. I’ll come find you, don’t you worry.” 

— 

It was almost too easy to find you again. His guards who were watching over you let him know of all your moves, where you were, which hotel you stayed at, where your event was held, what time, etc. 

So finding you at your book signing event, and surprising you by sneaking around and pulling you into a nearby utility closet was not a problem at all. 

You gasped, in surprise, then let out a chuckle once you realized it was just him. “Bucky!” 

Bucky pulled you close and gave you a gentle kiss. “I’ve missed you, angel.” 

You relaxed in his arms, “But I saw you just two nights ago.” 

“I know,” He leaned in to kiss your neck. “Still missed you,” He whispered. 

You let out a soft moan when he licked and bit your skin. “Bucky…” You groaned, then giggled when his rough stubble tickled your neck. And that cold metal of his lip ring making you shiver.  “I have to be out and take pictures in a while.” 

He pulled away immediately. “Sorry, I thought–,” 

“No,” You cut him off, again with that shy but mischievous look in your eyes. Then you leaned in and whispered against his mouth, “I didn’t say we had to stop.” You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, right on his lip ring. 

Then you kissed his neck, then slowly got down on your knees. Your hands trailing down his body until you reached his belt buckle. 

Okay. This was not in the plan. Bucky thought in his head. 

“Can I?” You asked, looking up at him with those eyes of yours. 

Fuck. Fuck! How long had he waited for this? Years. Even in uni, even when he hated you, he was just a young man and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have you on your knees for him. Fuck. Focus, Bucky, focus! 

“Go ahead, baby.” He whispered. “It’s all yours to play with.” 

Those words made you hurry. You rapidly undid his belt, unzipped his pants and freed his hard cock. The mere sight of it had you whimpering with need. You wrapped your hands around him and placed your mouth on his tip, your tongue slowly circling his tip before you slowly took more of him, as much as you could fit, into your mouth. 

You looked up and found him looking down at you intensely, blinking slowly, eyes heavy with lust, and breathing heavily. Fuck, he was a sight, you thought. The lip ring on that swollen, soft, pink lower lip. Those tattoos peeking from under the collar of his shirt, the tattoos along his muscular forearms… 

You kept your eyes on his gorgeous face as you sucked on his cock. He had the kind of manly beauty that made you want to worship him with your mouth. Usually, you’d never get down on your knees this quickly for any man. But Bucky… he was special, wasn’t he? 

Bucky closed his eyes momentarily, lips parted and gasping as he tilted his head back. “Fuck…” he moaned and you only quickened your pace. He moved his hips forward, gently fucking your mouth. He looked back down and smirked, you looked magnificent on your knees, taking him perfectly.

“Is this what you’ve been dreaming of doing for the past two days, huh?” He teased. “While you’re out there innocently reading your books, and signing autographs for your fans, and smiling for pictures, is this what was in the back of your mind, angel?” 

You nodded, your mouth still full of him. 

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, not so innocent, are you?” He carefully quickened the pace at which he moved in and out of you, eager to chase his orgasm. “You’re lucky you have to go back out there and look presentable, otherwise I’d make a mess all over your face, baby.” He said, then hissed when you took him out of your mouth, licking his cock from bottom to top while your hands toyed with his balls. “Oh, you little tease.” He smirked. “No more teasing, baby, come on. Put it back in your mouth.” He ordered. 

And you listened. You took him back into your mouth and sucked on his cock until he came undone all over your tongue. Bucky came with a loud sigh, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of your mouth wrapped around him. You swallowed all of him, licked him clean and zipped his pants back up and did his belt again before standing up to face him again. 

He smiled at you. “I’m gonna return the favour later, okay?” 

You nodded while he wiped the corners of your mouth with his thumbs, and fixed your hair as best as he could. Bucky loved the dreamy look in your eyes. 

You slid him your hotel room key and said, “See you later, Bucky.” Then you left the closet with a wink. 

Bucky stayed there for a minute. Alone and thinking. This was easier than he thought. He kinda hoped you’d play hard to get a little more, but this was great too. 

—

Bucky did show up to your hotel room that night. He had a favour to return after all. But then, after that night, things went a little off his initial plan. 

Bucky ended up following you around the world for the next month or so, going from city to city. Fucking in hotel rooms, or anywhere he could get you alone. He ended up infiltrating each one of your events, sometimes he’d show up just so he could then take you out for dinner after a long day, then he’d end up sleeping in your bed each night. 

He knew he was deviating from his plan. But what could he do? He was having fun, and so were you. Neither one of you was putting a label on this thing anyway. Plus, he had waited for this for so long. So he let it happen for some more weeks, shamelessly enjoying anytime he got to have you under him, or be under you, or touching you, or kissing you. All for the sake of younger him, of course. 

Bucky let it go like this until you were nearing the last leg of your tour. And you had about a week off before the last few remaining events. 

It was time, he realised. To mess with you a little more. 

So he made you an offer he knew you wouldn’t refuse. 

The two of you were in your penthouse, back in your city. And Bucky had travelled with you. The two of you could barely keep your hands off each other. So here you were now, early morning, cuddling in bed. 

“How would you like a weekend getaway, baby? At a nice cabin, small town, endless woods,” He proposed, pulling you closer under the covers since you were both refusing to get out of bed that morning. “Just you, and me, and a hot tub.” He whispered, kissing your face while you writhed in his arms, giggling and trying to get away because you were really ticklish. “And lots of sex.” 

You laughed, finally out of his embrace, and got up to straddle him, pinning his arms in place as you looked down at him. Both of you completely naked, but who cared? “I wake up sore everyday because of you.” 

Bucky smirked, freeing his hands from your grip easily. “Weird, ‘cause you never complain when we’re doing it.” He spoke, his hands mindlessly caressing your bare thighs. “In fact, you always ask for more.” 

“Right.” You smacked his chest playfully. “And now you want to lock me inside a cabin with you? We won’t ever leave the bed. I still have work to do, you know? I should’ve started working on my next book weeks ago.” You said, “But a certain tattooed, blue-eyed hottie is ruining my plans.” 

He laughed at the irony of what you said. “Oh come on, angel,” He pleaded. “I just want one weekend alone with you. Just one. Where we don’t have to meet or interact with other people. It’ll be just us.” 

You smiled and nodded, “Fine. I should start packing.” 

— 

The cabin was everything. Much larger than you expected. Bucky told you that this was one of his favourite properties that he owned, at the foot of a mountain, surrounded by dense, foggy woods, the rich veridian pine trees, the dark mountains, and rain clouds. 

It was the perfect setting to get some writing done as well, you thought. 

“Oh! This is perfect, Buck!” You said the moment you stepped inside the log home. The setting sun really added to the charm of the place. You spun in slow circles, taking it all in. The high ceiling, the grand staircase, the nice kitchen, the neat living area with the comfiest chairs by the large windows, and the giant fireplace. 

You immediately walked over to the biggest chair with the softest cushions and plopped down on it with a happy sigh. “I never wanna leave.” You squealed, giggling as you squirmed and buried deeper into the cushions. “Can I just stay here forever? Look at this place, Buck!” 

Bucky was frozen in place. Watching you. Unable to take his eyes off you. The happy smiles, the way you made sure to point out all the things you liked and compliment them. The way you immediately made yourself at home. The way you chose the most comfortable spot and decided that was your spot, like a house cat by a sunny window. 

What the hell was he feeling?! And why did he feel kinda bad for having led you on this whole time? Was he doing the wrong thing? Messing with you was the plan, but then what? What after that? Was he being ridiculous? Did he just waste years of his life planning and plotting when he could’ve just let it all go and move on? Uni was years ago. Was this all a childish utter waste of time and energy? 

Fuck. He cursed himself. What was he doing? It was obvious that you weren’t the same person you were back then. People had the right to change and they did all the time. 

“Bucky?” Your voice dragged him back to reality. “Are you okay?” You got up from your chair and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around him as you said, “Thank you for bringing me here, I love it.” You buried your face into his chest and sighed, “You seem tired. Can we get into the hot tub now? I think we both need to relax for a minute.” 

He looked down at you and nodded, smiling as he touched your face gently. “Of course, angel.” 

— 

Bucky knew he seemed distant while he was in the hot tub with you, not even the breathtaking view of the woods and the lights from the small town could cheer him up. His mind was far away, even while you were in his lap. 

“Hey,” You whispered, leaning in to kiss his rough cheek. “What’s going on with you?” You asked quietly. 

“Nothing.” He forced a soft smile and said, “Just work stuff.” 

You looked a little disappointed. “I thought you wanted this time away from everyone.” 

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him, your bare chest pressing against his. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll stop worrying about the rest of the world.” He nuzzled your neck and kissed you until you giggled, until that disappointed look on your face disappeared. “It’s just you and me.” 

Then what started out as innocent kisses, turned into steamy making out, then turned into the two of you fucking until you were completely spent. 

— 

The next two days went by quickly. Bucky lost track of time since he was so lost in you. It was so easy to pretend. To pretend that this was real and that he wasn’t just here with you because of some grunge he’d been nurturing since he was in his early twenties. 

But then came your last night here at his log home. And Bucky could barely sleep. He kept tossing and turning, while you were sleeping soundly next to him. He was feeling a lot. Anger, regret, guilt. 

He couldn’t stay in bed any longer. So he got up and walked downstairs, straight to that secret door behind which was his ‘study room’. This room contained everything he knew and had gathered about you since his uni days. Photographs, addresses, phone numbers, everything. And there, occupying the entirety of one of the walls was the bulletin board he used to keep track of everything. Where you went, who you met, details about people from your inner circle, literally everything. 

Bucky stood in front of the giant bulletin board that had a picture of you right in the middle, surrounded by pictures of you no one else had, pictures you didn’t even know were taken of you. In hotel lobbies, at airports, inside your homes, and more. Bucky’s eyes followed that red thread he used to mark each step of his ‘plan’, and the rope ended here – at the log house. The was plan was simple, all he had to do was– 

“What the hell is this?” A shaky voice asked from behind him. 

Bucky froze for a second, then kept his calm. Fuck it. He wasn’t gonna be able to pretend for much longer anyway. “I thought you were sleeping.” 

He turned around and faced you. You stood at the door which he carelessly forgot to lock behind him. There, in your pink PJs, looking at him with accusation and fear in your eyes. He hated that look. Suddenly Bucky was even angrier, at himself, at the situation he thought he had under control, at everything. 

He knew how this looked. He was standing a few feet away from you with a poker face, and that damn wall behind him was like a silent but deadly monster ready to pounce. He noticed the way you were shaking already. 

“Who are you?” You asked him, hands trembling even as you tried to keep your calm. Acting rash wouldn’t help you. 

So smart. So brave. 

“Forgot me so soon, angel?” Bucky scoffed, “You don’t remember me? It’s only been, what, like ten years since uni? James? The kid with glasses you liked to bully? You’d slash my tires for fun,” He began listing, “You’d make up rumours about me, you’d chased away all the friends I made, you’d cast me out and make sure I was alone all the time, you really did act like it was your world and we were all just living in it back then, remember? You and your minions?” Bucky shook his head, “I know you remember.” 

A shaky exhale, then you whispered under your breath, as if to yourself, starting to back away as the realisation set in. “No… why would you–,” 

Bucky reached for and grabbed your wrist before you could get away from him. He slammed the door shut behind you and pushed you against it. Once locked, the door only opened with the code was entered. And you didn’t know the code, so you were well trapped with him in this room. 

“Why would I?” He asked, dramatically. Placing his hands on the door behind you, trapping you between the hard, cold wood and his body, his tattooed, bare chest pressing against you. Bucky said, “Because you made my life hell that’s why. I’m not that kid anymore.” He whispered, his tone icy and mean. “I’m all grown up now, and I deserve to have some fun, don’t I?” He watched as tears fell down your face. “Aww, are you crying, baby? Hmm?” He leaned closer to you and whispered against the side of your trembling mouth, knowing his beard felt rough against your skin, “You ruined my plans with your pretty face, with that sweet look in your eyes, and your addicting fucking pussy, and now you’re crying?” He taunted, enjoying the way you gasped in surprise at his crude words. 

He also noted how you didn’t even try to push him away. It’s like you rolled over and admitted defeat. You weren’t even trying to fight back. But you did look terrified. 

Bucky pulled away to look into your eyes. “I intended to mess with you for a little bit, and make you pay for how you treated me all those years ago.” He explained. “But having you mess with my head in return wasn’t in the plans, you know?” 

“Please,” You whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please let me go. I’ll do anything, Bucky. I’m sorry.” More tears rolled down your cheeks. “Please.” You begged again. 

Bucky, despite the guilt he’d felt just moments ago, scoffed in your face with a smirk on his own. “That’s not what you were begging for just an hour ago, was it?” Bucky pouted and then with his best whiny voice mocked you, “‘oh please baby, that’s it, fuck you feel so good. More, more, please, oh fuck please–,” 

You cut him off with a slap across the face. Bucky chuckled like an asshole, not feeling the pain at all, even though it sent his face sideways because he wasn’t expecting it. And somehow getting a reaction out of you tasted so sweet. He wanted more. 

“Do you remember now? Remember how you made my life miserable?” He asked. 

Sniffling, you asked him back, “What do you want? I said I was sorry.” 

“Oh no. You don’t get to just apologise. For four years of my life, I’d wake up every single day and hate it.” He said. “Because of you and your cool group of friends.” His tone was so bitter it was unrecognizable. “Did it make you feel good? Making fun of me? Did it make you feel all big and powerful, picking on me?” 

You shook your head, sniffling. Looking like you regretted it now. Part of him wanted to end this weird interrogation, but he also needed to know, didn’t he? 

So he asked. “Then why did you do it?” 

Silence. 

One of his hands left the door and wrapped itself around your throat. Bucky felt how you tensed under his touch as he pressed himself against you even more, making sure you couldn’t slip away. 

“Buck–,” You squealed, but the way he tightened his grip just a little made you stop. 

Bucky continued with his taunts. “Writing all those things on my door. Spreading rumours about me. Ruining any chance I had at real friendships with people. You think that was funny?” 

You finally found your voice, though quiet and pleading. “Those were stupid, childish pranks, Bucky please, and I am so s–” 

He cut you off again, raising his voice a little. “Childish pranks to you! For me those childish pranks of yours made my life hell for four years.” He scoffed. “You were the popular girl everyone wanted. Your parents were rich. You had everything most of us didn’t have. So why did you do it?” He questioned. “Why did you pick on me? Why not the others? What did I ever do to you to deserve that treatment?” His voice went down so low it made you tremble. 

He loved it. The power he held in that moment. For a moment, he wished the younger him had felt half the way he felt right now. He decided to mess with you just a little more. Scaring you with his words, because he knew he could never hurt you. Not like this. “We’re all alone up this mountain, you know?” He said, in a calm voice that only made your tears flow even more. “No neighbours,” He reminded you. “No one to hear you scream, no one to help you.” He surprised himself with how cold he sounded, like he was someone else. 

“Please.” You begged, unable to say anything else. 

“I used to dream about this, you know?” He confessed. “About having you at my mercy. About having you plead and beg me.” He chuckled, staring right into your eyes. “It’s fucked up, you see? I could never understand it.” 

He tilted his head to the side, sliding his thigh in between your legs, loving the way you gasped and instinctively, mindlessly spread your legs ever so gently to let him in, it was barely noticeable. 

“As much as I hated you before, as much as you were a total bitch to me, I never stopped wondering what it would be like to be inside you.” He scoffed, as if at a memory. “I used to fantasize about it back in uni too. I always wondered what it would be like to have you open and soft and wet for me.” He pressed his leg up against your core. “To hear you purr and moan, and fuck me,” He laughed, “You’re better than what I imagined.” 

You were trapped in place, unable to move, unable to look away. Bucky could tell you were scared, but there was something else in your eyes that he couldn’t quite name. A strange calmness of sorts. 

Bucky continued his monologue, rubbing his thigh so gently in between your legs. He doubted you even noticed because all you did was stare at him with teary eyes, that strange look in them, and your soft mouth slightly open. “So what is it about you, huh?” He squeezed his hand around your throat for just a second before letting go, he could feel your pulse quicken. “What is it about this god damn pussy that made me ruin my own plans.” He scoffed in disappointment. “I never intended to keep you around for so long. I wanted to bring you up here as quickly as possible, mess with you a little bit, scare you and send you running. And in the meantime make you regret how you treated me all those years ago.” 

Bucky pulled his thigh away from yours, and smirked when you gasped at the loss of contact. Ah, so you were enjoying it. He was sure he looked just as smug as he felt. 

“But,” Bucky continued, “All I’ve done since I met you is be buried deep into that pussy. And anytime I’m not in there I think about it. About you. About your taste. The sounds you make when I’m fucking you. The way you say my name. The way you look under me. The way your arms and legs wrap around me so perfectly…” He trailed off, noticing the way you squeezed your eyes shut, as if not facing him would erase all those weeks you spent tangled with one another. 

“Look at me,” He murmured, still in that mean and cold voice. The one he could barely recognise. He didn’t sound like someone who hated you. He sounded like someone who was obsessed. “A few weeks in your company and I’m willing to do just about anything to keep you looking at me with that dreamy look in your eyes.” He said, sincerely. “I wanna give you everything. Wanna take you anywhere you wanna go. Show you everything. Make all your wishes come true.” 

He noticed your eyes were still shut. So he got bolder, he reached for your hair and grabbed a fistful securely in his grip, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to open your eyes in fear, panic, and… that strange look he couldn’t quite decipher. “Look at me!” He hissed. “Look at what you’ve done to me! Haven’t you fucked with my head enough?!”

You spoke up this time. Pleading again, “Bucky, I’m so sorry. I mean it. I wasn’t– I wasn’t thinking back then.” You sniffled. “I was so stupid, everything I did was so stupid, Bucky please. I really am sorry.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded bored. Then like a switch, he went back to being icy again. “You wanna make up for it?” 

A blink. Silence. Then you said, “Don’t hurt me.” 

Bucky chuckled. “Oh baby,” He cooed, “Is that what you think I’m gonna do? Hurt you? If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it that same night at the bar.” He shook his head, his hand leaving your hair, coming down to trace the shape of your mouth. “Hurting you was never in the plans.” 

You shivered. 

“Making you beg for it was.” He stated. “And you will.” He sounded so confident. “You will beg me for it, won’t you? Hmm? You’ll beg me to fuck you. And then you’re gonna say you’re sorry. And you’ll really mean it this time. You want that, don’t you, baby?” He smirked. “Of course you do. Otherwise why would you be rubbing yourself all over me like that?” 

You froze, probably just now realising what you’d been doing this whole time. Bucky couldn’t help the smug smirk. Oh fuck, this is everything he’s ever dreamt of. So he reached for you, his hands sliding right up in between your legs. 

He watched how you frowned for a moment as he rubbed his fingers against your clothed, but embarrassingly wet folds. Your thin, little satin shorts were barely a barrier. 

“Oh?” He teased, “Treating you like a little slut doesn’t turn you off, does it?” He pulled you closer by your throat and you shivered again, whimpering quietly. You gasped as he lazily circled your clothed clit, smearing your wetness around. “You filthy, little whore.” He chuckled, then pushed your shorts and underwear to the side to touch you properly. You let out an involuntary moan and he smirked, pressing his lips against yours but not kissing you yet. “Yeah? You like that?” 

“Please…” You pleaded, still not pushing him away. Your hands remained at your sides. Your body felt warm under his touch, and he couldn’t get enough of it. 

“Please what?” He almost growled as he slid a finger inside you and felt you immediately clench hard around him. “See? This is what I’m talking about. It was so much easier to hate you when I didn’t know what you felt like, what you tasted like,” He spoke, his lips leaving your mouth and trailing to your ear where he whispered, “Now all I wanna do is get inside you and make you happy.” He sighed, then chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all. “What the hell are you doing to me?” 

Hearing you whine and gasp as he slowly pumped his finger in and out of you was divine. 

He added another finger. “Look at you,” He taunted, “Do you feel powerful now as you did back then? Hmm?” He spoke against your cheek, his hot breath fanning your face as he pulled away just a little to look at you. “Is this where you thought you’d be one day, you little slut? At my mercy?” He chuckled, removing his hands from in between your legs as he pulled you away from the door, keeping his hand at your throat simply because he wanted to and moved you until you were sitting on the edge of his large, nearby desk. 

He stepped away for a moment, just to look at you and your slightly disheveled state. Your satin PJs sticking to your now damp with sweat skin. You were breathing heavily, your hands clutching the edge of his desk for dear life. 

“I want you to get naked and bend over the desk.” 

You remained frozen in place, even when the order left his lips. Bucky toyed with his lip ring, before pulling it into his mouth while he stared into your eyes. “Did you not hear me?” 

Finally finding your voice, you whispered again, “Bucky, I said I was sorry.” 

Bucky stepped closer until he stood right in front of you and reached out to grab your hair at the back of your neck again, fisting it securely in his grip as he tugged just a little to tilt your head back. It seemed to be the only way he got your attention. He leaned in to nuzzle your neck, kissing along your throat, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “I don’t want your apology. I want you begging for me. Now, didn’t you hear what I said? I told you to bend over the desk for me.” He used that tone again, the icy one. The one that said you were in trouble if you didn’t do what he asked. 

So you did. 

When he released you, you held his stare with some cold defiance in your eyes as you discarded your PJs. You’d gotten naked with him multiple times over the last month or two, so this was nothing. Once done, you turned around and bent over the edge of his large desk. 

You sighed in defeat when your cheek pressed against the cold surface of the polished wood, your hands laid palm down on each side of your head. You ass pressed against the front of his sweatpants and you whimpered at the feel of his thick, hard cock beneath the fabric, rubbing against your soft folds. 

You felt his hands on your body. He placed his hands on each side of your waist and caressed your body, rubbing up and down along your sides, touching your ass but not once touching you right where you needed him to. 

You gasped, then he noticed you quickly bit your lip to keep yourself from moaning too loud. 

He scoffed before pinching your skin to make you gasp again, “I wanna hear every little sound you make.” He finally trailed his fingers down in between your legs and lazily traced along your slit. “So wet and ready for me.” He chuckled. 

He heard your gasping and whimpering as quietly as you could as he lazily finger-fucked you. You whined as he touched a sensitive spot inside you. Teasing you a bit more before pulling out. 

Bucky lowered his sweats to free his cock, then his hands were on you again. He grabbed you on either side of your hips before pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance. But he didn’t slide his cock inside of you yet. 

He waited, he could almost feel your heart racing as he did nothing but wait for a reaction from you. He caught the way you discretely tried to push back into him but he moved away, chuckling as you whined in desperation. 

“Aww, what is it?” He asked, leaning over your exposed back. His chest pressing down onto you as he whispered into your ear. “You want this cock? Huh? You want it so bad, don’t you?” He hissed, “Then beg for it, slut.” 

He heard a weak, “Please,” but that wasn’t enough now, was it? 

“I said, beg.” 

“Please… Bucky, I– I want your cock. So bad.” You whispered. “Please, can I have it?” Like you were ashamed of wanting him. “I’ll be good from now on, I promise.” 

He wasn’t expecting that last part, but honestly, how sweet was it to hear! 

Pleased with your begging, Bucky groaned under his breath as he pushed himself slowly inside of you, feeling your walls tighten around him. You whimpered as he filled you up, stretching you as he went. 

He pulled out and thrust deep into you once again, making you moan and gasp under him. “You’ll be good, huh?” He reached out and grabbed your wrists, pinning them down at your lower back as he started rocking into you. Slowly at first, then gradually building up his pace. “Just this cock has you acting right, huh?” He laughed as he fucked deep into you, your front bumping against the edge of the desk each time. 

“Yes…,” You admitted. You whimpered as he pounded even harder into you at the sound of that confession. His pelvic bone smacking against your ass each time he thrust into you.

“Yeah? Not such a proud, arrogant little slut now, are you?” He growled, tightening his grip on your wrists as he fucked you harder, feeling your walls getting tighter around him. “Huh? You’re not as bitchy as you were back then, look at you now. All nice and bent over my desk.” He hissed, “Don’t you dare fucking come yet!” 

You whined, “Bucky, I can’t-,” 

He cut you off quickly, “Yes you fucking can.” He snarled. “You said you were gonna be good from now on, right? Well hold it then, don’t fucking come yet.” He slammed his cock harder into you, making your eyes squeeze shut. He thrust so deep into you that even the desk moved a little, screeching as it did across the floor. 

A loud moan escaped your mouth and Bucky smirked. Looks like you were enjoying this a little too much, huh? He couldn’t have that just yet, now could he? So he pulled out and pulled you up and off the desk, turning you around so you faced him. 

Your lips parted as you gasped for air, your tear stained face was a sight to behold. And that wild hunger in your eyes because even given the situation, he fucked you good and knew how to make you want more of it, and he knew that. 

“Get on your knees.” He ordered. “Now.” 

He was surprised at how quick you were, obeying immediately, falling perfectly on your knees in front of him. You watched him with a hunger in your teary eyes. And that strange look still. You kept your eyes on his as he grabbed his glistening cock at the base and guided his tip over to your already open mouth, spreading your own wetness all over your mouth and said, “Be a good little slut, and suck.” 

You did. You opened wide as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into your mouth. You took him in slowly until he hit the back of your throat. He gripped the back of your neck, keeping you in place as he spoke, “Now, worship this fucking cock like it’s the only thing you’re good for. He smirked as you began moving immediately, “That's it. Make me fucking come, you filthy little slut.” 

You looked up at him, and for a moment, Bucky was fully captivated. Like he was in a trance. There you were, kneeling before him with his cock in your mouth like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted to do. Just like how he’d always dreamt of. 

“Oh, look at you,” He cooed, as if mocking you. “Working hard for this cock, huh? Remember that night at the bar, bet you wanted it right there. You could barely wait to have it, could you? You barely bothered to ask me my full name,” He chuckled. “You were just so hungry for it.” Bucky let out a carefree chuckle as he looked down at you, “Tell me, do you still want it just the same now that you know who I really am?” He asked, knowing damn well you couldn’t respond with his cock filling your mouth. 

Another tear dropped from your eye, but then you nodded awkwardly, mouth still around his tip. 

“Yeah, you do. ‘Cause you’re nothing but a cock hungry little slut, aren’t you?” He groaned at the sight of you with your mouth full and said, “That’s it. Get up.” 

You listened, and he shoved you up on the edge of the table again before he stepped in between your legs. His hand grabbed you by the chin, holding your face in place as he aligned his cock to your core again. He slipped inside you with ease, making you gasp as he began fucking you again. 

“Look at you,” He spoke through gritted teeth, now fucking you with a rougher pace. “Fucking disgusting with spit and precum all over your mouth,” He whispered, leaning in just to mess with you – not once kissing you. He pushed your thighs further apart so he could fuck you deeper. 

“Bucky…” You gasped. 

“What, slut?” He fucked deeper into you, pounding into you relentlessly. “Your little cunt feels so good, you know that? So fucking tight,” He whispered against your mouth, before pulling away to spit into your open mouth, not once stopping his thrusts. “It’s a shame you were such a bitch back then, otherwise you could’ve had this cock a long time ago.” 

“Please…” You whined as he pounded into you aggressively. A tear slipped out of the corner of your eye. 

“Yeah? You’re sorry now?” 

You nodded. 

Bucky felt your walls clench violently around him. “Fuck,” He growled into your ear, “Are you gonna come for me? You're gonna come all over this cock? Huh?”  

“Yes,” You whimpered, “Yes, please.” You cried in pleasure and pain. “Please, Buck.” 

“Damn it!” He groaned. “Fuck you! Fuck you for being so good. For messing with my head.” He hissed, staring deep into your eyes, “And fuck you for not letting me enjoy this as much as I wanted to because I can’t bring myself to fucking hurt you!”  

Bucky slowed down just a little, making you cry out. 

“I dreamt of this, you know? All I’ve ever done is think about this moment right here. I always thought I’d scare you to a point where you take off running,” He scoffed, “Hell, I even fantasized about chasing after you in these damn woods!” He shook his head, still holding your stare. “Look at me now, look! Even now I couldn’t help but make it nice and good for you. To fuck you like I know you like it. I couldn’t help but be buried deep inside you yet again!” 

“I’m sorry,” You whined, “I really am.” 

Bucky wanted to punch himself. 

“Shut the fuck up and come for me!” 

A loud cry, then you came – mumbling and whining and crying. A complete mess on his desk. 

Bucky followed shortly after, coming undone while he was buried deep inside you, gripping your thigh so tightly that his fingers would surely leave a bruise behind. He caught you just as you fell forward into his chest, unable to hold yourself up as you caught your breath. 

Bucky calmed himself down, let out a sigh and glared at that damned, giant bulletin board covering the entire wall behind you as he wrapped his arms around your shaking body. God damn it. 

—

Reader’s POV: 

Your memory was a little hazy after that. You remembered bits and pieces. How he got you into the shower. His gentle touches, even as he washed himself. His hands and how they never left your body, holding you close and cleaning you up as best he could. 

Him whispered, “I’ve got you.” Over and over again. Like he was guilty. 

You remember you tried talking to him, as he dried you with a fluffy towel, “You hate me.” It came out like a statement. 

“Be quiet.” His icy voice snapped, and he refused to meet your eyes. The coldness of his tone and the soothing, gentle touch of his hands were giving you a whiplash. But you took it. Of course, you did. 

“Would you ever forgive me?” You asked him as he wrapped your favourite fluffy robe around you and brought you to bed. It was late, closer to sunrise than midnight. “Could you?” 

Bucky finally looked at you and said, “Just… be quiet.” His tone was much softer than earlier. “Here, drink this.” He handed you some water. You accepted it, sipping on it as you let him fuss over the bedding and blankets until he made a nice little nest for you to sink into. 

You thought he’d tuck you in and leave, probably to go back to that weird lair of his downstairs. But no, he got in after you. Quiet, and grumpy as he was, he still pulled in to cuddle like you two had the habit of doing for the past month or two. 

You hid your face into his chest, sighing and breathing in his scent, letting his body heat warm you up. You could hear the wind picking up outside, but that was none of your concern. 

A minute went by in silence, in darkness, except for the bedside lamp which illuminated the room with a soft golden glow. Another minute went by, Bucky breathed steadily. His hands moving up and down your back. Both of you were quiet. 

There was so much you wanted to say to him, but all that came out was, “I’m sorry, Bucky.” 

He sighed, then let out a mindless, “Hmm.” 

“I really am.” You whispered again, snuggling closer as if you wanted to get inside his skin. 

Another careless, “Hmm.” 

You sniffled, feeling like crying again. “Please forgive me.” 

“Stop crying.” He said, gently this time. 

“I’ll make up for it.” You found yourself saying. “I’ll do anything. I mean it.” 

Bucky sighed. “Oh yeah? How will you make up for it?” He said, with just a hint of pleasantry in his tone. 

“How many kids do you want?” 

Bucky chuckled. Genuinely chuckled, not like the mocking ones from earlier. But this was boyish, and very him. “You’re finishing your book tour soon.” He said. “Then you’ve got to start on your new project.” He sighed again, sounding a little tired and spent. “No kids for now, angel.” 

Silence again. This silence felt way less tense than before. Bucky’s movements were getting slower and slower as he relaxed more and more. 

Then out of nowhere you asked, “Have you… ever read any of my books?” 

A pause. Then he said, “All of them.” 

That took you by genuine surprise. “All of them?” 

“All of them.” 

You hesitated to ask, “Do you like them? 

Bucky let out a soft chuckle. “Do I like them?” He taunted. “Look at me. I became what you write about.” Then he reached for your face, tilting your head up so he could look at you. “Yes I do. I like them.” He said. “You’re very talented, baby. You deserved all the attention and recognition you get.” 

“Oh.” 

Silence again. You looked away from him, but he must’ve been able to see the gears turning in your head so he gently smacked your thigh and said, “Stop thinking.” He pulled the covers around you once again, making sure you were nice and warm. “Go to sleep.” He said. 

You snuggled deeper into his side, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. A few minutes went by, and Bucky fell asleep before you did. He began snoring softly just moments after. 

You stayed awake though. Thinking, caressing his bare chest. After all, how could one sleep after finally getting to where they plotted to be for the last ten years? You hid a smirk as you kissed Bucky’s warm, tattooed chest. You whispered, quietly, “Took me a decade to get to you, Buck. But it was all worth it.” You snuggled deeper into his side. Smiling at his adorable snores. 

Bucky was indeed a mastermind. Stalking you, following your each and every move. Keeping track of where you were and where you went at all times, who you met and what you did. It couldn’t have been easy. 

He thought he alone plotted this whole thing. He thought that he was the only one manipulating circumstances in ways to get what he wanted. Into getting you to let your guard down and let him in. Thinking you didn’t recognise him that night you met at the bar. 

Thinking you forgot. 

You let out a little chuckle, “Oh Buck. You did so well. But you don’t know half the work I put into all this.” You sighed, kissing his bare chest again, “Do you even know how much work goes into

manipulating someone into thinking they’re successfully manipulating you?” 

Bucky was a mastermind. Each one of his moves were perfectly calculated. He was so smart. He’d always been, ever since uni. 

But Bucky wasn’t the only mastermind. Because you plotted too. 

Always holding or attending book signings, readings, or other events in cities he was in. Always being around, but right outside of his circle – enough so that in these past ten years, he never stopped hearing about you from friends or colleagues, or friends of friends. Always making sure your advertisements were on billboards that were near his houses, offices, hang out spots, etc. 

All that was by your design. You made sure you’d never leave his head. 

You do admit, being mean to him in uni was stupid and unforgivable. But what else were you supposed to do? How else were you going to live rent free in his head? He never made a move on you in uni because he was also so intimidated. Always so shy, and quiet. 

So you did what you had to do. Sure, it took years. And the whole time, you let him think he was the only one orchestrating this. You let him think his manipulation techniques were working. You let him think he was punishing you when really, you’d been dreaming of these punishments ever since you saw him that first day on campus. 

Earlier, in the study, when you saw that bullet board and froze – it wasn’t out of fear. It was out of surprise. You knew Bucky always kept a close eye on you and everything you did these past years. You even let him. You let his guys follow you around, you let them overhear details you wanted Bucky to know. You let Bucky watch you, purposely lingering around cameras whenever you were out. 

But you didn’t know his obsession mirrored yours. Because if he would’ve searched your penthouse a little more thoroughly, he would’ve found a similar bulletin board that you’d been keeping for years now – tracking him and all that he did. 

You placed another kiss on Bucky’s chest and sighed in bliss. “You’re not the only mastermind, baby. But it’s not a competition now, is it? We both got what we wanted. Didn’t we?” You asked, looking up to see his peaceful, sleeping face. “Huh, baby? It’s alright. You’re a tiny bit sloppy with your stalking skills, but never mind. I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.” 

---

a/n: it's been a while huh-

[dualitea-01]

MASTERPIECE!!!

[basic-blue-b1tch]

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

seeing double

summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader

warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint

notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂‍↕️

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

“Ew.”

The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.

You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.

“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.

McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.

“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.

You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.

After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.

“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.

“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.

“They’re raspberry flavoured.”

“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[halidki]

rhaenyra targaryen and her first-born son jace doodle

[amoremarveloustime]

Cowboy Casanova || masterlist

Cowboy!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Complete!!

You return to your rural hometown after living in the big city since you high-tailed it after high school.

Your grandma—your safe space—offers you a room in her house for the summer to escape everything going on in your life. Which, sounds like exactly what you need, until you meet a grumpy cowboy who seems to hate you.

And, you hate him too.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten

[hanaridulsetcheese]

the cowboy rule - bucky barnes

warning - contains 18+ content

You’d been in Texas for three weeks, and every second of it felt like culture shock with a splash of sunburn.

The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, thick and humid, and the wide, dusty roads felt like they led to nowhere. People were kind, too kind.

Strangers tipped their hats and called you "ma'am," which still made you blink like they were speaking another language.

But the best part of moving here?

James Buchanan Barnes. Or, as everyone called him, Bucky.

You met him on your second day, when your rental car got stuck on a back road and he pulled up in a beat-up Chevy truck, boots dusty and smile easy.

“Looks like you took a wrong turn, doll.” he’d smiled.

He helped you out, then made it his personal mission to show you around the small town. Introduced you to the good barbecue joint, took you horseback riding, showed you where to get the best iced tea.

You weren’t sure if it was his jawline, the Southern charm, or the way he always touched the small of your back, but James Bucky Barnes had burrowed deep under your skin.

That weekend, there was a little throwdown at the local tavern. Live music, whiskey, and dancing. Bucky told you to come, that he’d be there. You weren’t sure if he meant it as a date, but you wanted to go anyway.

So you did. You wore denim shorts and a tied-up flannel shirt, not quite blending in but looking just enough the part to be welcomed. The music was loud, feet stomping against the wooden floors as couples twirled in time to the fiddle.

You didn’t see Bucky at first, so you ordered a drink and swayed to the beat near the corner of the room. Dancing alone. Not caring. You could feel eyes on you, this town was small, after all but you were having fun.

And then he appeared.

Strolling through the crowd like he owned it, hat tilted just right, jeans hugging his thighs, that ever-present glint in his eye.

He didn’t say a word as he approached. Just smiled that cocky, slow grin and plucked the hat off his own head.

Then placed it right on yours.

You blinked, not sure of the hat on your head, “James?”

Bucky leaned close, breath brushing your ear. “You’re wearing my hat, doll. You know what that means?”

You shook your head slowly, already breathless at the close proximity.

He smirked. “You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride.”

Your heart stuttered. The bar faded around you. His fingers dipped under the edge of the hat, adjusting it just so, then trailing down your neck with a featherlight touch that left goosebumps in their wake.

“You gonna follow the rule?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think I will.”

His house sat on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that when he backed you up against the door and kissed you like he’d been starving for it, there was no one around to hear your gasp.

Bucky was all rough hands and controlled strength, lifting you like you weighed nothing and pinning you against the wall, grinding his hips into yours as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“You been teasing me since the day I met you,” he growled, lips dragging along your throat, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Swaying those hips, looking at me with those eyes. Know what you do to a man?”

“James-”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper, filthier, tongue pushing into your mouth with purpose.

His hands roamed, cupping your ass, then spanking it hard enough to make you whimper and cling tighter.

“That’s sir tonight, doll.” he corrected, voice thick with heat. “You wearing my hat. Means you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll. The hat stayed on. Bucky made sure of it.

“Don’t you dare take it off,” he said, stripping his shirt and revealing that sculpted chest you’d imagined too many times.

He undid his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting the anticipation curl hot and tight in your stomach. “Looks too good on you.”

Then he was on you. Mouth at your collarbone, hands everywhere, peeling your clothes away like wrapping from a present. His palms skated over your bare skin, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. You arched into him with a gasp.

He kissed a line down your stomach, dragging his stubble along the sensitive flesh and making you squirm.

Then his mouth was between your thighs, tongue flat against your clit, slow and torturous.

“Fuck.” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him between your things.

“You taste like heaven,” he groaned, lips slick and hungry. His fingers worked in tandem, curling inside you just right, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. “You gonna come for me, doll? Come on your sir’s tongue like a good girl?”

You broke with a cry, legs trembling as your orgasm hit hard and fast. “Sir!”

He didn’t stop. Licked you through it, over and over, until you were shivering from overstimulation and begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth and chin were wet, and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, dazed, only for him to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up.

You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then he was inside. Slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking pretty in my hat.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against yours with every thrust, the sounds obscene and raw.

You were half-wild beneath him, cheek pressed to the mattress, hands gripping the sheets.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, grabbing the brim of the hat still perched on your head and tugging it back, forcing your face to tilt toward him. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You, sir. It’s you. Yours!” you gasped through each thrust.

“Damn right.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and plunging in even deeper, one hand around your throat, thumb stroking gently as contrast to the brutal snap of his hips.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder. “Want to see you come with my name on your lips and my hat on your head.”

You did. You shattered beneath him, second orgasm wracking through you like a wave. He followed with a groan, spilling inside you and collapsing onto your body, the sweat-slicked heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even then, he didn’t pull out right away just stayed there, buried deep, mouth at your ear.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me now.” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily against him, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead.

“Didn’t plan to.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The sunlight was warm, the sheets soft, and your body was very sore in all the right places.

Then you shifted.

And the cowboy hat fell off your head, landing on your face.

You snorted a sleepy laugh, brushing it away and blinking at the bright morning light filtering through the window. The hat still smelled like him, leather, cedarwood, and just a hint of smoke.

And last night. God, last night.

You were never going to look at that hat the same again.

Padding out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around you, you followed the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Your cowboy.

Still shirtless, wearing those same jeans from the night before, hung low on his hips now and whistling as he flipped a piece of bacon in the pan.

He looked up when he saw you and gave you the softest damn smile you’d ever seen.

“Well, morning, doll.” he said, voice all low and husky.

You leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “You cook too? What don’t you do?”

He chuckled. “Plenty. But breakfast ain’t one of ‘em. You hungry?”

You nodded, stepping into the kitchen, sheet trailing behind you like some ridiculous lacy robe.

He handed you a mug of coffee without even asking how you liked it. One sip told you he already knew.

“James,” you said between sips, eyeing him playfully, “you’re being very sweet this morning.”

His brow quirked. “That a bad thing?”

You laughed and leaned against the counter. “No, it’s just funny. You were so…” You paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Interesting last night.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink.

“Doll,” he drawled, turning off the stove, “a man’s got layers.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’ve got layers, alright. One minute it’s ‘yes, sir’ and a whole lot of- ” you gestured to his shirtless self.

He groaned and ran a hand over his face. “and the next, you’re frying bacon and makin’ me coffee like a perfect southern gentleman.”

He turned and gently caged you against the counter, one hand braced beside your hip.

“I can be both,” he murmured, eyes twinkling as he leaned down. “Real rough when I wanna be,real sweet when you need it.”

Your breath hitched. Even now, he could melt you with a few words.

“But you’re not sore, are you?” he added softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your face flushed. “I am, actually. A little.”

He gave you a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I did it right.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh and smacked his chest lightly, but he just kissed your forehead and handed you a plate.

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength,” he teased.

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he said, sitting beside you at the table. “After breakfast, I’m takin’ you out to see the horses. Show you around proper. Maybe get you up on a saddle again.”

You blinked. “Is this a second date or are you just trying to get me sore again?”

He smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing, resting your forehead against the table as he sat there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just said the most casually filthy thing imaginable in the most charming tone.

Bucky reached over and gently adjusted the hat on your head, which you hadn’t even realized you were still wearing.

“You’re keeping that, by the way,” he said.

“Your hat?” you asked, looking up.

“Mmhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

You shook your head, smiling. “What if I wear it in public?”

He leaned closer, voice soft and honeyed.

“Then everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

And with the way he was looking at you, soft and warm and possessive in the sweetest damn way, you didn’t mind one bit.

[dualitea-01]

[mayhemi]

clark kent talks you through it...

content.ᐟ 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)

him ramming his hips against yours as the tip of his dick kisses your g-spot over and over again, the lewd squelching of your mixed arousal filling the room, and your only task is to sit there and look pretty for him, be his pretty girl.

"golly, baby" he shakes his head, admiring the view; you laying beneath him with that fucked-out expression after god knows how many orgasms, glazed over eyes, hair splayed out across the sheets, and your jaw slack in pleasure.

he just can't stop. his kryptonian genes come with high stamina and a strong libido. so the least he can do is always make sure to take the best care of you, not letting you lift a finger in bed.

"i know, honey," he coos, "just- just one more, okay? p-please baby?" you nod dumbly at his sweet talking, too focused on another impending orgasm growing in your belly alarmingly quick.

"so pretty f'me," he speaks in that impossibly gentle and breathy tone, reserved only for you. he makes you feel like the only person in the world like this, brushing strands of hair away from your face to bend down and press soft, reverent kisses to your flushed skin while fucking into you.

"clark" you whine, your voice soft and raspy from just how vocal you've been. "s'too much" the feeling of his cock hitting that spongy spot inside of you with perfect precision on every thrust is overstimulating, but you can't help but arch into him, it's almost instinctive. of course, clark doesn't know he's hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

"oh, baby..." his heart softens at you, but he can't help the knowing smile that plays at his face, because he knows he's not actually hurting you. "just a little longer, yeah? you don't have to do anything, let me take care a'you" he coos, leaning his head down to lick and suck at your nipple, making your breath hitch. his precious girl, turning to putty under his touch and words. how did he get so lucky with you?

his cock twitches violently inside of you, the soft whimpers and whines of his name falling from your pretty lips, along with the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him is almost enough to push him over the edge. he would have spilt inside you a long time ago if he didn't have so much self control, fucking superman has its perks!

your legs shake when you feel his hand snake down between the two of you, and the pad of his thumb rub tight circles around your puffy clit. "shit!" you squeal, the tight band in your gut snapping almost instantly. your nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood, cumming around his cock with a cry.

"oh- gosh honey," he groans at the feeling of your cunt nearly sucking him in, a feeling he'll never get used to. "yeah- t-there ya go..." he kisses you through your orgasm, swallowing your insistent moans and whimpers.

even superman can't hold off for long, his balls tighten up impossibly when he feels you scraping his back hard enough to leave bright red marks.

"inside! i-inside-" you pant, looking deep into his wide eyes. "wha- are- you're sure?" his voice is filled with restraint, but he's cut off by his own orgasm, his hips burying himself to the hilt as he pulses and fills you with his warm, sticky release in globs. he lets his head fall down to your bare chest as he whimpers and whines, holding onto you to ground himself.

while he's laying heavy on you, you can't ignore his still very hard dick sitting inside of you. you know he's going to gaze up at you with those big puppy dog eyes and ask you for one more. the way he takes care of you makes up for it all

© mayhemi | all rights reserved.

i hate this ...

[myladybelle]

front page crush

pairing: clark kent x reader summary: everyone at the daily planet knows about your hopeless crush on superman. what nobody expected was for him to save your life, agree to an interview, and maybe even flirt back. least of all clark, who’s had a crush on you for years. tags: coworkers to lovers, clark has definitely been in love with you the whole time and you didn’t notice, you’re thirsty for superman but nobody blames you warning(s): gender neutral reader, you get saved from a collapsing train station and think you’re gonna die for a sec, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy) word count: 9k note: this one lowkey took me so long to write because i struggled with the interview portion so i hope that section is okay 🥹🩵

masterlist

The screen in the bullpen replayed the footage for the fourth time, and you were no closer to pretending you weren’t staring at Superman’s biceps than you had been the first three times.

“That’s precision work,” Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. “See the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.”

“Or,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, “he knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.”

Lois’s sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didn’t even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.

The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.

“It’s the third collapse in two weeks,” Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “First the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someone’s orchestrating it. I just have to—” He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadn’t slept, probably.

“Do you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,” you tapped your chin, “cologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?”

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. He’d just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.

“Oh, come on, Clark,” you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. “Don’t tell me this is weird for you because he’s your bestie.”

His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. “What? No, I—” He stammered, then tried again. “It doesn’t weird me out. And we’re not best friends.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smug. “You definitely don’t look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.”

“That’s not—” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. “I just don’t think the, uh, newsroom is the place for…” He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.

You grinned. Clark made this too easy. “For what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?”

Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. “Careful, Clark. We’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.

Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. “If you ask me, the man could use a fan club. It’d do wonders for his image. You’re just ahead of the curve.”

“See?” you said, pointing at her in triumph. “Visionary thinking.”

Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about it—shy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for you—did a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.

You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like he’d save your life and then ask if you’d eaten lunch.

Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one you’d been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing your—

Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasn’t just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.

Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.

“Okay,” Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, “if we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we might—”

“Jimmy,” you cut in, “I support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”

“Uh…” He blinked. “Enough?”

“Four,” Lois corrected without looking up.

You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadn’t moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.

And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.

You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked. 

You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleague’s blush and your favourite hero’s shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.

Lois’s voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. “I don’t care how he does it—I need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someone’s targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.”

Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. “If you’re calling sources, I’ll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.”

Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the world’s most suspicious Boy Scout. 

You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.

The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didn’t flicker so badly. 

You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you weren’t waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.

Then the floor shuddered.

At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleep—until the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.

Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.

Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.

You didn’t have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.

The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.

And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.

“Go, go, go!” you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. “This way! Keep moving!”

People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.

The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.

Except, suddenly you weren’t falling. 

Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you weren’t dying.

Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulder—instinct, panic, maybe something else—and your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.

Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.

All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadn’t caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, you’d been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man you’d been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasn’t on a screen.

The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Superman’s voice carried through it with calm authority. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, scanning the crowd.

Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.

Superman’s shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. “Are you alright?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue you’d ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. “You need to breathe,” he said gently. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.

“That’s it,” he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasn’t dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.

The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back. 

What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?

Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.

Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your voice was steadier than you expected.

Superman nodded, but didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.

When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.

“I’m a reporter for The Daily Planet?” Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.

Superman smiled, raising his brows. “Are you?”

“Yes.” You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. “And, if you ever had the time, I’d love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but… more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.”

His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.

You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. “Unless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.”

Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. “No,” he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. “No exclusive deal with Clark.”

“Good,” you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.

Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both. 

“I’d be delighted,” Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.

“Great,” you exclaimed. “Wonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.”

Superman nodded, thoughtful. “How about a week from today? Next Thursday night?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. “Next Thursday night works.”

“Good,” he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Superman’s gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.

Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.

You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awareness—sirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.

But Superman didn’t move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place. 

For one dizzying moment, you weren’t just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s disaster.

“Holy shit,” Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. “You’re alive.”

“Barely,” Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like you’d been through war. “The police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”

You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. “Uh… sorry?” you offered weakly. “I meant to text but my phone sort of didn’t survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.”

“You think we care about your phone?” Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. “We care about you. You could’ve been crushed, you idiot.”

“Love you too, Lois,” you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.

Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. “So what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, but—”

“—but left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.” You shrugged, casual, like you weren’t replaying it every three minutes in your head. “It was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, and…” You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. “I might’ve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.”

That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.

“You what?” Lois demanded.

“He’s coming by next Thursday night,” you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. “So everyone better clear out by then.”

Lois groaned. “Of course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.”

Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re out here living the dream.”

Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t even pause to lower her voice. “Well, well, look who finally gets to meet their celebrity crush in person.”

Heat shot to your face. “That is not—” You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe a little bit.”

Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.

Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. “Thought you could use this,” he said softly.

You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clark’s tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like he’d rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldn’t have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.

Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”

Clark gave a small smile. “I wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.” His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I’ve… seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. It’s not easy, being right there when it happens.”

Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. “Yeah,” you admitted. “It was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.”

Clark’s expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, voice low but steady.

Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. “Me too. I’d hate to miss this coffee.”

His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. “You’re really okay? Not just saying that?”

You took a sip of coffee to buy time. “I’m okay,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “A little shaken, maybe. I’m just really grateful Superman was there.”

Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldn’t—like how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time Clark’s voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind you’d blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.

“Well, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories with…” You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.

Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Superman’s blinding perfection.

It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.

“Big date Thursday,” Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.

“It’s an interview,” you corrected, every time.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.

Lois was subtler, though only barely. “You’ve got one shot,” she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. “Don’t blow it by asking about his workout routine.”

“I wasn’t going to!” you protested.

“Sure,” she said. “Because the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.”

You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.

But the strangest shift had been Clark.

Since the train incident, you’d had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasn’t different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him. 

It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perry’s legendary rants.

By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.

The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, “Good luck, darling,” on her way out.

Lois added, “Remember. Profile, not thirst essay,” like she hadn’t already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.

When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. “You’ll do fine, kid,” he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. “Just don’t let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.”

Then it was just you.

The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. You’d dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.

You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.

You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.

A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.

He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin you’d seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if he’d just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.

“Hope I’m not late,” Superman said, voice warm, easy. “Got caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didn’t actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.”

A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. “No worries. Did you end up finding one for him?”

“Found his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.” His grin widened, as if you’d just won him over by expressing your curiosity.

Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close. 

“Thank you for coming,” you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. “Please, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”

“Not at all,” Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet.  He moved toward the chair opposite yours.

You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. “Let’s start with some broad questions,” you said, clearing your throat. “What drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.”

Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.

“Because I can,” he said finally. “Because I was given abilities most people don’t have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?”

The way he said it wasn’t self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew you’d never forget it.

“That sounds… lonely,” you mused before you could stop yourself.

A flicker of surprise crossed Superman’s features, then something quieter. “It can be. But loneliness isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”

You tapped the pen against your notebook. “If you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?”

“That strength isn’t about what you can do,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.”

“You sound like a philosopher,” you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.

Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. “I’m not sure anyone’s ready to put me in that category. I just… spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.”

“Flying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?”

He gave a half-shrug. “There’s a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.”

You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Superman’s voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.

It was silly, but you couldn’t help feeling like he was studying you, too.

“Do you ever wish you could do something else?” you asked.

He tilted his head, considering. “No. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.”

The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.

“I can stop a runaway train,” he added wryly, “but ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldn’t notice your smile. “The city may never recover from this revelation.”

You hesitated because the next question felt personal. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to be Superman?”

Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if you’d crossed a line. But then he said, “No. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasn’t Superman would be wishing I wasn’t me.” 

You weren’t supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.

“You’re good at this,” Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.

“At my job?”

He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At making someone feel like they can be honest.”

Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”

“Of course,” Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.

You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. “Alright,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Time for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?”

Superman’s brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal,” he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.

“Favourite pizza topping?”

“Pepperoni,” he said instantly.

“Desert island snack?”

“Apples.”

You laughed. “Really?”

“They’re versatile,” Superman said, chuckling lightly. “And nutritious. Hard to get sick of.”

“Alright. What does Superman do on his day off?”

“I watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,” Superman grinned, “the really sappy ones.”

You smiled back. “What’s a movie that always makes you cry?”

“Anything with Gene Kelly,” he confessed. 

You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”

Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. “I… bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.

“My mother’s pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.” Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. “So when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.”

His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met. 

“That’s kind of amazing,” you said, smiling widely. “I never pictured Superman in an apron.”

He chuckled, low and easy. “Neither did I, initially. But it’s comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.” Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you weren’t about to move.

“I like baking too,” you admitted. “But I’ve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.”

His eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect,” Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.

The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. “So, pies,” you prompted, leaning forward. “What’s your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?”

“Apple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,” Superman declared happily. “But I experiment sometimes, even when it’s beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.” His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.

You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.

“I like things a little messy,” you teased.

Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.

Superman blushed. He actually blushed. “That’s good to know,” he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. “Do you bake other things too?”

“Occasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.” You laughed lightly.

He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. “Maybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but… how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.”

You felt your pulse jump. The casual offer—the closeness, and the easy intimacy of it—was impossible to ignore. “I’d really like that,” you admitted.

Superman’s eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasn’t saving the world. 

“Do you get homesick a lot?” you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.

“Yes. Every day,” he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “My parents kept me grounded. They’re amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me… human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.” 

Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.

“I get that,” you murmured. “I mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. It’s not just a comfort, it’s a familiarity that you can’t ever replace.”

For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.

Each accidental touch was electric. Superman’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook. 

By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.

You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.

“I don’t have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,” you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.

Superman’s blue eyes softened, unwavering. “You should leave it in,” he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. “As long as you’re not too specific. I don’t want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.”

You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.

“You know,” he added, lips just curving, “not a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.”

You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. “I like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,” you said, your voice catching a little. “It was two people talking. And it’s not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.”

He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. “I think you’re right,” Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.

“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just your words, but your intentions.”

“I know you will,” he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours. 

You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch. 

“I…” you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.

“You what?” Superman asked patiently.

“I don’t think I’ve ever connected like this with anyone before,” you admitted, exhaling shakily. 

You’d spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didn’t realise he was holding.

For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Superman’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.

Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just double-checking that I’m supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?” he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.

You swallowed, breath catching. “That’s right,” you said, voice breathless.

He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.”

Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. “I think it’s better that way,” you agreed.

That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.

Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.

Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Superman’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.

He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. “I want to be careful,” Superman murmured against your mouth. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.

You giggled breathlessly. 

Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. “Why are you giggling?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’ve had this fantasy before,” you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “For a long time.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him. 

His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.

Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Superman’s lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.

You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Superman’s bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.

When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care. 

You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.

The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Superman’s breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.

The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you. 

You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.

Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. “Wow,” you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.

Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.

You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldn’t see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. He’d kissed you—or, rather, Superman had kissed you—and it had been everything he’d dreamed of for so many years.

But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldn’t come.

Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I… should apologise,” he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. “This isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.”

Your lips curved, and you shook your head. “Don’t you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.”

Clark’s heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could. 

“I’d really like to see you again,” Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. “Not as Superman in an interview. Just the person you’ve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?”

A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. “I’d love that,” you agreed, voice warm and sure.

The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Superman’s chest in your office chair.

It might’ve worked if Cat hadn’t immediately pounced on you.

“There you are,” Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. “Our very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Don’t say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Good morning to you too, Cat.”

“Don’t deflect,” she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. “There are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “Did he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Body language,” Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though you’d just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. “It’s what men do when they’re attracted to you. He did it, didn’t he?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. He’d kept eye contact like he couldn’t bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way he’d leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth before—oh God. 

Cat smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, “If you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?”

You shot her a look. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. “Fine. I’m curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?”

Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. “See for yourself. I printed this last night but haven’t edited it yet.”

Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didn’t even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.

You frowned. “What?”

She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.

Lois raised an eyebrow. “So, when exactly in the interview did it become… off the record?”

Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Liar,” Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Superman’s lips.”

For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.

Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on their desk last night.

Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish “mornin’” to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark. 

Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.

Your hands froze on the keyboard.

Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Superman’s throat last night when you’d bit his lower lip and he’d pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.

Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwise—well. Otherwise, you’d have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man who’d kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.

When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.

Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like you’d forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldn’t type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.

But it wasn’t “nope,” exactly, but a horrifically thrilling “yes.”

Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. You’d made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.

You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Break room, now.”

“Wh—?” His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.

“No questions,” you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didn’t even glance up. Cat’s mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like she’d been waiting for this day her whole life.

You didn’t stop until you’d shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.

You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.

“Clark,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Oh my God.”

He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. “Uh. Morning?”

“Don’t you ‘morning’ me.” You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. “What is that?”

He flinched like you’d accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. “Oh, uh, must’ve—ran into a door—”

“Ran into a door?” you whisper-yelled. “Clark, that’s not a door bruise! That’s a hickey!”

Clark’s ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Maybe it’s just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!” You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. “Oh my God, it’s you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. You’re him. You’re—” You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Clark Kent, but with, like, a cape!”

He winced. “I meant to tell you, I just—”

“You meant to tell me?!” Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Clark, we’ve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when you’re behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didn’t have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention you’re also Superman?”

“I didn’t exactly forget—”

“Oh my God.” You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. “Say it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.”

Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, quietly: “I’m Superman.”

Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.

“You kissed me last night,” you whispered. “A lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the end—”

Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: “I did.” His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “Look, I understand if you’re disappointed—”

“Disappointed?!” you whisper-screeched. “Clark, are you kidding me?! The guy I’ve been gushing over for years was in front of me the entire time? He’s one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!”

Clark’s brows furrowed. “So… that’s a yes? Or a no? I’m sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.”

Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.

Then you blurted, “Wow. I’ve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.”

Clark’s startled laugh rumbled against your chest, and before you could spiral, he bent down and kissed you again.

[tw1sters]

Sympathy is a Knife

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

▸ PAIRING: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, dubcon because of sex pollen, so much yearning, slight hurt/comfort, public sex, porn with too much plot tbh, possessive!bucky, degradation, filthy talk that border on dubcon but know that she wants to be there as much as him, breeding kink, insecurities, both virgins, bucky is nasty and a lil mean under the influence, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies ▸ WORD COUNT: 16.1K ▸ A/N: "this will be a short pwp," i say, famous last words. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab. dedicated to @artficlly in honor of pursuit of jade episode 37 iykyk — i'm gifting you the sex pollen by the stream that we never got <3 hope you enjoy this baby of mine. if you do, please let me know your thoughts (even if they are incoherent) through reblogs, comments, and likes!!

↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist

Princes James Buchanan Barnes has everything he could ever want. A palace fit for the king that he will eventually become. Mountains of jewels that shine brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Bespoke dress uniforms made from the finest fabrics, adorned with elegant aiguillettes and medals of his valor in battles fought and won. Countless women and men alike throwing themselves at his feet for the opportunity of him even sparing them the briefest of glances.

But the only one he truly wants, the only person he truly wishes to hold, is the one thing he cannot have — and it’s you.

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[erina00]

[pome-seed]

I Won't Leave You ★ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Doctor!Reader

Summary: You make the Winter Soldier hesitate to get the job done, shining a light on his biggest weakness. When his handlers decide to make an example out of you, the Soldat is pushed over the edge, and forced to act.

Word Count: 5.8k

Tags: Yearning, emotionally confused Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, possessive Bucky Barnes, violence, gun violence, mention of blood, torture, mention of urine, gunshot wounds, angst, escapes.

18+ blog, Minors Do Not Interact.

Authors Note: Kind of a throw back to the Soldier's Keeper captivity days. A little messy, but this kind of AU always gets me out of my writing rut. Enjoy! If you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Masterlist

You hear the gurgling screams from several doors down. You hear it before you turn the corner. 

You hear the sobs, the begging, the pleading for mercy. 

You stagger down the cold corridor, medical bag in hand, fighting to keep yourself from plugging your ears. Ahead, several locks shift open, armed guards standing frozen on each side. One reaches for a button on the wall, and the door slides open.

You smell the blood before you see it.

A man sobs, shouting through his gag, further in the room. You’re pushed forward, into the dark abyss. You have to swallow the bile rising in your throat, the stench of iron and urine mixing with the shadow of death. 

The Soldat looms over a squirming man, locked into a metal chair. His dark hair shields his face, hiding his cold expression. He doesn’t see you at first, may not even know you’re there.

“Bastard clocked him in the head, he stopped responding for over a minute, said he couldn’t see anything.” The man behind you informed, nudging you forward again. 

The Soldat’s body stiffens, like an animal caught in the wild. When he finally turns, finally pins you to the floor with his intense gaze, his stomach sinks to his feet. Dread and shame boil together, concocting something sickening.

You don’t mean to look, but your eyes drift to the man strapped down. To the manic look in his eyes. To the blood wetting his skin. To the used tools sitting on a cold tray. 

“Okay.” You shift your bag, meaning to step forward, to do your job. But there’s blood on the floor. There’s blood everywhere. 

Leather creaks, and then his thick boots edge your vision. You look up and shiver beneath the weight of the Soldat’s stare. He carefully takes the bag from your hand, holding it for you. You feel something wet stain your fingers, where they brush his.

“What-What happened?” You ask him, shakily unclasping your kit. 

“My-”

Desperate screams cut through the Soldat’s words, making you jump. A gasp tears from your chest, something sick pooling in your gut. Your gaze snaps to the prisoner- he's watching you, sobbing, begging. 

You feel the guards against the wall observing your every move. You know there’s nothing you can do. You know you can’t save this man. You know you’re helpless.

But still, those eyes, those cries for help- they carve at your very soul.

The Soldat takes a slow step to the side, blocking your view of the man. 

“My vision spotted, my legs went weak.” His rough voice makes you flinch, calling your attention back to the task at hand. 

“Where did he hit you?” You gulp, pulling on gloves. Metal fingers point to the side of his head. He leans down for you as your fingers slide into his hair, gently feeling the tender spot. Your thumb grazes a healing scar, stitches still sewing the skin together. 

For the Soldat, Operations were often. You never really knew what they were all for. That was a secret, way beyond your level of importance. 

His last surgery was only a week ago- but with his rapid healing rate, he was up after only a day. You feel blood slick against the wound, caused from being hit in such a tender place. But the incision looks fine, swollen, but fine. 

You tilt his head back up by his chin as you grab your small flashlight.

You can barely focus beyond the screams. They never stop. They only get louder.

“Focus on my ear,” you whisper, shining the light into his eyes, watching his pupils dilate. His lashes flutter, but he obeys your instructions. 

You finish your quick exam and tuck away your supplies.

“You’re-” you clear your throat, your cheeks souring from the smell of the room. “You’re fine…I think you just need a little more rest, something more to eat. I think the pain to your incision shocked your system.”

You spare a glance at the blood staining the floor. “You should probably…finish up soon.”

A scoff makes you jump. “Alright, he’s useless anyways. Soldat, finish it.” The command makes you gag, a hand sliding over your mouth. Gloved hands yank you back, away from your charge. 

You stumble out of the figurative splash zone, your body stiff. 

The prisoner begins to sob harder, his wails scraping at your eardrums. 

Dread pools in your veins, spreading like poison. You have to look away. You have to close your eyes. But you just can’t, because that man is looking at you, desperate, thrashing in his seat. You expect to see his brains paint the wall, followed by the crack of a gunshot. 

But the sound never comes. 

Your stagnant gaze shifts to the Soldat, where tortured blue eyes bore into yours. The look there startles you, a cold shiver racing down your spine. The pain, the earnest doubt. His steel fingers stay balled up, hovering beside his holster. But unmoving.

The prisoner weeps, panic muffling his pleas for mercy.

“Soldat, finish it.” The handler snaps, his voice rough and irritated. 

But the man doesn’t move. He doesn’t waver. His gaze sticks to you, to the shake of your hands, to the horror on your face. 

He can’t do this.

He can’t let you see this.

The handler grumbles under his breath, then snatches your arm by the elbow. You trip on your own feet as he drags you towards the door, but your eyes stay locked with his. 

He reaches for his gun.

You blink back tears, turning away as you’re shoved into the hall. Your supplies slip from your fingers, clattering to the floor in a mess. 

A gunshot goes off before the doors can fully close. 

You yelp, your body shuddering as your hands slap around your ears. 

This was the dirty part of things, the part you never saw. This was death and torture and captivity. It was reality. It was the Soldat’s purpose, and in a way, yours too. It’s your job to care for him, to polish their tool, keep him ready. It’s your job to stay quiet, stick to the shadows, and remain unimportant enough to not bother harming.

But as the soldier's hands pull you down the hall, dragging you towards the lab, you feel you’ve made a mistake. 

You feel you did something wrong. Stepped out of line- right into the light. But this wasn’t you, this wasn’t your fault. It’s the Soldat’s- because he made a fatal mistake.

He showed them his weakness.

You.

He didn’t mean to do it- he didn’t even really notice it, until it was too late. The Soldat didn’t understand you, or your kindness- but he understood your position, he always will. He knows your fear, your trepidation, your practiced calm. He sees it when he looks at you. 

And maybe he sees a bit of himself in you, in that fear. Though, he’s long buried that feeling. He no longer feels that timid anxiety, that tearful dread. He just feels full. Heavy. Weighted by his duty, and the impossibility of escape.

He thought that would be all he ever felt, until they brought you to him, with orders to obey.

Until he saw that look, that pain.

He almost threw up the first time you touched him, the first time he felt the tremble of your fingers against his skin. Because he never wanted this- he never wanted to see the reality of his situation, forced upon someone else. Someone kind, someone untouched by cruelty, and watch them fall into the darkness. 

He just wanted to spare you. 

He just wanted to shield you from what nobody could shield him from.

But he failed, in that moment, in that pause. He knows it, as they drag him towards the lab, where you’re waiting. 

He knows he’s ruined everything, the moment those doors open, and you’re staring blankly at the electric chair, eyes red rimmed. “You can prep her,” a man says from behind him, smacking a rough hand against his shoulder.

The Soldat feels what’s left of his soul leave his body. He feels the ice cold prick of terror rip through his body. 

You turn to him, your gaze falling to the blood staining his leather suit. 

Self loathing spreads beneath his skin as you look at him.

“What’s-” you swallow, your voice pitching, “what’s happening?”

The Soldat is shoved forward again, into your space. You don’t flinch, you don’t move- your hands jerk up to catch him. The Soldat’s words die on his tongue.

You watch as a machine operator brushes past you, taking a seat at the control panel of the chair. The Soldat’s sharp intake of breath draws your attention back in- then you see that look again. 

That pained, guilty look. The kind of look that bore the weight of centuries. 

The Soldat swallows, staring down at you. “It’s a punishment.”

You blink back tears, your body wracked with tremors. “What-?”

“For me.” He whispers, his voice broken, rough and scarred. “Because I hesitated.” He tracks the tear that slips down your cheek, sticking to the curve of your jaw. “Because of you.”

You frown, your arms wrapping around yourself. “They’re punishing you for-” your breath hitches, your body stiffening, as if struck by electricity. You shake your head, staggering back a step- the soldat twitches, as if stifling the urge to steady you.

“They’re gonna hurt me, right?” You choke, your nails digging into your arms. 

He says nothing, his jaw fluttering as his teeth clench. He nods. 

“I’ll-” you furiously swipe tears from your cheek. “I’ll be better I’ll-” you gasp, staring desperately over the Soldat’s shoulder, at his handler. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I’ll-”

“It’s because of me,” the soldat whispers, his metal fist creaking as his knuckles clench. “Not you.” You stare up at the man, your arms wrapped around your body. “Because I hesitated, because of you.” He repeats. The words fall like cinder blocks at your feet. Weighted and cold. You shake your head, not understanding. “Because I didn’t want you to see it…”

You instinctively glance down at the blood sticking to his leather chest. To the stains on the tips of his boots. You remember the sound of the gun shot. 

“Because I care about you,” Tortured blue eyes spear right through you, heavy and uncontrolled. You can’t make sense of this- of what's happened, of what he’s saying, of what is about to occur. 

You can’t make sense of any of it. 

“You…?” Your words trail off, your throat closing up. You flinch at the sound of metal clashing behind you- of sharp tools being spread out across a tray. 

With only a few inches between your bodies, you swear you can hear the Soldat’s teeth clenching. He watches your expression, as if memorizing your features. He knows what's about to happen; what they’ll do. 

He watches you with this helpless look, like his body physically won’t let him help you. Like he knows there's nothing he can do to change this. 

The longer you look at him, the worse the feeling in your stomach gets. “The chair isn’t for you, is it?” You whisper, a cold feeling rippling down your spine. 

His throat bobs, emotion welling inside his body. Emotion he isn’t allowed to feel. Emotion that will ruin everything. 

Emotion he feels for you.

“The best way to punish you-” you pause, “is to punish me…”

“I’m so sorry…” he grits, his shoulders winding tighter.

If this were any other circumstance, you would think this may be the most he’s ever said to you. The longest conversation you’ve ever been allowed with him. Something about that makes this worse- like he’s trying to get in as many words as he can. Like he knows how badly this will end. 

The Soldat’s eyes snap away from you, directed over your shoulder. You can’t move, terror paralyzing your body. You don’t want to know what’s caught his attention, or what’s made the color drain from his face. But deep down, you already know. 

You shouldn’t be surprised this is happening. You shouldn’t be shocked- you should have prepared yourself. You knew the closer you grew to the Soldat, the closer you grew to danger. You knew that any bond forged between you would only bring you pain. 

And still, you knew the moment you set eyes on him that you wouldn’t be able to stop it.

A large hand wraps around your bicep, yanking you back a step. You gasp, caught off guard. Your feet slide beneath you as you try to pull back, but you’re far too weak, and far too outgunned. You refuse to look back as your gaze falls on the Soldat, who watches you with a pained look. 

“Oh god-” you choke, your shoulders drawing up to your ears as you tighten up. 

Those blue eyes stay locked on yours, unable to look away. You can imagine he wouldn’t be allowed to, even if he could. Part of the punishment was to see what happens to those he hesitates for. To see what happens to those who get in the way of the mission.

The man dragging you back shoves you into the cold leather seat. You blink through tears as you stare forward, your limbs being manoeuvred into their respective restraints. 

“I’ll do better-” You whisper, a mantra you’ve repeated over and over through your time with your captors. “I’ll be better…” you gasp, unable to catch your breath as the raw panic sets in. “I promise,” you sob, tears dripping from your sweaty skin. 

The Soldat watches you, metal plates shifting in his bionic arm. His hands tremble at his sides, clenched so tight they could shatter concrete. But his feet stay planted to the floor. His body stays frozen. That agonized stare pierces through you, carving beneath your flesh. 

He can’t watch this. 

But he has to. 

He flinches when a lock snaps shut around your throat, pinning you in place. He nearly looks away, but the domineering presence of his handler behind him keeps him in check. Reminds him of his job.

Watch.

Watch, and remember.

She doesn’t matter.

You don’t matter.

Anything, and everything, belongs to us. Protection. Safety. Her. You.

Watch.

And remember.

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, a dark, cold feeling twisting beneath his skin.

Your voice scratches at the deepest corner of his soul, your helpless pleas for mercy, your ragged sobs, the fear catching in your throat. It all melts together, blending into one torturous moment. One he can’t escape.

“Please,” You sob, blinded by the way your lashes stick together with tears. Your chest burns for oxygen, but you just can’t seem to grasp it. Your lips crack, your tongue goes dry. A gloved hand grips your jaw bruisingly, prying your mouth open. 

A rubber bite guard is shoved between your teeth. 

You thrash helplessly, metal cuffs locking every joint in place. 

All you see is the Soldat. All you see are those blue eyes. The pain there, the agony you’ve always wished you could take from him. But sometimes, there are things too large to bear. Some slates are too bloody to wipe clean.

Your slate was once clean. 

Your life was once yours. 

You can barely remember those days now, so far removed and buried. Beneath years of pain and torture, months of imprisonment and conditioning.

The Soldat’s body physically locks up when he hears those switches flip, those dials turn. He flinches back as the machine shifts, something mechanical lowering over your head. 

You scream through a locked jaw, begging for mercy, for understanding, for a savior.

For anything.

Your vision spots, your head growing light as your chest staggers without oxygen. 

You can’t breathe. 

Your eyes lock with his. You can swear that even for a moment, you see his eyes gloss over. 

Another dial turns.

Electricity charges. 

Most people seem to believe that in a moment of true and utter panic, the world slows down. That your heart stops and time freezes. But that’s wrong, in every way. 

In what feels like the end of the world, time speeds up.

Like a flash of lightning, gone before you realize it ever happened. 

So when the Soldat watches your eyes squeeze shut, tears trailing down your flushed skin, your jaw screwed shut around rubber, he just moves. 

His body moves without thought, without fear, without reason. He just moves. 

His elbow connects with his handler's nose. The holster at the man’s side is empty, the gun sliding easily between the Soldat’s fingers. 

He squeezes the trigger as easily as breathing. 

You shriek, your body jolting in terrified anticipation.

But everything’s moving too fast for him to notice. 

He points the barrel at the man with his finger on the dial. The gunshot ricochets of concrete walls, the sound ringing in your ears. Something warm and wet splatters against your skin. It sticks to your cheek and drips from your eyelashes. You taste it on your lips.

Your eyes snap open in horror, but still, time doesn’t freeze.

The Soldat is moving, his body quick to dodge the oncoming rain of bullets. He empties his clip into the nearest soldier. You scream, your vision blurring with tears and shock. His black suit flashes in your periphery, and then his metal fist is slamming down on the controls of the chair. One by one, the locks around your body snap free. You don’t have time to process your freedom, because you’re being yanked out of your chair.

You shriek as a fist coils in your hair, dragging you up. A doctor, one of the many prepared to torture you to get a point across, holds you in front of him. But before he can even point his scalpel to your throat, a bullet slices between his eyes. 

He drops with a squelch, into a pool of another man's blood. You topple over, your shoes slipping in the slick substance. A sob catches in your throat, sticking there, blocking air from reaching your lungs. 

The Soldat drops his gun, his cold hands yanking you up by the elbows. 

The smell of blood stains the air, making bile rise in your throat.

When you finally stare up at the man, you can see the panic in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, lips parted on ragged pants. Calloused fingers press against your lips, forcing your mouth open. He discards the bite guard, then shakes you firmly. 

But the shock has already set in. 

You tremble, your legs giving out as you take in the bodies dropped around you. 

There’s so much blood. 

In all the time you’ve been here, captive and prisoner, you’ve never really seen what the Soldat can do. What he’s made for. 

You only ever see the aftermath, the scars and wounds and broken bionic arm. 

You’ve never really been privy to just how dangerous the man is. Just how bloody he’s willing to get. 

But this time, it isn’t for a mission. This time, it’s for you.

And everything’s changed.

The Soldat realizes immediately that you’re in shock. He also realizes just what he’s done. What he’s never done before; disobeyed. He huffs out gasp of dread, his gaze snaps to the door. 

Soldiers will be coming. And this time, he won’t be able to shield you from them- from himself, when they say those words. When he looks back at you, you’re staring wide eyed at your hands- stained with the blood you’ve wiped from your cheek. 

“More are coming,” he grunts, his own voice sounding far away to him. “I need you to listen to everything I say, do you understand?” You blink up at him, your lips parting helplessly. He shakes you firmly, “Do you understand?”

You nod, choking on a sob. 

He leans forward, his hands sliding to your waist. You feel weightless as he drags you over his shoulder, his metal arm locking around your hips like a chain. You grunt, his shoulder pressing hard to your lower stomach. 

He doesn’t take the time to explain as he continues moving, picking up fallen men’s weapons. Your fingers curl in his cold leather suit, your cheek pressed to his back. 

He’s moving again, around the lab- quick and focused. He swipes his hands over the counters, knocking over everything in his path. Medical supplies and testing equipment scatter to the floor. But he only needs one thing. 

Cotton Balls.

He snags as many as he can and shoves them deep into his ears, one, then two, deep enough to hurt. Deeper, until he can’t hear.

Until those words bounce off him like nothing.

You can’t see anything. You can’t hear. You can’t feel. All you smell is blood. 

All you know is fear. 

The doors slam open. The Soldat’s breath evens out beneath you. His hands steady. Fingers lock around his weapon. This isn’t the Soldat you know. This is the Winter Soldier. 

This is a man with nothing that will stand between him, and his mission: getting you out alive.

He moves with purpose, his boots dragging across polished concrete floors silently; a practiced art. Shotty lights flicker overhead, casting shadows beneath you. The Soldat moves through the hall like a ghost, quiet and waiting. He pauses around every corner, using the reflective pad of his metal palm to see if anyone is there waiting. 

A shot sparks off the curve of his steel thumb. He snaps his arm back, his jaw clenching.

Voices shout from every direction, commanding and shaken. The Soldat doesn’t hear it. He raises his gun and shoots out the lights, causing sparks and glass to rain down from above. 

You flinch as the man lowers you to the ground, your body slouching against the cold wall.  

Gunfire bounces off the walls, cacophonous explosions of smoke and light. You freeze up, terror burrowing deep in your bones. Your hands smack over your ears, a scared shriek ripping from your throat. 

The Soldat doesn’t glance back. One after another, he drops bodies- your throat closes up at the sight of him bludgeoning a man's skull into the cold concrete wall.

The man's body collapses in a heap, blood pooling beneath him. You stare in horror, your gaze caught on his dead eyes. 

You jolt numbly with every screaming gunshot, with every cry from the damned. 

And then it all goes quiet. You don’t have time to process it, as the Soldat circles his arm around your waist and hauls you up. You gasp, your stomach turning as he carries you with each step. 

“What’s-” you heave, staring at the bodies he easily steps over. Your voice vibrates against his touch. “What’s happening-? Where are we-”

“Stay quiet,” He shifts you over his shoulder, holding you steadily in place. He has to keep you close, he has to keep you up and moving. On your own you can barely stand, and you’re far too slow to keep up with him on normal terms. 

He needs you still, one with him, so he can move for the both of you. 

You don’t question him. 

Instead, you latch onto his body and squeeze your eyes shut. Loud speakers at the corners of the hall buzz to life, a monotone russian voice repeating a mantra loudly. You flinch, your hands smacking over your ears. 

The Soldat curses beneath you, his voice deep and panicked. He presses his ear against your hip at his side, his eyes squeezing shut. “Shit-” he pants. “Hold- I need you to hold your hand over my ear-” he grits. You don’t hesitate. Your right hand cups the ear not pressed to your hip, adding an extra barrier to his senses from the trigger words being shouted over the loudspeakers. 

You duck your head back down against his back as he kicks open door after door, clearing the rooms inside. You try not to take count of how many bodies drop. Of how many corpses you’ve walked over. If you do, you might throw up. 

The Soldat’s jaw screws shut as he focuses, his finger steady against the trigger. 

The next door he barrels through is one you’ve never been through before. You glance up to see large crates filled with cargo of all kinds lining the walls, filling the space. The catwalk to the large steel roller door is suspiciously clear. 

Empty.

The Soldat grits his teeth and creeps slowly along the wall, hidden behind large shipping containers. He can’t kill every person in this building, not with you at risk. So the only real way out is the helipad, right through that large door. 

And in the few minutes you two have been in that room, not a single soldier has stepped through the doors behind you. Meaning something is waiting for you in that room. Behind these crates. Guns and death. 

Your fingers press firmly into the side of the man's head, nerves making your touch a little rougher. 

He takes a careful step around the nearest container, his gun raised and pointed ahead. This isn’t right. It’s too quiet- you could hear a pin drop. He releases a slow breath, scanning the room with each step. 

The Soldat barely has time to turn his head before something heavy and hard is slamming into his back, sending you both barreling to the floor. You yelp, your head bouncing off the cold catwalk. He grunts beside you, rolling with a loud crash. On top of the Soldat, is a man with similar stature, an electric baton in hand. 

From the side lines, dozens of men rush out with guns raised. You cry out as a pale man drags you back by the ankle. “Get off!” You gasp, kicking at his bony hands.

You scramble away, your bruised knees skittering across the floor towards the Soldat. The super soldier is stuck writhing beneath the hands of several men, electric batons stuck in their hands. 

“Soldat-!” You choke out as a hand curls in your hair, dragging you back. You shriek, your scalp burning as you’re dragged up to stand. Wide blue eyes snap to you, a slur of Russian curses falling from his lips. 

A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you watch an electric charge be delivered to the man's neck. His body seizes up, his eyes rolling shut. “Stop-!” You scream, thrashing under the strong hold of the man behind you.

You reach back and snag your nails against the man's eyelids, digging your thumbs back. He hisses and throws you to the ground. You yelp, your shoulder popping awkwardly against the hard floor. While the pale man cradles his face in his hands, you scramble forward and yank the gun from his holster.

You close your eyes and squeeze the trigger. 

Blood splatters against your skin, sticking in clumps in your hair. You gasp, staring at your hands in shock. Boots pound to your left, a bullet sparks inches from your hip. You shuffle back, the gun in your hands raised. 

The closest man drops to a heap at your feet, without you having to fire another shot at all. Your head snaps to the left, where a panting Soldat stands above you, a stolen rifle loaded in his arms. He holds the trigger down, gunfire raining down on those ahead of you. 

His large boot nudges into your side as he gestures for you to move. You crawl shakily behind a large crate, the gun still clutched in your fingers. 

He drops down beside you, his chest heaving in ragged pants. “You need-” he gasps another shallow breath of air. 

You cut him off, your slick hand pressing to the curve of his throat. “Are you okay?” You blurt, your thumb ghosting over the electrical burn carved into his flesh. 

He swallows hard, reading your lips. The cotton shoved deep in his ears intensifies the ringing in his head. He pants, glancing around the corner every few seconds.

You only have a few moments. 

He looks back at you, at the gun in your hand, at the blood staining your hair. “I’ll clear a path, you need to make it to the helicopter.”

“What about you-?” You choke, your body shivering with eclectic adrenaline. 

“I’ll keep them distracted, they care about me, so you just have to be fast,” He glances back around the corner, his gun raised. “Move along the walls, shoot first. They won’t hesitate. Do you understand?”

You shake your head. “I can’t- I-I cant! How will you get out there?” Panic burrows heavily beneath your skin, seeping into your veins. You can’t fly a helicopter. You can’t make it without him. And you can’t leave him behind.

“Just do it, okay?” He insists, his eyes shining with terrified insistence. 

You grit your teeth and swallow back tears. “Okay- okay I’ll do it.”

He gives you one firm nod, then a slow once over- memorizing. He’s out numbered, out gunned, and totally screwed. But he has to try. He can’t let you die like this- not because of him.

“You meet me out there, I’m not leaving without you.” You grit.

He swallows, his fingers tightening around his rifle. “Go,” he whispers.

You push up and slip around the corner of the crate, towards the wall. Fear carries you with every step. You force yourself not to jolt when the sound of gunfire continues. You refuse to look back- already knowing what's behind you. 

The Soldat throwing himself into harm's way to pull attention away from you.

You crawl along the wall, behind the cover of the cargo containers. You just have to get to the door. You just have to make it out. You follow the wiring along the wall to the doors control panel, which you jimmy open at the expense of your fingers. 

It snaps open- but you have no idea which switches do what. So you flick over each one from left to right. A generator shutters, lights shut off, and metal creaks. A flicker of light pools along the catwalk as the giant metal door slowly raises.

Your attention snaps to the left, where several soldiers are now leveling their weapons at your head. Behind them, the Soldat opens fire.

“Go!” He shouts.

You drop to the floor and roll beneath the slow moving door. The bright afternoon sun burns against your neglected skin, blinding you for a moment. You groan and skitter forward, glancing back over your shoulder. 

Ahead, a sleek black helicopter lay in waiting. You bite your tongue and bolt for the closest door, your hand raised to cover your head. Bullets spark the ground beneath your feet, spurring you on. You yelp, your momentum driving you hard into the large vehicle.

Loud voices shout from behind you, Russian mixing with accented english.

You yank the door open and throw yourself inside. But the minute relief you feel is immediately cut short when you see the control panel.

“Holy shit…” You huff and drop your gun, your trembling hands hovering over the many buttons and lights. 

Your attention shifts to the tinted windows, where you see the Soldat launching a large container at a trio of soldiers. He drops and rolls as gunfire rains in his direction. He snags a gun from the floor and shoots off running. 

“Open the door!” He screams, firing behind him. You shove the helicopter door open and lean out of the way as the large man jumps into the machine. “Close it!” He shifts into the seat, his hands moving quickly to flip switches and turn dials. 

You yank the door closed and duck below the window, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. “Oh my god, go, go, please go!” You sob, smacking your hands over your ears.

You can feel the helicopter vibrate beneath you as the blades rumble to life. “Hold on,” Soldat grits, pulling back a thick lever. 

You roll back against the door as the vehicle hastily lifts from the platform. Bullets ping against the exterior, catching in the thick metal. You drag yourself into the right hand seat, where you yank straps over your body. 

Everything melts together as you take off. Your eyes roll shut, your throat bobbing nervously. Beside you, the Soldat is still, his fight or flight taking over to steady him. 

Metal fingers reach into his ears, plucking out wads of cotton. “Are you hurt?” He shouts over the roar of the machine. 

You shake your head. “No-” you glance out the window, watching as you climb higher and higher into the air. “Are you?” For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his furrowed gaze set on the control panel. Your gaze shifts to him. “Are you hurt?” You repeat, straightening. 

“I’ll be fine,” he pants, glaring out the large windows. 

You sit up, dragging your eyes over him. Sweat beads along his scalp. Blood spatters his leather uniform, dripping over his chest and large arms. The holster of his belt sits empty. His pants stick to his thighs, his right leg soaked through with dark red blood. 

“Is that-” You gulp, staring down at the dark black material. 

“I’ll be fine.” He grits, his leg twitching. You unclip your seat and crawl behind it, searching the walls for a first aid kit. “Hey-”

“Fly the thing!” You shout over the noise, yanking down the loaded red pouch. You didn’t think anything could staunch the unbelievable joy you should be feeling right now- nothing except the possibility of the Soldat dying. 

While flying the vehicle standing between you and death.

You stagger back into your seat and drop the bag in your lap. “Don’t move!” You reach over and yank open his belt. He glances down at you, a frown pulling at his lips.

“I can’t feel it!” He tries. 

“That’s the adrenaline!” You shout, pulling his belt from his pants. You pull his legs open and quickly tie the belt around his upper thigh. You yank it tight, ripping a groan from his throat. He flinches, his body seizing up.

The helicopter jolts to the left, ringing alarms through the machine. You yelp, gripping onto the man for support. You grit your teeth and dig through the red bag. You find the closest roll of gauze and press it down hard on the wound. 

“Shit!” The Soldat grits, his fists curling tight around the controls. 

“Just-” you wince in sympathy. “Land as soon as you can!”

“It’s clear through,” he groans, his blood seeping between your fingers.

“You’re still bleeding!”

“First clearing I find, okay?” He responds.

You nod, dropping your head against the side of his seat. The first clearing, and you’ll touch the ground.

It finally hits you- hard- just what’s all gone down. So for the first time in years, you can finally say you’re free.

You’re out.

A/N: Messy and bloody and a little confusing/stupid. But I enjoyed writing this. I listened to the OG Winter Soldier theme song on repeat to get in the mood, and it was so intense...and anxiety inducing. But yeah, hope you enjoyed protective Winter Soldier breaking decades of mind control to protect you.

Taglist:

@a-world-with-pure-imagination @frog-fans-unite @1967barracuda @akkklys @cherryheairt @lonelyghosts-stuff @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @devilslittlehelper @miss-chuchu @dollface-xoxo @natalia42069 @thuul-box @local-crazy @justachillgirllui @pleasecallmeunhinged @cookies-and-music @fallen-w1ngs @unicornqueen05 @bloodmocha @sleepysongbirdsings @fadingcollectivenightmare @hosshihusshi @sharkylalala @overwintering-soldier @splooshdooshploosh @saucysasha2035 @vicmc624 @ordelixx @fadingcollectivenightmare @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @the-once-and-future-bitch @cherryandsugar @thefandomplace @nicolesholes

[shit-post-things]

are we joking <3

[buckyinboots]

off limits

bucky barnes x reader summary: a family trip to Italy was supposed to be about culture and sightseeing — not stolen glances at your dad’s best friend. but with Bucky around, every photo, every dinner, every late-night walk only makes it harder to pretend. word count: 4k warnings: explicit +18 mdni, smut, age gap, dad’s best friend, unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk.

You're in Florence, sweltering under the afternoon sun, pretending you care about Renaissance art when all you’ve done for the past two hours is sneak glances at the man walking just a few steps ahead of you.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your dad’s best friend. Also known as: the man who's been single-handedly ruining your peace of mind since day one of this “family vacation.”

He’s wearing a dark linen shirt, rolled up to his elbows. His hair is pulled into a lazy bun, a few strands falling around his face. And when he lifts his sunglasses to get a better look at the Duomo, you almost drop your phone.

Italy was supposed to be about family. Sightseeing. Culture. That’s what you kept reminding yourself, at least, every time your dad snapped another picture for Instagram.

And yet somehow, every picture your eyes went straight to him. The man who’d been around your whole life in one way or another, but who had apparently decided that this summer, during this trip, he would choose to look like sin.

You go through your dad's photo dump from the trip and zoom in on Bucky every single time he’s in the background.

In one, he's laughing at something your mom said at dinner. His hand’s mid-air, holding a wine glass, his smile wide and stupidly attractive.

In another, he's half asleep in the back of the tour van, head tilted back, throat on full display. You cropped that one.

You have a whole folder at this point. Titled “scenery” in case someone goes through your phone. You're sick.

It doesn’t help that he’s nice to you. Says your name soft, helps you carry your bag when the cobblestones get too much, teases you when you order gelato for the third time in a day. Calls you sweetheart.

Now, he’s turned back to check on you, eyes squinting against the sun. “You good back there?”

You nod way too fast. “Yep. Good. Great.”

“Not too hot?”

You choke. On air. “Hot? N–no. I mean—yes. But it’s fine. I’m good.”

He raises a brow, like he knows. Like he’s seen the way you freeze up when he stands too close, the way your eyes linger a little too long. Maybe he’s humored by it. Maybe it’s just your overactive imagination.

Either way, he chuckles. Walks slower so you’re next to him now. Close enough that you smell his cologne. You’re doomed.

By dinner that night, you were a mess.

The restaurant was tucked into a narrow street, string lights overhead, tables so close together you could hear other people’s conversations. You tried to focus on the food, on the laughter, on anything that wasn’t Bucky. But of course he had to sit across from you, glass of red wine in hand, his voice low and steady whenever he leaned in to answer your dad.

You felt his eyes before you even looked up.

“Something on my face, doll?” he asked suddenly, catching you in the act.

Your fork clattered against the plate, and you nearly dropped it entirely. “N-no. Sorry.”

He smirked, lifting his glass again. “Didn’t think pasta was that distracting.”

You ducked your head, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

The next day was worse.

The vineyard tour the next day is worse. The sun is brutal, and Bucky undoes two buttons, collar open, chest glinting with sweat. You nearly melt. When his hand brushes your arm, your heart stutters so violently you think he must hear it.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, walking beside you, his voice pitched just for you.

You kicked at a loose pebble, trying to look anywhere but at him. “Just tired.”

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly not buying it. His hand brushed your arm—accidentally, maybe, maybe not—and you swore your heart forgot how to beat for a second.

Later, when the tour guide paused to explain the wine-making process, you pulled out your phone, pretending to check messages. You tilted it ever so slightly, snapped a photo—just of the group, just the vineyard—but your eyes immediately zoomed in on him afterward. His profile, sharp against the golden light.

But when you look up, he’s already watching you. This time no teasing smile — just something heavy. Sharp. You lock your phone like it burns, but the damage was done. Because if he hadn’t noticed before, you were pretty sure he did now.

Avoidance doesn’t work. In a small gallery the next day, cool marble and quiet, his voice finds you.

“Thought you’d gotten lost.”

You turned. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like he’d been waiting for you to notice him.

Your throat went dry. “Just… needed a break.”

His gaze flicked over you — not in a way anyone else would notice, but enough to make your skin feel too tight. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

You forced a shrug. “I’m fine.”

Bucky tilted his head, like he didn’t quite believe you. And then, softer: “You always were a bad liar, y’know that?”

Before you can answer, your dad calls. The moment slips away. But later, when Bucky takes a family photo, you see it clear: everyone’s smiling for the camera, but his eyes are locked on you.

No one else notices. But you do.

The trip blurs. Piazzas, dinners, espresso. And him. Always him. The world sees your dad’s best friend carrying bags, holding doors. Only you see how he angles toward you in every crowd, how his gaze finds yours like it can’t help itself. You were losing your mind quietly.

One afternoon, while your parents haggle at a market stall, Bucky appears at your side like he’d been magnetized there.

“Not really your thing, huh?” he asked, nodding toward the table of trinkets.

You shook your head, managing a small laugh. “I don’t think I need another keychain.”

“Smart,” he said. Then, quieter, leaning in just enough that you felt the brush of his shoulder, “Besides, you’ve already got something to remember this trip by, don’t you?”

Your chest tightened. Does he know? He can’t know.

But when you looked up, he was already straightening, his expression unreadable again.

That night your dad posts another selfie. Everyone’s smiling. Except Bucky, whose eyes are fixed on you. Sharp. Uncovered.

You can’t pretend anymore.

On the seventh night, your parents went up to their hotel room early, worn out from the long day of exploring. You lingered in the lobby, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, nerves buzzing like static. You weren’t waiting for him, not really. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

And then the elevator doors opened.

Bucky stepped out, hair still damp from a shower, a plain black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders like it had been made for him. He spotted you immediately. “Not heading up yet?”

Your throat felt dry. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same.” He hesitated for only a moment before nodding toward the front doors. “Walk with me?”

You should’ve said no. You knew you should’ve. But your body betrayed you, feet already moving before your brain caught up.

You walked side by side, close enough that his hand brushed yours every so often, close enough that every brush set off sparks under your skin.

“You’ve been different this trip.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Different how?”

He shrugged, eyes forward. “Quieter. Can’t tell if you’re avoiding me, or…” He trailed off, but the weight of what he didn’t say hung heavy between you.

Your pulse thudded in your ears. “Or what?” you asked, barely a whisper.

That’s when he stopped walking. Just… stopped. You almost stumbled, turning to face him, the glow of a streetlamp cutting across his features. His jaw was tense, his eyes dark in a way that made your stomach drop.

“Or maybe you’re not avoiding me at all.”

The air felt electric, charged, like the entire city was holding its breath. He was so close now, close enough that you could see the flecks of silver in his hair, close enough that if you leaned in just a fraction—

And then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “We should head back.”

The spell shattered. Just like that.

You nodded mutely, heart pounding, and followed him in silence.

The next day your dad suggested a slower pace, and eventually everyone settled on exploring the quieter streets near the hotel. You swore you wouldn’t let yourself get caught up in him again. You repeated it like a mantra while brushing your teeth, while pulling on a sundress, while sitting across from him at breakfast. It didn’t work.

Because Bucky wasn’t making it easy.

“You always walk like you’re in a hurry,” he said casually, hands tucked in his pockets, matching the pace of his steps with yours. You huffed a laugh. “Maybe I just don’t want to get left behind.” His eyes flicked down at you, unreadable, then softened. “Trust me. I’d never let that happen.”

Your breath caught. It was nothing — just words, just Bucky being… Bucky. Except his tone was different, low and certain in a way that made your skin stutter.

A block later, your mom spotted a shop she wanted to duck into. Your parents disappeared inside, leaving you and Bucky standing awkwardly on the sun-warmed cobblestones.

You fiddled with the strap of your bag, unsure what to do with yourself. “They’ll probably be a while.”

“Good,” he said without thinking.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost frustrated with himself. Then he stepped closer — just a fraction, but enough that the air shifted. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that?”

Your breath hitched. “Me?”

He stepped closer still, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of cologne under the salt and sun. “Don’t play dumb, doll. I see the way you look at me.” His voice dipped, almost a growl. “You think I don’t notice? The pictures. The staring.”

Your entire body froze. He knew. “I—” you started, but the words tangled.

And then he slipped. One of his hands came up, fingers brushing just under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The touch was barely there, feather-light, but it lit you up like a match. His thumb lingered against your jawline, the calloused pad dragging across your skin like he couldn’t stop himself.

For one breathless second, you thought he might kiss you right there in the shadow of the alley.

But then his jaw tightened, and he dropped his hand, stepping back as if burned. “We shouldn’t,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Your heart was racing so hard you thought it might echo in the street. “Then why—”

“Because I couldn’t help it,” he cut in, voice rough. His eyes met yours, blazing, unguarded for once. “And that’s the problem.”

Before you could say anything, before you could even breathe properly, he turned and walked ahead, leaving you pressed against the wall, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you. And for the first time, you knew with absolute certainty: this wasn’t just you anymore.

At dinner, the lively chatter of your family faded into the background, drowned out by the weight of Bucky’s gaze. Every glance across the table chipped away at your composure, leaving you restless and distracted.

When he quietly asked if you were okay while your dad was away from the table, his low, intimate tone only made your chest tighten. By dessert, you were unraveling, so you excused yourself. His eyes followed you, making your skin burn.

Hours later, after you’d changed into pajamas and tried to read to calm your racing heart, a soft, deliberate knock sounded at your bedroom window.

Your stomach flipped. You peeked out, and there he was — eyes glinting in the moonlight, looking impossibly dangerous and yet impossibly tender.

“Bucky…” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t think knocking on your door was smart,” he muttered, voice low, smirking at you through the glass. “But you left your jacket.”

Your chest tightened at how careful he was, how much thought he’d put into this little act just for you. Without thinking, you opened the window wider and let him slip inside.

“It’s cold,” you murmured, shivering slightly, and he handed you the jacket, lingering close. The heat radiating off him made your fingers tremble.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice almost a whisper. His hand brushed against yours.

“Better… now,” you admitted, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped.

For a long moment, you both just stood there, the quiet hum of Florence outside, the nearness of him, and the undeniable electricity that had been building all week. Neither of you moved to break the silence, neither of you wanting to be the first to let go.

And in that suspended, fragile moment, you knew — everything that had been simmering all week, all the glances, all the touches, all the near-misses — was finally teetering on the edge of something neither of you could deny anymore.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering, body buzzing with nerves you hadn’t been able to contain all day.

“You didn’t have to climb all the way here,” you murmured.

“I wanted to,” he replied, voice low, rough, and dangerous. He stepped closer, closing the sliver of space between you. “I wanted to see you.”

Your chest heaved. “Bucky…”

He didn’t let you finish. One hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a force that was gentle but undeniable. The other slipped behind your back, pressing you closer against him. Your body betrayed you, leaning in without thought.

His lips hovered over yours, brushing softly at first — teasing, dangerous, impossible to resist. You tried to pull back, to remind yourself this wasn’t supposed to happen, that it was forbidden, that your dad’s best friend shouldn’t be here like this. But you couldn’t. Every nerve ending in your body screamed for him.

Then his mouth covered yours, and the world shattered.

It was rough, demanding, hungry. His tongue teased yours, daring, claiming, as if punishing you for all the stolen glances and quiet lust that had built up over the week. His hands roamed over your body with precision — one pressing firmly to your waist, the other to the back of your neck, threading through your hair, holding you like you were about to vanish if he let go.

You gasped into the kiss, melting against him, letting the sin of it wash over you. Nothing mattered except the way he tasted, the way he moved, the way he made you feel.

Your breath still came in shallow gasps, Bucky’s forehead resting against yours, his thumb sweeping lightly along your jaw like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you. Like stopping would mean admitting it had happened.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Because there wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t shatter the fragile, burning thing suspended between you.

His fingers drifted to your waist again, and you swore you could feel every callus, every brush of his skin like it had been branded there. And when he looked at you — really looked — it was with something hungry and aching and impossibly soft all at once.

“I should go,” he said, voice raw.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “I know.” Neither of you moved.

His mouth ghosted over yours again — not a kiss this time, just the echo of one. A memory in the making. He whispered, “This doesn’t mean nothing, you know.”

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

“Say it again,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “So I believe it.” You reached up slowly, palm settling against his chest. His heartbeat was wild under your hand. “It doesn’t mean nothing,” you said, barely audible.

He nodded, jaw clenched like it was taking every ounce of control to step back. But he did. Eventually. Hands slipping away like it hurt to let go.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured, and climbed back out the window like something out of a fever dream.

You didn’t sleep.

Your dad wanted to see another cathedral in the morning, dragging your mom along, but you begged off with the excuse of a headache. Bucky stayed behind too, claiming he’d already seen enough stone and stained glass to last a lifetime.

That left the two of you alone. Exactly what you shouldn’t have wanted — and exactly what you did.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just waited until the rest of the group was out of sight.

“Your dad would kill me if he knew.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“But he doesn’t,” you said softly.

Bucky exhaled. “You’re not making this easy.”

“You’re not walking away,” you countered.

He stepped closer.

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t hesitant or careful or secret. It was real. Possessive. His hand at the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand another second of pretending.

When he pulled back, your lips were swollen and your heart was in your throat.

“You better keep your window open tonight.” he said, voice hoarse.

Your parents returned late, laughing about the worst pizza they’d eaten so far. You played your part. Ate three bites, smiled at the right times, slipped away after dessert.

You were brushing your hair when the soft knock came again.

You opened it before thinking, and there he was. Still the man who kissed you like he couldn’t stop.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You opened the window wider. “So don’t come in.”

He jumped inside without hesitating.

It felt louder than it should’ve, the soft thunk of wood against frame echoing in the small room like a final decision.

He didn’t move right away. Neither did you.

The air shifted — thickened — stretched taut between you.

Bucky stood there. His jaw was tight. His hands flexed at his sides, as though he didn’t trust them.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You are here.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Say the word, and I’ll walk out.”

Your stomach flipped.

It would’ve been easier if he’d kissed you again the second he stepped inside. If he’d let the tension snap the way it was threatening to. But this was worse. This slow, dangerous unraveling.

This was a man who had waited. Held back. Felt everything, and kept it all in his chest like it would kill him if he let it out.

You stepped toward him — one careful step.

He didn’t move away.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you said, quiet but sure.

The breath he let out was sharp. Almost pained. Then he was on you.

His mouth crashes back onto yours like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting years for this moment. “Fuck” His voice was low, wrecked, lips trailing down your jaw and your neck as he presses you back against the wall, body hot and solid against yours.  “You feel what you do to me, doll? How bad I’ve been needing this?”

Your answer was a whimper, your hands already sliding under his shirt, nails dragging down the ridges of his abs.

His hands roam shamelessly — one sliding down to grip your waist, the other dragging over your thigh before hooking it around his hip, pinning you to him. You can feel him, hard and thick, straining against his jeans, grinding against your core until your head spins.

“B-Bucky—”

“Shh,” he growls, one hand suddenly pressing lightly over your mouth. His eyes burn into yours, dark and hungry. “Gotta keep quiet, sweetheart. Your dad’s right down the hall.”

The warning only makes your pulse race faster. You nod, muffling another gasp against his palm as he ruts harder against you, the friction making you ache.

He smirks, feral, like he can feel how soaked you are through your dress. “That’s it. Good girl. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

When his fingers finally slip beneath your dress, dragging your panties aside, you nearly sob into his hand. He strokes you slowly, deliberately, spreading the wetness over your swollen clit, then dips lower, teasing your entrance until your thighs tremble.

“So wet already,” he murmurs against your ear, voice rough silk. “Been waiting for me to touch you like this, huh?”

You nod frantically, nails biting into his shoulders as he pushes two thick fingers inside you. The stretch makes you whimper, muffled under his palm, back arching against the wall. He curls them deep, hitting the spot that makes your knees nearly give out.

“Look at you,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, your temple, his pace relentless. “So fucking tight. Gripping me like you were made for it.”

By the time he pulls his fingers out, you’re shaking, desperate. He brings them to your lips, smearing them against your mouth before slipping them past. “Suck,” he orders softly, eyes locked on yours. And you do, tasting yourself on his skin, heat flooding your cheeks.

He growled, shoving you gently back until your knees hit the mattress and you fell onto the bed. His body followed, heavy and overwhelming, lips crashing down on yours.

His hand slid down your thigh, spreading you open.

“Christ,” he groans, undoing his jeans. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, brushing against your thigh. Your breath catches at the sheer size of him.

“Eyes up here,” he says with a dangerous grin, lining himself up. “You can take it. I’ll make sure of it.”

The first push steals every bit of air from your lungs. He’s so big it hurts, stretching you wide, forcing you open inch by inch. Your muffled cry vibrates against his hand, and he presses his forehead to yours, panting.

“Fuck, you feel unreal… so tight around me.” He thrusts deeper, slow, controlled, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you swear you see stars.

When he finally starts to move, it’s devastating. Each thrust drags against every nerve ending, filling you so deep you can barely think. Your muffled moans grow higher, desperate, and his grip tightens over your mouth.

“Quiet, baby,” he warns, voice ragged in your ear. “Don’t wanna give us away, do you?”

The danger of it makes your whole body burn hotter. You shake your head wildly, biting down on his palm to keep from crying out as he pounds into you harder, faster, the wet sound of your bodies obscene in the quiet room.

“That’s it,” he groans, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple. “Take it for me. God, you’re perfect.”

You’re already close, the knot in your belly winding tighter with every thrust, every filthy word he growls against your skin.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Be my good girl and come all over my cock. Quiet — don’t want Daddy hearing his baby crying on my dick.”

That filth shatters you. The orgasm tears through your body, violent, overwhelming, your scream strangled under his hand. You convulse around him, walls milking him until he curses, rutting harder.

“Fuck—fuck—” he pants, pulling out at the last second to spill hot against your stomach, his groan low and guttural as he braces himself above you.

For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, the pounding of your hearts.

Then, softer, almost reverent, he kisses you again. Slow this time.

“Shouldn’t have happened,” he whispers against your lips. “But I don’t regret a damn thing.”

And you know, with absolute certainty, that neither of you will stop now.

[barnesandnoblecauses]

ɢᴏ ɢᴏ ᴊᴜɪᴄᴇ!

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: best friend’s dad!Bucky x f!reader

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 8.8k

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Ouch! Your boyfriend cheated on you! What’s there to do other than day drink and text stale Hinge dates? That is, until your best friend’s dad enters the picture (accidentally) and shows you how a real man should treat a lady.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, alcohol use, bad decisions in general, kinda proofread and kinda not, porn with some plot, Rogers!reader (on accident), kinda dbf!Bucky too???, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie, mating press, kinda belly bulge for just a second, brief choking, some overstimulation, slight praise kink, Bucky is a gentleman, and (of course) big dick!Bucky

ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: I have been lost to the void for two months and only recently felt the urge to let the muses take over me once again. Thanks to Sabrina for the MBF album because honestly I’m obsessed and need to write a fic for every song but we all know that won’t happen. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is and I guess I’m back?? Thanks to my wifey @laufeydottirs-writings for beta reading part of this because I am insecure in my writing abilities and crave validation - ily <3.

Divider credit to @/cursed-carmine & @/squirrelstone!

You honestly couldn’t blame yourself for sending the text. After all, you were already buzzed off a few dirty martinis and it was only 10 A.M. What else were you supposed to do when Gossip Girl reruns no longer held your attention and your vibrator just wasn’t doing it for you?

You had scrolled through the backed-up list of numbers in your phone, most not even named and countless stale conversations having died after a horrendous first date. You never actually expected to receive a text back from any of them - so, when your phone finally buzzed against the stained wood of the coffee table, a fistful of popcorn halfway to your mouth, you froze.

The fluffy, white kernels slowly fell back in the bowl as you set it aside and you leaned forward to grab your phone. Your hand was shaking, and your heart was pounding. Who in the hell was crazy enough to text you back?

Someone horny enough, you supposed.

You sighed, opening your texts and staring at the grey bubble longer than you needed to, the white letters slurring together from the excess of alcohol.

Everything okay?

You laughed - like, actually laughed aloud. The sound, sharp and sudden, echoed off your living room walls. Why the fuck did this man care if everything was okay? You were looking for a hookup, not therapy. You texted back, autocorrect doing the heavy lifting for you.

I just asked if you wanted to come over. Could use the company.

It marked ‘read’ instantly and your heart stopped for just a second. And then he was typing…For a long damn time. Finally, a little ‘whoosh’ came across as his response popped into the chat.

Why don’t I, instead, take you to dinner while Becca is at volleyball practice?

You blinked. Your brain was running on booze and a crippling fear of meeting God. You had to reread it a few times. Becca…Becca…Becca…What the hell did your best friend have to- Oh. Oh no. No, no, and hell no. You panicked, instantly sobering up at least halfway. Your fingers were quick to type.

Oh! Wrong number, sorry!

Okay. Deep breaths. Maybe that would work. Ping. Or not.

What’s going on, doll? You and Becca not friends anymore? She was just talking about you the other day and finals…

Oh god. Yeah. No way to ‘wrong number’ this one. Okay, no problem. Just another deep fucking breath…Ping.

I insist. Dinner. I’ll pick you up. You still live just off campus? Birch and 44th?

You let out the bundle of oxygen you’d been hoarding in your lungs. You had just wanted a good time and now your best friend’s dad was offering to take you out. On what? A date? How old was he again?

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard so long your screen shut off. You looked at yourself in the dark reflection of the glass - hair messy, cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and dark. Fuck. Maybe you did just need to get out of the house for a little while.

You tapped your screen back awake.

Yeah, that’s still the address. What time?

Your finger was shaking as you hit ‘send’.

He started to type.

Be ready by 6 P.M. Make yourself feel pretty :)

Your heart fluttered a little. Oh. He wanted you to make yourself look pretty. Well…Alright then! You had quite a lot of work to do so you switched off the TV and headed straight for your bedroom. It was time to put yourself first and have a hell of a time doing it.

6 P.M. rolls around. A steady knock on the door.

You were just securing your final diamond earring and slipping on your last heel. You felt very…Nice. Cocktail dress, stockings, heels, and the only diamond set you owned. Makeup and hair done to the nines with a spritz of your favorite perfume. As you grabbed your clutch, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a little too much.

You opened the door, eyes widening a little as Becca’s father, Bucky, stood there just outside the doorway looking mighty damn fine. Gray slacks, white dress shirt unbuttoned in a casual yet polished manner. Gray sport jacket slung over his shoulder and that beautiful salt-and-pepper hair brushed back. You’d never really given him much of a second thought before - I mean, how could you? He was your best friend’s dad, and you and Becca had been friends since senior year of high school.

But, you just couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on every part of him - his strong facial features, stunning blue eyes, and the way his stubble danced along his chiseled jaw. Then there was the way his dress shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that should have been a sin - tight in all the right places to show off the work he’d always put into his body since his Army days. It felt a little aggressive to say, but you wanted to chew on this man.

“Hi there, doll,” he said, voice sweet and low with something you’d never heard before. Something akin to the floral sweetness of honey dripping across cragged gravel.

You tried not to melt right then and there as he held out his hand to take yours. “Are you ready or do you need a minute?” He smiled and you felt your world tilt and your stomach churn. No one had the right to be that attractive. No one had the right to look this good and smile at you like that.

“O-Oh I…I’m ready,” you said, clearing your throat a little before giving him a polite smile and daintily placing your hand in his. His palm was practically twice the size of yours and you had to really put effort into not thinking about how good they’d feel inside you right about now…

The thing about Bucky, which had always been the thing about Bucky, was that he was a proper gentleman through and through. You often thought about how Becca ended up with much better men than you did - and it was probably because she was raised by such an exemplary man to begin with. He was the ultimate blueprint.

He walked you to his car, never a pace ahead nor a hair behind until he took a few strides in front of you to open the passenger side door for you. Your dress was a little on the short side, so as you dipped into his car, he used his sport jacket to shield you from prying eyes - he even looked away himself. How chivalrous!

The ride to the restaurant, itself, was great. A little awkward considering how the situation had manifested, but he was skilled at moving the small-talk along and making you feel like the center of attention. You discussed the weather, finals, and after-college plans with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times over with someone his age. It was the typical experience, just with far less lecturing and more mutual understanding than you’d come to expect.

Once you were pulled up to the valet, it wasn’t the valet worker who opened your door for you. No, it was Bucky shielding you again with that damn sport coat until you’d adjusted yourself and grabbed your clutch off the seat. You wobbled a little in your heels against the uneven cobblestone ground and his hand left the car door to catch your waist.

Your breath hitched, his touch so gentle and warm. Your gaze immediately flitted up to his face where he smiled in amusement. “Careful there, doll. Ground’s got teeth,” he murmured, making sure you were steady before he closed the car door and then slipped his sport coat on before offering you his arm. Of course, you obliged.

He lead you to up the little stone pathway to the restaurant door - the inside was dimly lit but you found yourself met with opulence beyond anything you’d experienced before. Crystal chandeliers gleaming and twinkling against candlelight that buzzed from the white clothed tables. You swallowed thickly. This place was expensive and you weren’t so sure you were worthy of it.

“Table for two, should be reserved under James Barnes,” you heard him say to the hostess at the stand.

“Says here you’d prefer the balcony view. Is that still correct?” the hostess inquired.

Your brows furrowed a little as you looked up at him. That sounded…Pricey. Exclusive. “Bucky…” you started to protest.

In the most polite way possible, he shushed you and spoke instead to the hostess. “Yes, please. Should you have anything available.” He gave you a sideways glance, one that silently read as ‘shut up and watch’. Watch what?

The hostess lead the two of you to a semi-private table on a balcony overlooking the city. It looked beautiful from this far away - so quiet and so peaceful. The air was crisp, but not at all too cold and the fireplace lit beside the table added a nice bit of coziness.

Bucky pulled your chair out and you took a seat after only a moment of hesitation. You weren’t used to this kind of treatment and couldn’t recall the last time a man ever gave this much of a shit about chivalry. He pushed you in close to the table and then seated himself politely across from you. That was just the thing wasn’t it? He was so polite.

The hostess left you two the wine menu and the prix-fixe menu detailing the night’s exclusive offerings before disappearing back inside the main restaurant. Outside, it was just you, Bucky, and one other couple seated several feet away. For the most part it was…Quiet. Peaceful. All except for the incessant pounding of your heart.

You picked up the wine menu, still trembling. He cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up at you over the top of his menu. “Why don’t you order a bottle, sweetheart? Seems like your nerves could use it.”

Your eyes flicked up from the tiny booklet, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’m not nervous,” you defended.

“Mmm…” he hummed, blue eyes focusing back on the menu. He was reading it for far too long for something so short. It seemed maybe he was nervous too.

“Mmm what?” you asked, setting the wine menu down and then mirroring his prior expression - cocked brow and a sharp gaze.

He didn’t look back up at you as he answered. “You’re awfully shaky. It’s like you’ve never had a real man take you on a proper date.”

You scoffed. “I’ve been on plenty of proper dates.”

He chuckled. “Doll, Olive Garden doesn’t count and neither does splitting the check.”

Your cheeks continued to bloom red. “In my defense, I’m a broke college student. We all are.” You bit your bottom lip as your eyes flicked down towards the prix-fixe menu.

Bucky finally set his own menu aside and leaned forward, his large, warm palms finding your forearms and resting there. You looked up. His gaze was almost too much and not enough in the same breath. “And that’s why we’re here tonight,” he said, voice low again in that tone that sent heat pooling straight between your thighs. Shamefully.

“So that I can show you how a real man treats a lady.”

You swallowed hard, eyes flicking down towards his hands and the only thing you could think of was how he could easily hold both your wrists above your head with no issue. Back pressed to the wall. His lips on yours. Fuck, where was your goddamn mind at?

He smirked. “Doll, where’s your head at?” Like you were an open book and he was reading it faster than you could write it.

You about choked. You cleared your throat. “Nothin’ just…You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never been on a proper date,” you mumbled, still avoiding contact with those beautiful blues that had you feeling like you were losing your mind - which, in your defense, you sort of were.

To your relief, your waitress for the night appeared to take your drink orders. For him, it was a glass of scotch. For you, it was a bottle of rosé because he’d insisted. She ran you two quickly through the courses on the menu before whisking away to work on the drink orders. And then there was an awkward silence that fell between the two of you. Him staring at you and you fidgeting with the bottom hem of your cocktail dress like if you rubbed the ruby fabric enough times it would send you home.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, deciding it was time to say something. Anything.

He laughed. “People tell me I’ve got a problem with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. You could feel his gaze boring into you. It was like you could sense he was on the verge of saying something but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.

Hell, was any of this appropriate at all? Probably not. The age gap screamed very much not. But, part of you really wanted this. The older man. The experience. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.

“So, why are you trying to hook up with your best friend’s father?” His voice cut through your thoughts - the dreaded question that you’d been waiting for him to ask.

You blinked. “I’m sorry?” You tried to play dumb.

He smirked again. A slight tug at the corner of his lips but it was there. “You heard me, doll,” he said, voice dripping sinful honey that had your tongue feeling too big for your mouth and your thoughts racing beyond a speed you could comprehend.

“I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t know it was you,” you choked out.

Bucky’s expression turned puzzled. “You didn’t know it was me?” He almost sounded offended. Well, at least the night had gone halfway perfect.

You sighed. “I was just…I was buzzed. Okay, maybe a little drunk…”

“Uh huh…”

“And I…Well…I just texted a bunch of numbers hoping someone would answer…”

He hummed, expression still puzzled like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your confession. His voice was…Concerned, though. As he spoke again, “Why are you drunk at ten in the damn morning and texting men who you don’t even know who they are?”

And then it all came crumbling down and the only thing left to do was pray your mascara was going to hold on tight. “Brad…I…I caught Brad cheating on me last week…” you said quietly, your eyes beginning to water. You fanned yourself with the menu, hoping you could hold it together and not seem like an absolute mess.

Bucky’s expression softened. All he could do was reach out across the table, palms up and inviting your own to meet his. Slowly, you set the menu down and placed your palms in his. Once again, his hands were twice the size of yours, practically swallowing them whole as he held them firm and gentle.

You sniffled, a tear falling down one cheek and then the other. Oh great. The waterworks. How lovely. But…He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he pulled one hand away, grabbed the linen napkin from across his lap, and brought it up to gently dab the tears away.

“Doll…” he started slowly, softly. “That doesn’t mean you go searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and texting men who aren’t any better for you than him…”

As if on cue, the waitress brings back your bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice. She places a glass on the table, thin and dainty and made for sparkling wines. She popped open the bottle and poured your first glass to a perfect height. “Enjoy. The first course will come out shortly,” she said, leaving Bucky’s scotch at the end of the table before whisking off again.

Once she was gone, you blinked. “But…But you’re better than him.”

He laughed as he swirled the scotch around in the beveled crystal - amused. “Oh, I know I am. But what if one of those other boys had responded, hmm? Where would you be at now?”

You sighed. Not at a fancy dinner, that’s for sure. Probably getting drunk in your apartment and letting Jake from Hinge hit it from the back. And this was far better than that.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, voice breaking through your loud, mess of a mind. “Now, let me show you how a real man should treat you, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt like this, doll. You’re too good for that.”

And so, you sat across from him and let Becca’s dad, Bucky Barnes, show you how wining and dining really worked. You let him lead the pleasant conversation. He complimented you tastefully, reaching across the table to brush a hand across your cheek but not daring to move an inch lower. His gaze was respectable, kind. The warmth of the rosé was flowing through your veins and while you tried to flirt with him, he was always so polite. So reserved.

When it came time for dessert, a stunning display of comforting bananas foster, you two had decided to share the course. His spoon would clink against yours occasionally, a red flush covering your cheeks and your heart doing somersaults like a high school girl on a first date.

You hadn’t even noticed, but some of the caramel sauce that had come atop the ice cream was dribbling down your chin after a misguided, wine-drunk bite. He was quick to the rescue before it soiled your ruby dress.

He carefully leaned across the table, napkin outstretched in his hand as he very gingerly wiped the caramel from the corner of your mouth with a gentle smile upon his lips. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty little dress.” You felt like you could swoon, like your eyes would turn to hearts at any given second.

Bucky hovered there for a moment, over the table, hand outstretched and his face just close enough to smell the warm scotch and the sweet caramel on his breath. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to those piercing blue eyes that you swore would be the death of you.

You watched as his eyes mirrored yours now, flicking down once and then up almost too quick to catch. But then he was retreating, sitting back in his chair and quickly throwing up his hand as the waitress passed by. “Check please, ma’am?”

Bucky drove you home. He made sure to shield you again from prying eyes, although you caught it this time when he glanced down once to see the curve of your ass peek out from beneath your dress as you lowered yourself into his car.

He walked you up to the door, taking you by one hand and leading your waist with the other as you were very clearly drunk. Once you got to the door, you fumbled in your clutch for your keys, fingers trembling and causing you to drop them onto the welcome mat.

You moved to stoop down, but he stopped you with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, if you bend down right now, I’m not gettin’ ya back up off that concrete.” Yeah, he probably had a point there.

He bent down and grabbed the key - and, as he stood, his shoulder brushed against your arm and your breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes met yours, inches away from your face, and he took the key and pressed into your palm with a close-lipped smile. “Careful, doll.”

You felt like a deer caught in headlights for a good fifteen seconds, although those seconds felt like years. You blinked and then turned your attention back to the lock.

The world was spinning as you lined the key up and pushed it in, turning it over with a thump that nearly echoed the frantic pulse of your heart in your ears. You pushed the door open and he stuck one foot in to follow before you turned around, shocked.

He tilted his head. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ sure you make it past the threshold. Honest,” he said with a light chuckle.

And you let him. You let Bucky Barnes walk you to your couch and sit you down. You watched as he kneeled in front of you and very carefully guided your heels off your blistered feet - in your defense, you didn’t wear heels often.

Bucky fluffed up one of your decorative pillows that had seen better days, and then gently helped you lay down. The ceiling was swirling around and around, and in the same breath it felt like your body was on a boat rocking back and forth. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling ten seconds away from turning green.

The next thing you felt was the weight of his sport coat as he laid it across you, a makeshift blanket to ensure you didn’t go cold - or, a cruel souvenir for you to remember him by. For you to stare at every day from now on and think about his face. The way he bit his lip if he stared you up and down for a moment too long. The way you could feel his lips linger, dying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but then retreating cowardly.

“I gotta leave, doll,” you hear him say through the fog. “Next time, call me.”

And the click of the door closing behind him was the very last thing you heard before you blacked out.

The grey morning light is what woke you, streaming in through the sliding glass door all cheery and bright as if you weren’t currently crawling your way out of rock bottom. You groaned, the weight of his sport coat still on your body. The scent of him lingered there on the woven fabric. Sharp, woodsy, masculine. Driftwood and gunmetal.

You slowly sat up, bringing the collar of the coat to your face and inhaling deeply. Had you not had this tangible piece of evidence, you would have thought the prior night was nothing more than a drunken dream fueled by a bottle of Malibu.

You saw your clutch placed on the coffee table and you opened it, pulling your phone out. No new texts. You sighed.

You moved to start the routine you’d gotten in the habit of the over the last week. Tylenol, number one. Shower, second. Booze, third. Except, as your head pounded and your stomach growled with the craving of something other than liquor, you could hear Bucky’s voice in the back of your head. The one telling you not to drown your feelings in a bottle. The one telling you to call him.

So, you put the bottle of vodka down and picked up your phone instead. You tapped on his contact, which you made sure to actually label that morning, and called him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you waited for him to pick up…

No answer.

You huffed and threw your phone down onto the table. Not like you expected an answer anyway. Just then, you heard a knock at the front door. Brows furrowed in confusion, you quietly padded over and peeked through the peep hole. All you saw was a rather stout man holding what had to be an entire bush of bright red roses.

You opened the door and the man set the bunch of roses down on the ground. They were in their own little golden vase, fanned out and pretty for display. “Got a delivery here from a Mr. Barnes,” the man said with a smile, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Enjoy your morning, miss.”

You ran your fingertips across the heavy weight of the cardstock envelope, a gold wax seal holding closed all its secrets. You hauled the roses inside before sitting at your kitchen table and fumbling with the envelope as your fingers trembled.

You slipped out a short letter, hand-written with a good pen, paper, and ink. Thoughtful.

Doll, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. Take care and I’ll see you tonight at 8:00 P.M. You don’t need to be fancy, and you know the address.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest for what felt like minutes, but in reality it was only a second or two. Your head was reeling now. Why did he want to meet you at his house? Your best friend’s house? Was she even going to be gone this evening?

You quickly checked your texts. Becca had been fairly MIA for her finals, which tracked considering she took her schooling so seriously. You scrolled up, glanced at the date on your calendar, and then your cheeks flushed crimson. Becca would be gone. Most of the night, actually. Her boyfriend, Cole, had his last baseball game of the school season and it didn’t start until seven.

Was he inviting you over for…? No. No, he couldn’t be. Even with the tension between you two the night before, you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t like that. You knew he didn’t think of you like that. Not at all.

As you folded the letter back up and tucked it neatly inside its envelope, you turned to take in the magnificent sight of the multiple dozens of roses that were bloomed as red as your cheeks as they sat there on the kitchen counter like a neon invitation. An invitation to see how far you could push Mr. Barnes that evening.

The house wasn’t anything special. A quaint little brownstone in Brooklyn that screamed home sweet home in the midst of corporate chaos and brightly lit billboards that never slept. The street was quiet, lined with old street lamps that gave it a sort of charm that felt captured in a different time.

You knocked at the deep red door, nervous as you tugged your coat in tight around you. You heard the deadbolt unlatch and then the door creaked open. There was Bucky, in blue jeans and a blue Henley with his hair messier than the night before - he looked much more lived-in and casual and less like a posh Ken doll fresh from the box.

“Come on in,” he invited warmly with a smile, stepping aside.

You gave him a curt, polite nod and a mirrored smile as you ascended the last two steps and crossed over the threshold. You were immediately greeted by the sobering smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of the TV playing the local news at a low volume. You jumped slightly when you felt his hand rest against the small of your back as he came around your left flank. “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at you with irises that reminded you of endless blue skies on a clear June afternoon.

You glanced nervously between him and the television a few times before you decided you were much too jittery to drink any level of caffeine - so, you declined. “No, thanks,” you said quietly.

Your eyes widened as he moved to take your coat off for you. A red-hot blush flooded your cold cheeks with crimson as his hands brushed along your arms - the cool autumn air didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the heat of your own embarrassment. “O-Oh I-“ you stuttered, watching as he placed your coat on the rack just beside the door.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’?” Bucky quipped teasingly, beckoning for you to follow him into the kitchen.

You followed, leaning against the kitchen island while he poured himself a cup of coffee into one of those cheesy ‘World’s #1 Dad’ mugs. He leaned back against the dark granite countertop across from you, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the brim of his mug as he took a sip of the piping hot liquid.

You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here with a bush of roses just for me to watch you drink coffee,” you said, breaking the tensioned silence that had fallen between you.

He laughed a little, setting the mug to the side. “Guilty as charged,” he said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands before his expression shifted to something more serious.

“I asked you over because I wanted to tell you, in person, that this-“ he gestured from himself to you “-cannot be a…A thing.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his jaw ticked, clearly nervous.

You laughed. “Bucky, this was never meant to be a thing,” you said, mirroring him as he crossed his arms over his chest. You got the feeling he was backpedaling, like he realized something at the restaurant the night before and was now trying to build a wall to keep it out. “I was looking for a hookup, not a boyfriend.”

“Well, maybe since you’ve seen how a proper man treats a lady, perhaps you’ll rethink that.”

“I’m really not ready to get back in the dating scene…”

“Then wait.”

You paused. This was your life. Not his. Why in the hell did he care so much? “What’s it matter to you if I wait or not?”

His jaw ticked and his eyes briefly darted to the side, fixating on a point in space you couldn’t quite locate. “I don’t want you playing with fire so much you burn yourself,” he muttered, gaze going downtrodden.

“Why do you care?”

“Seeing you hurt, hurts me.”

“And why do you care that fucking much?”

Your question lands on him like a bullet to the chest. He picks up his coffee, mug trembling a little, and takes a sip like it’ll magically cure the ache in his chest. “It’s what Steve would have wanted me to encourage you to do.”

You sighed. Steve was your father, a military vet and close friend of Bucky’s who’d been killed in action many moons ago. You only found out about their connection to each after about a year of being close friends with Becca - at your high school graduation when Bucky gifted you a letter your father had left for you.

“He isn’t here and he doesn’t get to dictate what I do,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze because it’d only remind you that he was doing this to isolate himself.

“But I can still try to fulfill his wishes,” Bucky said, taking a couple steps forward and inserting himself into the awkward little bubble you’d built. It felt like he was taking up too much personal space but not enough at the same time.

Your breath hitched as he reached forward and pressed his metal palm to your cheek, something cold and shocking against the constant flush that reddened your skin. “And it’s so I no longer want what I can’t have.”

Your heart was pounding. You. He meant you. You were what he couldn’t have. You were the guilty pleasure, the reason he probably answered your text in the first place. And you were right - he was trying to build a wall. A wall between your heart and his.

You nuzzled against his palm, eyes fluttering shut. The touch felt holy. “What if I want it too?” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking up at him. “What about my own wishes?”

“It’s not the right thing to do…”

“I don’t want to do the right thing, Bucky!” you exclaimed, frustrated. You pushed yourself off the counter, standing closer to him now - almost chest to chest. “You don’t understand that all I want right now is something wrong! I want to feel something, Bucky. Anything. Anything other than this pain.” Your voice was beginning to crack and those beautiful blues of his were starting to well up with tears.

“I…” Bucky’s hand lingered on your cheek. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched that he was thinking. That he was trying to figure out if he had the strength to go against his own morals. “I…I can’t…”

You reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek with your own palm, thumb running along the plane of his cheekbone. “You can.”

He looked like he was about to break, about to shatter completely. The tension was thick enough to feel, heavy and suffocating. His eyes flicked from yours and down to your lips. Back up to your eyes. Back down to your lips. “This isn’t a good idea…” he murmured, leaning in close enough now that you could smell the mix of coffee and whiskey and mint on his breath.

You took a shuddering breath, eyes closing again because you couldn’t stand the weight of his gaze. “I don’t want it to be good. I just want to feel…” you breathed, shaky hand coming to rest against his muscled chest. “I just want to feel you.”

You could see it in the way his jaw ticked - you could feel it in the way he wasn’t sure if your hand burned him or comforted him. Bucky was trying so hard to resist the temptation in front of him. “Please, doll…I can’t,” he pleaded brokenly, but it was weak and he made no attempt to pull away from your touch.

You leaned up, nose nudging his and lips so close to brushing as you murmured, “Then why are you still here?”

It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn’t hold back. And suddenly, both of his hands were holding your face - one metal, one flesh. The way his lips smashed into yours would be forever imprinted in your mind. You could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have you.

The kiss was everything - teeth, tongue, breath, and heat. He nipped playfully at your bottom lip and you growled, which elicited a deep chuckle you’d never heard before - amused and pleased. His tongue explored your mouth like it was trying to map it, and yours did the very same to his. Nothing about this was normal. But you didn’t want it to be.

When he broke the kiss, it was only because one of you needed to fucking breathe or you’d both be dead on the floor. Panting, he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”

You nodded wordlessly and pulled him right back in, trying to drown him under the weight of how much you craved him. His hands found your hips and gripped at the soft flesh, picking you up like you weighed nothing and perching you atop the granite.

His flesh hand snaked its way up your blouse, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease that shouldn’t have turned you on but it did. He pulled the garment off and tossed it on the kitchen floor, the silk of your blouse cascading in cool puddles across your tits. You shivered, only cold for a moment before his palm was kneading at the mounds of flesh like he’d been dreaming of how good they’d feel.

You moaned out, breaking the kiss as you tossed your head back when his thumb and forefinger began to tease and roll your nipple between calloused skin. “Fuck,” you groaned, hands scrambling from purchase at the edge of the countertop.

You barely had time to react before Bucky was ripping your blouse from your torso, a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “Bucky!” you scolded, but he remained unbothered and on a mission.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, stooping down and taking your neglected breast into his mouth as his hand continued to work the other.

The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across your nipple was enough to have you keening up off the counter and further into his touch. It felt so fucking good that you were convinced you’d cum just from the way he worshipped your tits.

He pulled back, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown as he glanced up at you. He looked feral - hungry and ready to feast. You watched as he dropped to his knees and rucked up your pencil skirt to reveal the lacy panties that clung to your dripping wet core.

“This what I do to ya, doll?” he breathed, practically drooling at the smell of your arousal as it assaulted his senses. He just needed to taste you. Devour you.

You whimpered and nodded. “Y-Yes,” you nearly whispered, brain short-circuiting as you felt his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and peel them away.

He watched, mesmerized by how your glistening folds clung to the lace, groaning as he could now see how drenched and pretty you were for him. He tossed the panties somewhere in the same direction as your bra, and then his hands were prying you open to make way for his head as he leaned in and licked a slow, warm stripe straight up the center of your heat.

You felt your toes curls and your back bow a little as the tip of his tongue traced devastating circles around your clit before diving back down and straight past your entrance.

“Bucky!” you gasped out, head thrown back as your hands found purchase in that gorgeous salt-and-pepper mane of his. “Fuck-“ you groaned, listening as the sounds he made were so obscene they had you blushing. Licking, slurping, sucking…He was like a man starved and you were the best damn meal he could’ve been served.

Bucky hummed against your core, sending vibrations straight through your clit as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and began to suck. You were already trembling from the overload of pleasure, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he needed you screaming for his mercy.

You felt as he teased your entrance with his forefinger, just barely pushing it in and then retreating. Nothing he could’ve done in that moment would have prepared you for when he plunged two fingers deep inside you and curled them with such ease it was almost second nature.

You could feel yourself clench around his digits with his name on your lips as you let out a whorish moan. Between his mouth and tongue working your clit and his fingers quite literally beckoning you to cum for him, you were in pure, blissful heaven.

That burning coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind tighter and tighter, and he could tell. He hummed in approval, fingers bullying into your g-spot now with a precision that was, frankly, unfair.

“C’mon, doll,” he urged as he lapped at your clit. “Cum f’me. Lemme have it all…” The way his voice was so deep, so smooth…It was like silk over gravel. And it had you coming undone the second he begged for you like that.

Your body arched forward as you moaned his name, nails digging into his scalp as your toes curled and your entire body felt like it was trying to levitate off the damn counter. But he didn’t stop - even as you pulsed and gushed around him, he kept on fucking going.

“B-Bucky,” you whimpered out as it was bordering on overstimulation. “B-Buck please…” You were pleading with a man who was too damn happy with where he was. If you’d let him, he’d live there between your thighs and die a very satisfied man.

“One more f’me…Please,” he begged softly, warm breath ghosting across your core before he dove back in and began sucking at your clit again.

You could feel tears blurring the edges of your vision, and you weren’t even sure if your first orgasm had ended before the second begun - but, you still felt it all the same. The overwhelming tidal wave of bliss that caused your body to clench around his fingers like your cunt was trying to trap him there. You let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as your body collapsed back against the shockingly cold granite.

Your head was spinning, vision blurred and hearing muffled. You weren’t sure you’d ever cum so hard in your whole goddamn life.

“So, so good f’me, doll,” you heard him praise you through the haze. He slowly pulled his fingers out, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing at the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release you’d rewarded him with, earning a very fucked-out groan from you. “Tastes like heaven and ya sound like it too when you’re cummin’ f’me like that,” he drawled, getting to his feet.

As he rose, you could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled you with a new wave of want - of craving.

A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed you were staring - not that you were trying to stare, it was just there. “Not right here, doll,” he murmured like he could read your mind, a finger hooking under your chin and gently bringing your lips up to his as he kissed you with the remnants of your release still glistening on his skin. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, a drug that you only wanted more of…

But then he was pulling away and you were left pouting. “Hey, don’t you pull that with me,” he teased, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead before you found yourself being lifted into his arms - bridal style - like you weighed no more than a feather. “You’ll get what you want. Just gotta be patient, sweetheart.”

The sickly sweet kindness in his smile was almost cruel in this scenario, but you silently snaked your arms around his neck as he carried you through the narrow foyer and up the short staircase to the second floor. The house wasn’t cramped, necessarily. But, with him carrying you through the tight halls, it felt rather cozy with just the two of you alone.

His foot nudged the door open to the master bedroom, old brass hinges creaking softly. You found yourself being laid so gingerly onto the mattress you could almost feel the tears welling again in your eyes. He treated you like something special, something fragile. It made your heart swell a little.

“May I?” he asked, nodding to your skirt. It was your last remaining article of clothing. You nodded back in permission, cheeks flushed crimson in the low lamplight that streamed through the window and illuminated everything in a heavenly, golden glow.

Bucky shimmied your skirt gently down your legs and tossed it aside before he made zero show about stripping down himself - but, it was a delicious sight to you all the same.

Watching as the layers of clothing were peeled away, revealing nothing but rippling muscles and silvery scars. The scar where metal met man was particularly bad, but still beautiful it’s own devastating rite. His dress shirt the night before hadn’t left much to your imagination, but even then, this was far beyond what your mind had conjured - he had the appearance that God himself carved him from the finest marble. An aged artwork that only grew finer with the weather and the years.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured lowly, crawling over top of your body and caging you in with solid forearms and beefy biceps you swore one day you’d take a bite of.

Heat rushed across your cheeks and you brought your hands up to rest against his biceps, fingers gripping flesh one side and brushing across whirring metal plates on the other. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” you whispered.

“Well, it’s not polite to stare, doll,” he said, dipping down so your lips were brushing dangerously close.

“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” you quipped back, feeling your breath hitch a little just feeling his bare chest pressed so intimately to your own.

“See? You’re learning,” he chuckled softly, ducking down and beginning to kiss and suck at the suppleness of your neck. “Good girl,” you heard him mumble against your skin.

You arched up into his feather-light touch, lips trailing from neck to collarbone to breasts to torso as soft purple bruises began to bloom in his wake. And then he was sitting back on his knees and you took another unashamed moment to fully appreciate him. To admire his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed, leaking precum like he’d been edged for hours.

He opened his mouth and you interrupted him. “Yeah, yeah. Staring again. I get it, Barnes. Just let me eye-fuck you, yeah?” you muttered, and that got an actual laugh from him.

Reaching his flesh hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his aching length. “You like what you see?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his precum dripped along your thighs like a sinful, pearlescent trail that lead to your core. “You imagining what it can do to ya, doll?”

You nodded, more than eager. “Wanna feel it inside me…Please,” you pleaded, practically drooling as you watched him rub the head of his cock through your slick folds. “Please…”

“Mmm…Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to your face as it was contorted in desperation for him.

It took you a split second to think about what he might’ve been asking. And then it popped into your mind and you couldn’t help but giggle a little. “You’re a dirty man, Barnes,” you purred, only to feel the grip of metal meet your throat. Your eyes went wide.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the gravelly rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt as your walls fluttered around nothing.

“Yes, Sergeant,” you said, pushing your throat up further into his hand and smirking.

Bucky groaned, swearing in the back of his mind that you were going to be the death of him. He squeezed at your throat one last time before posting the same vibranium palm right beside your head. “That’s right, doll,” he muttered, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your skull as you felt him begin to push inside you.

The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate - let alone the way you could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along your walls as he eased in inch by brutal inch. He paused about halfway, concerned by how your features were twisted. “Doin’ okay there, doll?” he asked, flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. The way his thumb ran along the high plane of your cheekbone was tender, loving.

You nodded, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes and wet eyelashes. “More than fucking okay,” you managed to choke out with a small laugh. It was hard to put into words just how good he felt buried so deep inside you that you swore he was pushing the very oxygen from your lungs.

Bucky let out a soft grunt once he was fully sheathed, already appearing wrecked. “Fuck, doll,” he breathed, nearly panting as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “So fuckin’ tight, ya know that? Squeezin’ me…Milkin’ me dry already and I haven’t even started…” He let out a small, breathless chuckle.

You let out a laugh just as breathless as his. “Sounds like you’re not gonna last very long, old man,” you jeered playfully.

His cheeks flushed bright red, but he didn’t reply. He only slowly began to pull out, groaning raggedly as he felt the way his cock dragged along your walls - the way your body was actively trying to pull him back and keep him in.

He pulled out nearly all the way and then pushed himself back in all at once. You moaned so loudly when he bottomed out that you were certain the neighbors three doors down heard you. And that wasn’t the last time they would, unfortunate enough as it was for them. Because he pulled out and then pushed back into you again, forcing the same exact whorish moan past your lips before you could catch it.

“You like what I do to ya, doll? Like when I give it all to ya? When I bury my cock so deep ya feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his flesh hand pressed down against a small bulge in your lower abdomen and you just about levitated off the goddamn bed.

The pace he set was steady and calculated. One that allowed for him to achieve the same depth of penetration each and every time - the same devastating attention to making sure he hit all the right spots. It wasn’t brutal because it was fast - no, it was brutal because he took his time and holy fuck it was a borderline religious experience.

It felt as though you had no idea where your body ended and his begun as he rucked your legs up over his shoulders and you found yourself with nails raking down his back as your ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of your head. The position was passionate, intimate. Sweat began to pool where your bodies were melded, chest to chest and forehead to shoulder. You couldn’t help the way you moaned his name, and he couldn’t help the way he panted yours like he was begging for mercy.

“Takin’ me s’well…Atta girl,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to your cunt. “Gonna fill ya up, doll…Claim ya…Make ya mine like I shoulda done a long time ago…”

You whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as you clung on for dear life. “B-Bucky~” you moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as your mind was actively being fucked stupid. “Please…” you begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.

“You sure, doll?”

“If you don’t fuck me into this goddamn mattress-“

He cut you off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. And another. You could feel the head of his cock bullying into that soft, spongy spot inside you and you cried out. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you exclaimed with each thrust, eyes lolling shut and your head hitting the pillow as the pleasure began conjuring stars across your vision.

Bucky groaned, something deep, guttural, and primal - something you hadn’t expected from someone who seemed so…Quiet. “It’s like you were made f’me, doll,” he whimpered, his rhythm beginning to falter. “Ya gonna cum f’me? Can feel ya grippin’ me…Know you’re close, sweetheart. Need ya to give it to me…”

He was begging for you in the same way someone would pray for forgiveness - reverent and wrecked and desperate. You could feel that coil in your lower abdomen tightening, pulling taut until your orgasm snapped through your body unyielding and violent.

“B-Bucky! A-Ah~!” you barely managed to squeak out as you felt your spine arch off the mattress and your body seize beyond your control. He groaned again as your cunt clenched down around him, and you could feel as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside you at the exact same time.

“Shit-“ he grunted out, stilling inside you and partially collapsing his weight on top of you as his chest heaved and gleamed with sweat.

Your head was fuzzy, warm. The afterglow rolled over your body like something soft and comforting - floaty like you were resting on a cloud of your own pleasure. “Mmm…Bucky?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Is that how a man should fuck me proper?”

He laughed, turning his head to pepper soft kisses on your cheek. “Yeah, doll. I’d say so.”

He slowly pulled out and then flopped onto the bed beside you. The loss of him inside you felt almost great enough to mourn, but his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close quickly filled that void. “And now I’ve ruined you for all the boys,” he teased, kissing your forehead before gathering you in close to his chest - he was like a furnace, and he held you like his greatest treasure.

You giggled. “S’okay,” you mumbled against his skin, lazily tangling your legs with his. “‘M yours now anyway.”

Bucky smiled to himself, squeezing you tight. “That’s right, doll. All mine.”

[lucky-petal]

In Meadows

Knight!Bucky x Princess!Reader

I kiss you with all the innocence I posses, you kiss me back with all your sin.

Petal’s love notes: I love a good medieval fantasy story 😋 this was quite tricky to write, but I hope you enjoy!

Summary: You both knew the roles you were destined to play. Duty is an all-too-familiar word that has been ingrained in you since the moment you were born. So why is your appointed knight making responsibility so difficult?

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / unrequited / forbidden love / smut! / oral (both receiving), unprotected p in v / no use of y/n

He is written in winter ink. He is the dark and shadowed corners of the night, the quiet warning before a storm.

You are written in sunbeams. The warmth after the cold winter night, a breeze that gently kisses the flowers to open and bloom.

He is your knight, you are his princess.

The meadows were always so beautiful this time of the year.

Being sealed within the cold stones of your castle has always the most difficult part of the blue bloodline you were born with.

Hence, why the meadow at its most flourished state has always been one of your greatest joys. The warmth of the sun, the colors around you, the vastness of the sky, they all make up for the time you are spent locked away.

"Princess, its time to go."

A gruff voice cuts behind you, snapping you out of rapture.

It is your knight, the shadow that has been trailing behind you for the past five years like a moving fortress, unyielding and shielding you from harms way.

"Bucky," you reply with a gentle whine, tone eloquent and soft. "You can't possible ask me to go back now, its the first day of blooming season."

Bucky sighs at your stubbornness, eyes closed and head hung downwards. There is a furrow in his brows as he readies himself to do this all-too-familiar dance with you once again.

"Princess," he says sternly, yet not enough to overstep. "Must I remind you again to address me properly? I am on duty."

You huff at that, eyes still focused on the colorful petals scattered by your side. "But you're always on duty."

He doesn't correct you because you're not wrong. Looking after the princess is an around the clock job that he has devoted his life to, but he does not answer to that.

"Come, now." Bucky says with firmer requisition. "Allow me to escort you home."

At the finality of his words, you decide to turn and look back at your knight.

He stands behind you only paces away, as usual, never any further nor any closer than that. Clad in silver armor which contrasts his dark hair and shadowed eyes which stare down deeply at you.

You shudder at the sight, not out of fear, but because of the familiar yet overwhelming sense of devotion your knight has for you. This man has been raised to be undeniably yours the moment he was born. His father was the devoted knight of your mother before he died in battle, hence his eagerness to follow in his footsteps.

The code of knights is one that you are no stranger to. Chivalry and duty to the crown, a recollection of their oath echoes in your memory. You've attended multiple knighting ceremonies to remember it by now.

Chivalry and duty to the crown. It was a promise to bleed for you, to die for you.

But sometimes, you like to indulge yourself with the thought of Bucky's devotion extending beyond his code.

"Alright, alright." You say grumpily, getting up at dusting of flower petals from the expensive silk of your dress. "I'm coming, Sir James."

You finally comply with his request to be addressed formally, but not without an eyeroll and a tiny tantrum.

A ghost of a smile etches itself on Bucky's face that you think that you imagined it.

But the softening of his eyes on you is hard to miss.

Five years of being shadowed by Bucky has allowed you to study and understand him despite his preference for silence. You know that he finds irritation in royals who speak in loud and obnoxious volumes. You know that he finds amusement in your bratty nature that only seems to come out when you are alone with him.

You know that he finds peace and solace when he has to accompany you to the meadows that you frequent, that he doesn't want to leave this area yet, just as much as you do.

"Can we come back tomorrow?" There is a wishful tone to your voice that you know Bucky can't resist.

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want." He says with promise. Bucky offers a hand out for you to take to guide you out of the flower patch, still maintaining his respectful distance from you.

"But for now we really need to go back. You're needed at the royal court." He reminds you.

"I hate those."

"I know."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

"We have the Kingdom of Hydra knocking at our borders everyday, Your Majesty." a seasoned advisor preaches, looking up at your father who sits in the center throne beside you, while gesturing animatedly in the middle of the hall.

"They're after our Vibranium, just like everyone else." The King waves a hand at this. "How are our defenses fairing?"

Beside him, you and your mother listen to the exchange of power between the men. 'Let your father handle the war efforts,' she had taught you all those years ago, 'as women, our responsibility is to hold peace.'

You shift uncomfortably at the heated exchange, unsure what your role is in this hall except to sit down and live up to the vision of perfection the kingdom upholds you to.

In attempt to find comfort in your unease, your eyes drift to the side to find Bucky's. His broad figure is against the wall, in your corner of the room.

As if he immediately feels your gaze land on him, he shifts his eyes to meet yours and gives you a subtle nod of reassurance. A silent, secret language that has developed throughout the years you've spent together.

'You can do it, just a few minutes till court ends.' it's as if he tries to say.

'I know, but I can't take it anymore.' you blink up at him, absorbing his comforting gaze.

'I want to go back to the meadow with you.' is what you want to tell him, but there's only so much you can communicate with just a quick gaze.

"-should be time for the Princess to step up to her responsibility." the last bit of words coming out of the senior advisor's mouth snaps both you and Bucky out of the silent exhange.

You turn your attention back to the main hall in front of you, and are met with the full attention of the court. Beside you, your mother and father wear worried expressions.

"What?" Your small voice cuts through the heavy tension in the air.

The advisor sighs, obviously irked at your unreliability to focus on the court session. But why would you when these men never seem to care about the words of a woman?

"I was saying, Princess." His tone carries a hint of animosity in it. "That we can no longer keep up with protecting the borders from Hydra. It will end in blood bath with the way they are rapidly expanding their Kingdom."

Your father clenches his fists at this before speaking. "They just want our resources, right? Why don't we open the trade routes for Vibranium-"

"The atrocious Kingdom of Hydra will not stop there, Your Majesty."

You continue to wear a confused expression on your face as your father slumps back into his throne. He has always been an excellent king, so seeing him look so defeated worries you.

"...Father?" You whisper out to him.

All he gives you is an apologetic look.

"The best course of action for this is to seal an alliance with them. As I was saying, this should be the perfect time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" The advisor continues.

What?

You tenses once you come into realization with wide eyes. Beside you, your parents' carry wistful expressions as they fall into acceptance at the advisor's suggestion.

On your opposite side, you hear armor clink as the body underneath it stiffens.

Anger floods your veins almost instantly at how okay everyone seems to be with this... outrageous solution.

"You can't be serious?" you stand up from your smaller throne. "I am not going to be a peace treaty for those... barbarians! Father, tell them!"

"With all due respect, Princess. Your duty is to secure alliances for the Kingdom." The advisor bites back at your sudden outburst.

"I know that!" You admit to the obligation you've grown to painfully accept years ago "But not to these... sadistic savages!"

"Their Grace, Duke Fisk, should make an available bachelor for the matrimony." He ignores your argument by continuing on with his proposal to the King.

"He- He's twice my age!" This is too much. You're spiraling as the situation continues to get worse and worse. "Father, please say something! Tell him you do not agree!"

Desperately, you come to your knees in front of him, begging to get you out of this.

The King stays silent for a moment and the whole court waits for his response. He was never a cruel father to you, but duty and obligation came first for your family. He was always the King first.

"We must keep our Kingdom safe. It is of upmost importance right now. Draft the proposal for union." Your father gets up from his throne to walk past you and exit the hall, signaling the dismissal of court.

You stay frozen in front of the empty spot of where he once was as the crowd disperses almost immediately to make the arrangements.

"Oh, honey." Your mother kneels down beside you. "It will get better as the days pass, you'll see. Think about how many lives you will be saving." She coos.

You ignore her, continuing to let out soft sobs as the emptiness and despair you feel inside eating up at you.

The sound of heavy armor walks toward your pathetic figure on the floor.

"I'll take her from here, Your Majesty."

"Yes, thank you Sir James. She listens to you more than me." She tells him knowingly. "Look after her, alright?"

The look your mother gives him is one of familiar fondness. He has the same eyes as the knight that once looked after her before he fell.

"I will." Bucky replies.

He waits for the hall to clear out completely before kneeling down to your level.

"Princess." His gruff voice tries to get your attention. He tries to hide the pity in his voice the best he can.

You ignore him, still wallowing in your own misery.

"There's still a bit of light out, Princess." The tone he uses with you tries to be gentler now, attempting to be what you need at the moment despite his naturally brooding manner. "I'll take you back to the meadow. We still have time."

"No," you manage sniffle a response, "I-I'd like to be escorted to my chambers, please."

He respects your wishes obediently, just like he's supposed to.

"Anything you want, Princess."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Bucky shuts your door gently, leaving you alone for now. Your soft cries muffled within the confines of your chambers.

He takes a step back from the barrier separating the both of you, and only then he finally lets his composure break.

He presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep, shaky exhale that has been stuck in his throat since the announcement was made at court.

"...Time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" the cruel words of the royal advisor rings in his ears like venom. They play on loop in his head.

He can feel his regularly collected mind begin to spiral on the sixth replay of those words, causing him to lean suddenly on the cold stone wall next to your door just to keep himself upright.

There is definitely shame in the current state he finds himself in.

Shattered, lost, devastatingly heartbroken.

But he had played his role so perfectly for years now. Been what you had needed him to be- your sword and shield, your protector, sworn to both death and devotion to you. Chivalry and duty to the crown.

A good knight. He's acted exactly the way his father had taught him.

Doesn't he deserve this one moment to wallow in his feelings?

"Fuck," Bucky mutters, hitting a fist at the cold stone wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He can feel himself slipping. The cold mask that he's worn around you slipping more and more with every break of his heart.

"Bucky, when you become a knight you have to be ready to fight. You have to be ready to die." He remembers the words of his father when he was just a squire training under him.

He was just a boy then, with great admiration for the royal guard. His father, after all, is the appointed knight of the queen. Sworn to her protection and devotion to be by her side at all times.

"You must put your hand over your wound and hold it there. Keep walking and fighting until you can guarantee the crown's safety. That will be your duty."

True to his word, his father had taken a sword to the heart by the enemy kingdom just after Bucky was knighted and appointed to you. He was protecting the queen till his very last breath.

His father's advice had pulled him through every difficult battles without fail, until now.

How is he supposed to put a hand over his wound, when the wound is deep inside his heart? How is he to keep fighting... When he knows you will be taken away from him in the end?

There was never a word of advice for this kind of battle.

But he's seen it before. Once, twice, maybe a few too many times.

The way he looks at his Princess when no one is watching is a similar look to the way he would catch his father's gaze lingering longingly at the queen.

"You never taught me this..." He whispers to the air, as if his words would reach the grave his father is buried in. He's mastered every art of the sword and chivalrous act that could be passed down to him. But to deal with the pain of seeing his Princess be married off? He was clueless.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Getting out of bed the next day required the use of tremendous mental strength that you just didn't have. It's two clock strikes after breakfast, yet you lay still within you cocoon much to your lady-in-waiting's disapproval.

"Leave me alone, Nora! I told you I'm sick!" You feel a sense of guilt for yelling at the elderly maid for just doing her job.

Her kind eyes stare down at your sulking form buried under blankets and pillows with a pitiful expression. She has always been a mother figure to you, hence her ability to easily see through your white lies just to stay in bed longer.

Nora exits your chambers with a tired huff, greeting Bucky who's stationed outside your door.

"You get her up, Sir James. She'll listen to you." She lets out exhaustedly. "I'm getting too old to go back and forth with her now. You'll help an old woman out, won't you?"

That's exactly how you and Bucky find yourselves in your current predicament: blanket wrapped around you and clutched tightly into your fists, while he tugs at the other end with just enough force to nudge you.

"Come on, Princess-" He grunts, "quit giving Nora a hard time."

"I'm having a hard time." You bite back at him "Leave me alone, Bucky!"

It's almost comical, how his huge frame and otherwise terrifying demeanor looks like within the confines of your dainty and pink room.

You hear the sound of his metal arm shift, likely him running a hand through his hair in frustration. Both at your refusal to listen to him and your use of his nickname which is otherwise considered unprofessional.

"Come on," another irritating tug nudges you forward. "You're being a brat."

At that comment, you peak up at your knight who looms over you with an irked expression. It's a sight that would probably make you feel intimidated if it weren't for the feeling of safety his presence brings you.

"Is that any way to speak to royalty, Sir James?" You challenge him from under your covers.

"No. But you wouldn't tell on me."

"Who says I wouldn't tell on you?"

"You've never told on me before, Princess."

The way Bucky points out your fondness for him makes you feel instant embarrassment, which you hide with a scowl and an eye roll, ducking yourself under the covers once again.

Suddenly, the tugging on your blanket stops. You hear Bucky let out a tired sigh.

"Hey," he says in a gentler tone this time, trying a different approach. "What about I take you to the meadow again today, Princess? It's a nice day out."

Apparently, this is all it takes for you to agree to get out of bed. A mention of the meadow that you love and some time alone with your knight.

Bucky delivers the news of victory to Nora, who reenters your chambers again with newfound delight.

"That knight of yours, really!" She exclaims amusedly while brushing your hair. "Quite scary, isn't he? I knew his father back then. He too had that same brooding expression that he carried around everywhere."

This earns a soft laugh from you.

"That's just how Bucky is, Nora." You tell her with a warm tone at the mention of his name. "He's actually very sweet once you get to know him. Funny too."

Nora stares at you with a look of skepticism through the mirror as your use of such affectionate adjectives for the otherwise frightening knight.

"I believe that's just your soft spot talking, Princess." She teases you knowingly.

"What?! Nora!" The maid laughs at your flustered expression as you begin rambling about how you see him as nothing more than a companion and a friend. But she knows better.

"He's just like his father, after all." She whispers to herself sadly, a comment that you do not completely understand just yet.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The shade of the tree covers the both of you as you sit amongst the brightly colored flowers. Pockets of sunbeam hit your skin through the little gaps of the foliage above.

A unfinished flower crown keeps your hands busy while Bucky lays against the bark of wood, maintaining his usual few paces of distance away from you.

"I could run away, you know?" You break the comfortable silence between the both of you with a ridiculous thought. "Run away and be rid of it all."

"Not happening, Princess." Bucky remains unfazed by your words with a nonchalant expression. He's much too used to your outrageous thoughts by now.

He's learned the hard way that it's better to entertain and go along with your crazy ideas than to ignore them, as doing so earns him a pouting Princess muttering about how he's 'no fun' and how she wants 'a change of knights'.

The last comment rubs him the wrong way.

At his rebuttal, you turn your attention away from your flower crown to look up at him with a frown. You're surprised to see him already lookin gat you from the corner of his eye, a relaxed expression on his face.

"I can! I'll climb out my window and everything." You argue back. It's obviously a joke, but there is a hint of honesty in your tone.

"You're clumsy. I'll hear you while you're trying to sneak out." Another instant shut down.

"But if I do manage to make it out of the palace-"

"I'll find you." He says almost instantly.

There was no winning this argument with him, making you groan and slouch back defeatedly. A faint huff of laughter is heard as Bucky finds amusement in your surrender.

It's silent again for a beat, before you decide to break it again. Shifting a little bit closer to him before you do.

"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.

Bucky's freezes at your suggestion. Eyes going wide as he looks up at you with longing.

"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly. "Even if it's just a small town... I'll learn how to cook for you, o-or you can teach me how to tend to the fields, or-"

You catch yourself spewing out nonsense, stopping yourself before you could embarrass yourself further.

Beside you, Bucky's heart is pounding in his ears. It's beating so much that he thinks if you were to put a hand over his chest, you'd feel it over the Vibranium armor.

This is just one of your outrageous thoughts that you expect him to entertain. He thinks to himself. You don't mean that.

He clears his throat before indulging in your request.

"Sure, Princess." He says with quiet promise and a soft, loving tone that he only has for you. "Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

"Duke Fisk has agreed to the proposal" Your father tells you over dinner, making you tense.

It's been a few days since he sent out the proposal for union between your two Kingdoms. The news has finally sunk in, but has not gotten any easier to accept.

Your mother eyes you with a solemn expression. Day by day, the light has been dimming from your eyes as you grow closer to accepting your fate.

"I'm sorry, honey. We wish things could be different." She coos, sympathizing with you. "But you know our duty would never allow us to marry for love. This union is a necessity."

'Yes! Yes, I know that!' You want to scream at them. You've known this since you were a child. It's a fate that you've made peace with a long time ago.

'But why do I have to get married off to a tyrant!? I have the right to be angry!' Your brain continues to fight them for you, while you stay silent.

"We are taking care of the all arrangements as we speak." The royal herald speaks from his place next to the King. "The Duke Fisk will not be available until the day of the wedding, but he does want to know in advanced how the transportation of Vibranium will-"

You stand up abruptly at that.

Even your husband to be can't bother himself with meeting you before the wedding? The Duke does not even care to ask about you, and instead wants to discuss the Vibranium supply that he is marrying into.

The sudden action causes silence as all eyes turn towards you.

"I'm not hungry." You say bitterly, storming out of the dining hall and aggressively shoving the double doors leading towards the hallways.

The calls of your parents are left ignored as you keep your head down so that they don't see the angry tears rushing down your cheeks. You just needed to get away from everything.

Your violent exit is met with Bucky who was stationed right outside the door. Of course he's there, he always is. the presence that usually fills you with a sense of security is replaced by irritation.

"Don't follow me!" You order him just as he's about to walk towards you in concern.

"What?- Princess, wait." You hear his armor as he takes long strides to easily catch up with your brisk pace.

He continues following next to you despite your attempts to walk away from him. "I can't do that, Princess. You know I have to be with-"

"Leave me alone, Bucky!" you spin around to face him just as you make a turn towards an empty hallway.

He doesn't halt his steps in time. Your sudden movement causes him to crash into you accidentally.

The usual distance he tries so hard to place between you gets shortened into a breath. He stands so close now, that your chest nearly touches the suit of his armor.

Neither of you make an effort to correct the distance.

"Princess-" He breathes out.

"-Find her! King's orders!" You hear one of the palace guards command to his men.

The distraction is enough to make you jump, causing you to walk backwards away from Bucky in shock.

You don't get too far. Not when his cold metallic hand wraps around your waist, keeping you against him. Before you can question it, he's walking you backwards into a nearby alcove.

It's a dark and tight space. You're pressed between him and the wall as his dark armor makes the perfect camouflage for the both of you, shielding you from the passing guards.

You hear their footsteps come and go as they search the castle for the Princess who just stormed off.

"You'll get in trouble if they find out." You tell Bucky with a soft whisper. He's pressed up so close against you, that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would graze the crown of your head.

"Then we won't let them find out." He reassures you with a gruff whisper of his own. "You won't tell on me. Right?"

You look up to see him smiling fondly down at you. The distance doing nothing to calm your aching heart.

"I want to get out of here, please Bucky."

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Bucky leads you through the night, passing through all the dark corners with such stealth and fluidity, that you don't realize where he ends up taking you.

You're met with a small wooden door. A very modest looking one that you easily could've missed due to how mundane it looks next to the much grandeur doors you're used to.

"It leads outside," Bucky tells you in a hushed tone, as his hand continues to gently guide you towards it by the small of your back. "They won't notice we're gone if we take this exit."

He pushes the door open for you and you're instantly met with cool fresh air. Your lungs take fuller breaths now, helping you calm down from the events of today.

"Further down, Princess. Let's keep going." The hand at the small of your back continues its gentle hold on you.

You try your best not to show him just how much this newfound touch is affecting you. The hammering of your heart is easy enough to hide, but the same cannot be said for the blush on your cheeks.

Straight ahead is one of the castle's cast iron gazebos. It's placed so distantly away from the castle grounds, just outside the perimeter, that you almost forget that it's there.

The domed roof is decorated with intricate patterns. Untouched flowers and foliage cover the architecture from floor to ceiling

"You calm down better when you're around nature." Bucky notes as he watches you observe the location with awe "they'd check the meadow, but not here. It's practically forgotten."

Turning your attention away from the flowers, you face him with a hint of surprise in your expression. "How did you find it? I didn't even know we had a gazebo like this here."

"I like to get away when the thinking gets too much."

You let the familiar silence comfortably envelop the both of you, finally finding it in you to relax and let the reality of the situation you're in consume you.

The thoughts of duty, marriage, and unspoken feelings for your knight make your heart feel heavy once again. Making your eyes well up in shimmers as you try to fight them from falling.

You refuse to cry over this any more. Tears feel pointless now.

Bucky easily reads your thoughts through your expression. He feels it all in that moment; anger, hurt, frustration, and that thread of tenderness that never seems to leave when he looks at you.

He looks away, turning his gaze heavenward with a clenched jaw as he tries to compartmentalize his own emotions.

"You're making it damn hard for me not to take you up on that offer." the rasp of his voice cracks through you.

"What?"

"Stealing you away, Princess. You have no idea how bad I want to get you out of this mess."

A melancholic chuckle makes its way out of your mouth at that. Your hands play with a loose thread of your silk dress.

"Don't joke around like that, Bucky. I just might get my hopes up." But when you look up at him with a crinkle in the corner of your eyes, you see that he's not wearing the same joking expression.

He looks at you with his forehead creased, eyes filled with longing and flickers of desperation before he just breaks.

"I can't pretend anymore."

Before you can question what he means, he takes a few strides closer to you. The distance between you closes once again just as it did earlier in the hallway.

"Bucky-"

"You need to know that I care for you, Princess. Deeply. It's not just about my code- it's never been about that."

His voice breaks halfway as he confesses what he's been too afraid to speak out loud all these years.

"We- We can't, Bucky. What are you doing?" You bring up a hand to his chest in attempt to push him away, but he takes it as an opportunity to grab your wrist and keep you in place.

"Please. Please just listen to me." He says with more determination now.

Your silence is all he needs to keep going. He takes a deep breath before he does.

"You're everything, Princess. Everything." A hand reaches up to caress your cheek, while the other pulls you closer by the waist. "and I ache for you. It hurts, but I can't stand to be anything else but in love with you."

Bucky's confession is every impossible dream you've ever had. But as he lays his heart out to you, you can't help but feel your own break.

"I love you too, Bucky." you tell him with your own loving eyes reflecting back at him, pained with the need to turn him down. It's the right thing to do. "...But we-"

"Don't finish that sentence." He cuts off your rejection quickly.

Your breath hitches as he rests his forehead on yours, leaning you back until you're almost seated at the built-in bench of the gazebo's infrastructure. The flowers frame you for him, and he stares at the picture it paints for him in admiration.

"Just for tonight." He says softly, tightening his grip on you and leaning down to press a chaste kiss on your cheek.

Warmth floods the area his lips meet. His lips trail lower to your jaw until his mouth closes around the pulse in your neck.

"We shouldn't, Bucky." but the words come out breathless as your head begins to spin from the pleasure. Actions don't match your resistance as you grant him more access to the column of your throat.

"Just for tonight," he repeats against your skin. "Let me pretend you're mine, Princess."

Your heart throbs at the word 'mine'. It's all you've ever wanted- but why does every kiss of his feel like he's letting you go?

Bucky's lips meet the corner of your mouth this time, getting so close to an actual kiss which makes you let out a gasp.

"I'll pretend you're mine as well." You answer back at him in a hushed whisper, expecting him to kiss you now at your compliance to his make-believe.

Instead, Bucky shakes his head in amusement at you.

"Princess, you don't need to pretend." His lips are inches away from you now. "I've always been yours."

The way Bucky kisses is not gentle. It's desperate and dangerous, a contrast to the way he takes care of you. There's absolutely nothing holding him back anymore from this moment that he has with you.

After all, you agreed to be his- even if it's just for tonight.

"You sure?" Bucky pulls away for a moment to ask you with a softness in his voice, as if he wasn't just kissing you like it was a lifeline.

"Yes. I'm sure." You tell him earnestly.

He wastes no time grabbing you by the nape of your neck to bring your lips back to his rougher this time.

Bucky is everywhere all at once.

HIs hands slip down to your ass, palming and groping, making you moan into his mouth. You're practically melting as all you can do is hold onto him and take it while he moves his lips down to your neck once again.

"Mine." He states with certainty. "You're mine. You love me."

"Yes, I'm yours. I love you." your hands glide up his hair as you're pushed further into the pillar of the gazebo, leaning all of your weight against it as he kisses lower and lower.

Your words make him moan into your skin, causing a shiver to course through you.

He's suddenly on his knees in front of you, tugging at his armor to let it fall down with a hard clank. You'd be worried about the noise it created, if it weren't for his hand suddenly trailing from your ankle to your knee, and back down again.

"I'm going to kiss you here, Princess. Are you okay with that?"

The small, shy nod of your head is enough for him to pull your dress up and to the side, making him groan at the bare sight of your slick before him.

Bucky's tongue runs up between your folds, circling your clit slowly. A loud, desperate moan comes out of you almost immediately at the contact.

You make contact with him as he stares up at you with affection from in between your thighs.

"You're doing so good, love... That's it." he praises you with a growl.

His fingers squeeze at your ass as he sucks your clit into his mouth. You feel how he envelops you with the warmth of his tongue pressing flat against it to flick up harshly, before sucking it once again.

The pattern continues until you're a wreck against him, whimpering and writhing. Bucky's metal arm holds you in place while the flesh of his other hand moves from your ass to push two fingers inside you.

It's amazing how he finds the spot you want him the most in almost instantly.

Bucky's pace increases as his fingers pump in and out of you, fucking you in perfect rhythm and coordination with his tongue. The feeling keeps building and building as you cry out, desperately tryin got chase more.

"O-oh, fuck. Bucky I'm-" you whimper, wound up so tightly that it feels hard to breathe. "I think I'm going to -"

The words never leave you as every part of you spasms. Your whole body is tingling and throbbing while Bucky continues to suck your clit deliciously, while his fingers continue to fuck into you.

You come with a scream of his name, a declaration of love, and a series of curses unfit for a princess.

Bucky cleans you diligently with his tongue patiently, coming up from his knees once he's sure he's collected every drop you gave him.

It takes you a few moments to recollect yourself from finishing on his tongue. Bucky is patient as he strokes your hair, waiting for me to calm down.

"Did so good for me, love." He whispers softly, "so beautiful, so fucking mine."

Once the aftershocks have passed, you decide to reach a hand down to palm him over his pants.

"Can I?" you ask Bucky shyly, worried about your lack of experience yet motivated by how much you want to return the favor.

He chuckles at your eagerness "No, we don't have to-"

"Please? I want to."

Before he can protest, you're already on your knees in front of him, eyeing the outline of his hardness through his pants. You can tell it's big, and the idea of his size makes you nevous.

"Y-you need to teach me, Bucky." you tell him timidly.

"Okay, Princess." he says with a gentle tone.

He takes himself out, tightening his fist around the base a few times and giving it a few pumps. He bends down to give you a kiss on your forehead "Tell me whenever you want to stop, alright?"

One hand positions itself at the back of your neck, while the other guides his dick to your mouth. "Stick your tongue out, baby."

You do as your told, and give the head of his dick some experimental licks before taking the tip into your mouth.

"Shiiiit" he moans. "Such a good girl, baby."

You continue to suck him off gently at first, while his hands find your hair as he continues to moan loudly. His reactions make you more confident in yourself as you take more of him in your mouth now, until he hits the back of your throat.

"Fuck yes, just like that." He groans.

You look up at him through your lashes as he makes experimental thrusts into your mouth. As you don't seem to object to this, he starts rutting into you now in rhythm. letting out satisfied grunts.

"Yes, god yes." He continues to chant, thrusting a few more times before pulling you up to your feet.

"I won't last if you keep that up." He pants. "I want to be inside you when I cum, Princess."

With one last check-in with you if you're sure, you feel him line himself up to your entrance.

"Gonna fuck this pussy like it's mine." he says as he puts the tip in, stretching you out as you feel the sudden weight of him inside you.

"F-fuck! Bucky!" You yelp at the foreign feeling.

"And you're gonna take it like a good girl. Won't you, Princess?" He asks before thrusting himself inside completely.

Bucky has left you both a panting mess within the confines of the gazebo, where anyone passing by the gardens will have an obvious view of what you're doing- but at that moment, lost in pleasure, neither of you seem to care.

You're soaking wet around him and squeezing him so tight, that it's hard for him to think about anything else but you.

Pulling back, Bucky thrusts forward with gentle rocks of his hips to help you get used to his size. Only then putting more force into his thrusts once he sees you moaning in pleasure.

"You feel so good, Princess. Such a perfect pussy." He pants in your ear as he fucks you deeper. "You like that, baby? You like getting fucked like this?"

"Oh my- it's so big, 'm full, Buck." you whisper as his cock brushes your sensitive spot over and over again "Right there!"

"Yeah, I'll fuck you right there baby. Don't you worry." Bucky moves a cold metal hand to your bundle of nerves, urging you to milk his cock tighter by pushing you to your orgasm.

"A-Ah! Bucky- wait, too much!-" But it's too late. You come on his cock in hot spurts, tightening around him so deliciously that he can't help but get pushed to the edge with you.

You collapse into each other, breathing heavily for a moment.

"I love you, Princes." he whispers as he cradles you in his arms.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

For the next few days, you and Bucky are feral.

Years of sexual tension boiling down into moments.

He eats your cunt vigorously in your chambers, sneaking inside early in the morning before your ladies-in-waiting come to fetch you. You suck him off behind the tree in that meadow you both love, knees cushioned by the soft petals of flowers.

And of course, you both sneak away to the gazebo at night, so he can fuck you pressed up against the pillar just like before, or bent over one of the railings so that he can stretch his dick deeper inside you.

It's weeks of this. Neither of you want to rest, completely enamored by love and attraction for one another.

In every single way possible, you are aware of how Bucky is corrupting your innocence- your purity.

But you love it. If you were to give yourself to a man, you're glad its him. You're glad that he gets to touch you before the person you've been sold away to can lay his eyes on you.

It's a clear day when you meet your parents in the morning.

You've become less belligerent towards them about the situation, likely due to the way Bucky gets to make you forget about everything for a few moments when he gets you alone.

Before meeting them today, Bucky had snuck in your chambers again and that morning and ate your cunt so fucking good. He made you cum on his tongue twice then fucked you from behind with his dick before escorting you to the hall.

So it comes as quite a shock to you when your parents give you the updates on your marriage.

"We've scheduled the wedding. He's agreed to formalize the union by the end of this week." Your father tells you casually, finally coming into acceptance that him having to marry his daughter to a man such as Duke Fisk is for the betterment of the Kingdom and its people.

"T-this week?" You repeat in shock.

Your mother tries to be the voice of reason in this situation. "I know it's soon, but Duke Fisk needs the trade routes for the Vibranium secured, honey." she sighs.

Her worried eyes glance at your tensed up shoulders and clenched fist.

"I-I... I understand." is what you reply to her.

Your compliance shocks you, as a few weeks ago you would have fought and yelled despite knowing that there was nothing you could do to get out of it.

The facts outweighed every once of yearning you have in your heart. You were always going to be a princess first. Trapped into the responsibility forced upon you since birth.

When you get yourself alone with Bucky that night, you throw yourself onto him in desperate endeavor.

"What's gotten into you?" He had asked.

You form no explanation, but the worried look in your eyes is enough to make him understand.

"Make me forget. Please, Bucky."

He glances down at you sadly before pressing a kiss into the crease of your brows.

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The day of your wedding comes in a blink, that you barely have time to mourn the life you're leaving behind.

Nora dresses you up in the white wedding dress that feels suffocating to be in. She tries to keep a chipper expression as she combs through your hair one last time, but the sadness is evident.

"It may not be so bad, dear. After all, It worked out for your mother." She tells you fondly.

But you don't listen. You don't care that its worked out for anyone else before, you only want Bucky.

You stay silent. Nora does not push.

When you're ready, Bucky is stationed outside your chambers as always, ready to escort you to your wedding ceremony.

It's a bitter ending for the both of you. He's there to guide you all the way up till the point where he has to give you away to a man that you have never even met, nor seen before.

He stares at you with a serious expression, trying not to break in front of you. You, on the other hand, are not fairing as well as he is.

Tears form almost instantly at the sight of him.

"I'll give you both some space." Nora says softly before exiting the hall of your chambers.

You're alone now, but the tension is thick. The extravagant bouquet in your hands aren't nearly as beautiful as the dainty little flowers in the meadow.

"I can still steal you away, Princess." Bucky says in a soft tone, just in case anyone else could hear. He's more serious than he's ever been when he brings it up. "Just say the word. There's an exit we can take. They won't find us if we leave now."

His words are quick and desperate, making your tears fall down harder at this. Bucky's hand catches them from falling, making you lean into his touch.

"Oh, Bucky." You say exhaustedly. It makes his heart break. "You know we can't"

He pulls his hand away, and steps back from you. Maintaining the familiar distance- just a few paces away from you.

"I know." He agrees with you solemnly. “But I’d let Kingdoms go to war if it meant keeping you, love.”

A sad smile forms on your face as you tell him. “You knew this was waiting for us at the end.”

The both of you make your painful walk towards the doors of the ceremony, where you're greeted by a grand ballroom filled with people. Your parents are waiting by the door to receive you.

"You look beautiful." Your mother compliments sadly. Next to her, your father looks tense, a cold expression on his face as he tries to act strong for the three of you.

"Remember," he says, "its for the Kingdom. You're doing your duty."

Duty.

The word echoes in your head like an insult.

Duty.

You feel your mother and father beside you, guiding you towards the end of the isle where your betrothed waits. You lock eyes with him for the first time.

Bucky stays in his place behind you. That's where he will always be, watching you create a new life with this stranger all for the sake of

Duty.

You freeze in the middle of the aisle, before slowly turning back. Your father looks at you with confusion, while your mother’s eyes widen with knowing realization.

Bucky watches you with wide eyes at your action. All these years of familiarizing himself with your unpredictability, but he does not expect what you do next.

You take a slow step back towards him. Towards your knight.

All eyes are on you, but you only look ahead.

"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.

The conversation in that meadow replays in your head.

“Bucky!” You call out to him desperately, a cry for you knight’s rescue.

"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly.

At your call, Bucky moves almost instinctively to fetch you in the middle of the aisle. His eyes never leave yours as he runs toward you before clasping your hand in his.

Around you, people are stunned to silence. Your father attempts to make the first move to react, but is stopped by your mother’s hand on his.

“Take care of her.” Your mother whispers to him, voice filled with emotion at the both of you.

She sees herself and her knight in you and Bucky, making her agreeable to letting you go.

Bucky offers her a curt nod, before quickly pulling you out the ballroom in haste before the order to go after you is issued.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It’s been a few years since the Princess disappeared. A forgotten story that people no longer pay attention to, as even bigger news circulated the Kingdoms.

Hydra has fallen. The small neighboring Kingdoms have banded together in war efforts that stopped them from their brutal expansion. A much more effective solution than what a marriage union could have done.

“Come one Princess, it’s time to go.” A gruff voice calls from behind you.

You smile at the sound of it, turning around to meet Bucky’s affectionate gaze.

“I told you not to call me that anymore.” You correct him lovingly.

“Habit, I guess. Can’t blame me.” He walks over to you to help you out of your spot on the soft dewy grass of the meadow.

Being 7 months pregnant has made movement all the more difficult from you. You’re gracious for Bucky’s assistance.

“Honestly,” he sighs, “if I knew you were going to spend all this time at the meadow, I would’ve built our house right here.”

You giggle at his absurdity. The house is just a few minutes away, isolated and quiet. Hidden away in a small hamlet just at the edge of the Kingdom that used to be yours.

“Oh, hush you. That’s no way to speak to your wife.” You slap his shoulder playfully. “Escort me back home, will you?”

Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you finally manage to stand all the way up.

“Anything you want, Princess.”