Announcement: 10-1/ sorry I lost my glasses and I can't see shit. I finally got the energy to start writing and I can't see crap. This is why the letters on the masterlist are this big
Please don't steal my shit.
Edit: follow my other Tumblr of a dead mall below
🌞🌅
Knight in Templar Armor (Series) Modern!Haytham Kenway x Reader. Assassin's Creed
The Characters
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
Miscellaneous.
The Beginning of the End - Haytham Kenway x Reader
The Madonna of the Carnation.
Haytham's Journal Entry
Currently only Assassin's Creed but, I'll probably put more fics up. I still have an unfinished Loki series fic as well as OC x OC stories. Ones a noir the other is a romance-mafia POC xPOC story.
Summary: After a drunk night on the town turns you into the only unfortunate witness to a horrific crime, you quickly find yourself in a bit over your head. The bad guy doesn't like loose ends, and the good guys wanna do their job. There's always collateral in some form... isn't there?
Warnings: angst, injuries (kinda descriptive, blood), language, violence, death
Word Count: 2k
A/n: sorry this is so fricken late AHH but i hope you enjoy!
~*~
You pace slowly up and down the sidewalk, taking deep breaths as you go over what Lieutenant Riley told you before you left the safety of the house.
‘We’ve got one shot at this,’ he’d said. ‘And this isn’t without risk. These men are dangerous.’
His voice was serious and colder than the wind.
‘Soap and Gaz will be following close behind to make sure they don’t break away from the route and I’ll be watching nearby the whole time.’
You had nodded, but you felt anything but ready.
‘What do I do?’
‘Walk. That’s all you need to do. Everything else will happen naturally.’
He hadn’t given you any more information than that.
So, you continue doing to only thing you can do to help.
You walk.
You’ve been walking for at least an hour.
At least it feels like it.
In reality, you have no idea how much time has passed. It’s dark, the moon hidden beneath thick clouds, and the wind has a brutal bite to it.
You’ve tried finding the Lieutenant in any of the dark cars or windows on the street, but it’s almost as if he’s not there.
For a brief but terrifying moment, you wonder if this has all been an elaborate set-up. If Simon has no intention of saving you, protecting you.
The thoughts are cut off by a set of headlights lighting you up from behind as a car turns onto the quiet street.
Your heart is in your throat, pounding in your ears as the car approaches, then slows behind you.
It’s hardly rolled to a stop before the doors are opening.
You turn around, fear licking up your spine as two men stalk toward you in the dark.
You back away, looking around frantically for any trace of Simon or Kyle or Johnny.
“Don’t run.” A man’s voice says from behind you.
You scan the area desperately, searching for someone to come rescue you.
This couldn’t have been the plan.
Could it?
Tears well up in your eyes as your fears are confirmed.
There’s no one to help
“Help!” You scream, sprinting down the street as the men chase after you.
“Someone! Please-” and then you’re shoved into the snow, face smushed in the freezing flakes.
“Keep quiet or I’ll put a bullet in you right here,” a man hisses. The cool barrel of a gun is suddenly pressed to the back of your head, punctuating his words.
You close your mouth and hold back a sob as you’re lifted to your feet and shoved in the direction of the car.
Your face stings as the cool air nips the frostbitten skin of your chin, and your vision swims with snow and tears.
You glance around helplessly as you get closer and closer to the car, desperate to find anyone who can help.
The people who are supposed to help.
No one.
Nothing.
“Keep moving!” A rough hand shoves your shoulder and you fall forward, only to be caught and yanked right back up. It’s almost dizzying. Or maybe that’s the fear.
“Open the trunk.”
Trunk?
Your blood runs cold.
Simon never prepared you for this. Is this part of the plan?
Not if you have any say in it.
“No!” You squirm and yank free of the grip on you, only to be grabbed by someone else.
A fiery pain flares in your abdomen as the man yanks you forward.
“Try that again. I dare you.”
You shake your head, struggling against him as he forces you toward the trunk.
And then there’s the crack of a gunshot.
You’re on the ground.
There’s a body on top of you.
Footsteps fading.
Tires screeching away.
Footsteps approaching.
It’s too familiar.
And then another car is racing away, the weight on top of you is gone, and you’re being pulled into a seated position.
Someone’s hands are holding your head, checking your face, making sure you’re alive.
Once he’s confirmed you weren’t caught in the crossfire, Price yanks you to your feet and marches you toward your safe house with a firm hand on your bicep.
His grip is bruising, but you’re far too terrified of his wrath to complain.
“Get upstairs. Grab your emergency bag. You’ve got two minutes. Go!” He barks at you like you’re one of his soldiers, and it shakes you to your core.
Gone is the man from only a few days ago.
The one who stared at your lips and gently wiped snowflakes from your cheeks.
Your chest aches.
“You!” He snarls, turning his glare on Simon and marching toward the soldier.
“What you did was dangerous, reckless, and in disobedience of my direct orders.” He sounds angry enough to kill.
Terrified to be caught dawdling, you hurry inside and rush up the stairs, bending behind the door to grab the bag only to hiss at the sudden pain in your side.
You press a trembling hand to the spot, wincing when it throbs again.
The fabric around the spot feels warm and sticky, and your head starts to spin as you realize why.
Slowly, with shaking fingers, you lift up your sweater to reveal the shallow stab wound marring the flesh of your abdomen.
Blood isn’t pumping or gushing from it, thank God, but it is bleeding in a steady little stream.
You let out a soft gasp, face screwing up in horror as you stare at the wound. Your imagination sprints toward every worst-case scenario you can conjure as you watch the blood leave your body.
“What’s taking so long!” Price shouts from the side door downstairs.
Your vision starts to swim, blurring the red tainting your skin.
“Coming!”
You turn to the bathroom and grab a face cloth, pressing it tightly to your stomach and slapping some medical tape on it to keep it in place.
It hurts, but you can’t focus on that right now. Not when you can hear him walking through the house.
You grab the bag, ignoring the pain, and hurry down the stairs, almost running right into the Captain.
He looks ready to reprimand you, and you duck your head in preparation.
“Come on, hurry up.” He grabs you by the bicep again and practically drags you outside and into a car that was NOT there when you went upstairs.
He yanks open the passenger door, and you jump in before he has a chance to push you inside.
You drop the bag to the ground as he slams the door shut, taking a moment to wince as the pain in your side flares now that you’re not moving.
It stings like a bitch, and you want to take time to clean it properly, but you doubt you’ll be granted that luxury.
Your moment is over far too quickly when the Captain hops in the driver’s seat and slams the door closed.
The car beeps as he starts driving without his seatbelt on, and the sound helps the silence from being too heavy.
He doesn’t turn the headlights on.
He drives in ghost mode until he hits the highway.
Only then does he flick on the headlights, click his seatbelt on, and silence the beeping.
You don’t say anything.
And neither does he.
For the first little while, you focus on your breathing. On bringing down your adrenaline and calming your racing heart.
When that finally starts to happen, though, you become acutely aware of the burning pain in your side.
The spot you were stabbed.
It’s a fiery pain like nothing you’ve ever really experienced before.
Tears well up in your eyes as you think about it, and you turn your head to the window to hide them from the man beside you as they roll down your cheeks.
As you stare out the window, you catch a glimpse of your reflection when the highway lights hit the glass the right way.
A dark smear of blood is smudged across your cheek.
Glancing down in shock, you stare at your hands, waiting for the light to hit the car again.
When you do get a second and a half of light, you find the source of the mark on your face.
Your hands are covered in your own blood.
At least, you think it’s all yours.
You ball your hands into fists and glance at the Captain out of the corner of your eye, watching to see if he’s noticed yet.
His eyes are focused on the road ahead. Whether that’s out of necessity or because he can’t bring himself to look at you, you’re not sure.
When you’re sure it’ll be inconspicuous, you slowly shift your hands and press your palms to the seat beneath you, sliding them beneath your thighs and successfully keeping them hidden.
Price doesn’t mention it.
You sit in silence for about five hours before he pulls up to a gas station to refuel.
When he gets out of the car, you flip the little mirror down and examine the side of your face as much as you can in the dark.
With a glance out the window to make sure he’s still occupied, you quickly spit on the sleeve of your jacket and scrub at the mark on your cheek until it disappears.
Not exactly the skin care routine you’re used to, but desperate times and all that.
Price gets back in the car a few moments later without a word and starts driving down the highway again.
~*~
By the time the car stops somewhere besides a gas station, you’ve long since lost feeling in your legs.
“Wait here.” The first words spoken in over seventeen hours, and you almost mistook them for the man clearing his throat.
He gets out of the car and pulls out his gun, creeping carefully up to the old cottage.
He disappears inside for a few minutes, only to return with a lantern and nod you inside.
You slowly and carefully exit the car, one hand pressed to the wet cloth on your side as the pain gets worse.
It borders on excruciating as you make your way inside the shack and into the only bathroom in the tiny place.
Finally, with the door shut tightly, you undress to the best of your abilities and unwrap the wound on your side.
The cloth is soaked dark, and the wound itself is red and raw and starting to bleed again in a few places.
Tears stream down your cheeks as you rinse the cloth and rinse the cloth and rinse it a little bit more. You rinse it until the water runs mostly clear, and then you wring it out until your hands cramp and your arms shake before carefully pressing it to your side again.
The cold water soothes some of the pain, if only for a moment. But a moment is all you need.
You wrap it the same way you did before and carefully redress, cleaning your bloody hands thoroughly before leaving the bathroom.
You try your hardest not to limp as you go looking for Price.
Thankfully, there isn’t much ground to cover, and you find him quickly.
He’s hunched over the only table in the little place, maps and papers strewn about.
The light of the lantern flickers across his face and, for a moment, through the dim light, you can see just how many years John Price has lived.
He doesn’t look up when you walk into the room.
In fact, he ignores you completely, even as you take a few slow steps toward the table.
You stand there like an idiot for a minute or two before finally coming to your senses and turning on your heel to find a place to hide in this tiny cottage.
Once you find one, you think you may stay there for the rest of your life if you need to.
I made a height chart because it’s one of my favourite pastimes. It was originally just the OG slashers and then it just extended to the DbD licensed killers… +Jason lol. Maybe if I draw him with the bunch, I’ll invoke him. The heights are a mix of canonical/personal takes. It’s funny to think that FNaF will be part of this lineup next year.
I’m gonna do the original DbD killers when I get the time. For now, this’ll do.
Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you.
Pairings: Yandere JJK men x Reader
Ft. Gojo, Sukuna, Toji, Nanami
TW : MDNI, some 18+ jokes, fanfic
part 1 - Part 2 - part 3
In Which You Learn That Rich Men Are Like Glitter (Impossible To Get Rid Of Once They’re On You)
“You’re fucked.”
Shoko’s voice… through your phone speaker had that particular tone of someone delivering bad news while also finding it hilarious, like a doctor telling you that you have a weird rash but also it’s shaped like a dinosaur.
“I’m aware,” you said, lying on your floor…. your cat was sitting on your chest. “That’s why I’m calling you at…” you checked your phone “…. fuck, is it really 3 AM?”
“What the fuck is wrong with these men?" You stared at your ceiling, which had a water stain that looked like either Jesus or a mushroom. You’d been meaning to get that fixed since you moved in. That was two years ago.
Silence.
Then Shoko started cackling like she’d just witnessed someone slip on a banana peel in real life. “Maybe they’re into weird girls?”
“It’s not FUNNY… ”
“It’s SO funny,” she wheezed.
You groaned. Your cat adjusted herself, digging her claws into your chest.
“Okay but here’s the thing,” Shoko said, and you could hear her typing, which meant she was already stalking, which meant this was about to get worse. “I did some digging”
“And?…”
“And babe.” More typing. “These guys don’t DO second dates.”
“What do you mean”
“I mean… Sukuna’s last 3 arrangements all withdrew. One of em moved to Sweden” More clicking “Gojo fucks his first dates and then ghosts them. Dick and dip”
“SHOKO!!”
“Oh and Toji’s dates end up becoming his sugar mommies.”
You sat up, dislodging your cat, who gave you a look of pure betrayal before walking off to knock something off your counter.
“So what you’re saying is…..”
“What I’m saying is you somehow did the impossible.” She sounds gleeful. “How does that feel?”
“Like I need to fake my own death and join the Swedish meatball girl”
You spend the next hour on the phone, going through theories. Maybe you weren’t weird enough. Maybe you were too weird. Maybe they’re all in a cult and you’re the sacrifice. Maybe this is an elaborate prank show and Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out of your closet.
“Or,” Shoko offers, “maybe you’re just hot and they’re willing to overlook the crazy.”
“I spilled water on Toji’s DICK.”
“Some guys are into that….”
You hung up and stared at your phone. At the four messages still sitting there. Haunting you.
Outside your window, a pigeon was trying to fuck another pigeon on your fire escape, which felt oddly appropriate for this situation.
You can do this.
You are GOING to do this.
(You can not, in fact, do this, and what happens next will haunt you for the rest of your natural life.)
Sukuna Ryomen - After the first date
Sukuna sat in his office, looking out at Tokyo’s skyline, and tried to remember the last time someone had annoyed him this much without ending up in a hospital.
The audacity. The fucking AUDACITY of sitting across from him and dropping designer labels like they were supposed to impress him.
A shameless gold digger. The kind of woman he'd normally have escorted out before the appetizers arrived.
Except.
Except something was off.
He couldn't place it at first. He'd seen gold diggers before. Hell, he'd dated a few. They had a certain ease to them, a comfort in luxury that came from either experience or genuine desire.
You had neither. You looked like someone playing dress up.
"Get me everything on her," he tells Uraume the next morning.
The report landed on his desk five days later. Sukuna opens it expecting a lifestyle propped up by daddy's money.
What he finds instead makes him laugh out loud.
Forty seven pages of utterly ordinary information. No luxury purchases. No country club memberships or spa packages or any of the shit gold diggers usually had.
Groceries from 7 Eleven.
Bank account balance: Depressing
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, staring at your photo attached to the report. You were smiling in it…. holding a cup of what was definitely not champagne while standing in what appeared to be your kitchen.
You looked... soft.
He picks up his phone… a small smile on his face.
Name your terms. I'm interested.
Send (why tf did he phrase it like a challenge?)
Date 2 Sukuna Ryomen
Location : Shopping district
Threat level : High (probable yakuza connections, definitely judging you)
Sukuna picks you up in a black car. The driver opens the door for you without making eye contact, which feels ominous. Sukuna is already inside, taking up most of the backseat.
“Hi!!” you beam at him "I'm so excited for today. I've been thinking about it all week.”
“Have you” He looks amused. That's... new.
Your soul leaves your body for a second, then reluctantly returns when you realize he’s still watching.
“Of course.” you laugh “I love shopping”
Twenty minutes later, you're standing in a store that doesn't have prices on anything. Which means you don’t know what to buy because you have no idea what anything costs.
A sales associate instantly recognises Sukuna "Mr Ryomen. A pleasure. How can we assist you today?"
"The lady wants to shop." His eyes slide to you. "Give her whatever she wants."
This is a trap. This is DEFINITELY a trap.
You approach the nearest display… a rack of coats and pull one off with zero delicacy.
"Ooh, this is cute!!!!" You hold it up, checking the label. Your eyes don't recognise the brand name at all. It's something German, maybe? Or Italian? Fuck. "Is this..." You squint. "Valentino?"
The sales associate's eye twitches. "That's Brunello Cucinelli, ma'am."
"Right, right. Bruno something." You wave your hand dismissively. "Same thing."
Behind you, Sukuna makes a sound. It might be a cough. It might be a suppressed laugh.
"This one….”
"That's a child's backpack."
You stare at the tiny pink monstrosity in your hands. It does, in fact, have a cartoon character on it.
"I knew that," you say weakly. ( Error 404 : Brain not found )
The corner of his mouth twitches. Is that a smile? Is he making fun of you? You can't tell and it's driving you insane.
"Perhaps," he says, stepping closer, "I should help you."
What follows is the most humiliating hour of your life.
Sukuna guides you through the store like a disappointed tour guide at a museum for idiots. He corrects your pronunciation of Louis Vuitton…. twice.
"You don't shop here often," he observes, handing you a dress"Try this."
"I… what?"
"Try it on." He gestures toward the fitting rooms. "I want to see how it looks."
You stumble toward the changing room… (THERE’S A CHANDELIER IN THE CHANGING ROOM) … clutching the dress. The fabric is soft… softer than anything you've ever owned… and when you put it on, you barely recognize yourself in the mirror.
You look... expensive. Like someone who actually belongs in a place like this.
"Well?" Sukuna's voice comes from outside the curtain. "Are you hiding?"
"No." Yes. "I'm just... adjusting."
"Come out."
You step out, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of skin showing.
His eyes move slowly… face, shoulders, waist, back up. The way he looks at you makes every inch of skin feel suddenly, stupidly alive.
"Better," he says finally. "We'll take it."
"We'll… what? No, it's too much, I couldn't…. "
"I thought you wanted expensive things." He raises an eyebrow
Shit. Shit
"I do" you say, too bright. "This is great. Let's buy all of it.”
You gesture wildly at the nearest rack. Sukuna follows your hand to a display of men's accessories.
"You want me to buy you cufflinks?"
Your stomach drops into your fucking shoes “I… no. Those. Over there. The... things."
"The hats?"
"Yes!!! Hats. I love hats!"
You don't wear hats. You've never worn hats. The last time you tried to wear a hat, Shoko laughed so hard she choked on her drink.
But Sukuna is still watching you with that expression… amused, knowing, waiting (smug asshole)… and you can't back down now.
"Pick one," he says. "Whichever you want."
He pays for it, along with the dress you didn't ask for, and several other items you don't remember selecting.
After your date, you know three things.
One: couture is terrifying.
Two: rich people are stupid.
Three: Sukuna knows
Nanami Kento - After the first date
Nanami Kento was having a problem.
The problem was not work related, though his colleagues would probably disagree given that he’d missed two meetings and had to redo a contract because he’d been too distracted to catch a critical error.
The problem was not health related, though his doctor would probably be concerned about his blood pressure given how many cold showers he’d taken this week.
The problem was that he could not stop thinking about you. About your mouth on that wine glass. About the sound you had made and how he had to grip his fork so hard he’d nearly bent it.
About what you would look like on your knees….
He was in the middle of a client call when his mind wandered to what you would sound like if he…
“Nanami san? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Apologies. Please continue.”
This was unacceptable. He’d built his entire career on discipline and self control. He didn’t get distracted. He didn’t let his personal life interfere with his work. And he certainly didn’t spend five days straight having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about a woman he’d met once.
But here he was. Day five. Still thinking about you.
He tried to rationalize it. Tried to tell himself this was just physical attraction. That he needed to see you again to confirm there was no actual compatibility. That a second date would cure him of whatever this was.
(This was a lie. He knew it was a lie.)
On day seven, he broke.
I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?
He hit send. What the fuck was happening to him?
Date 2 Nanami Kento
LOCATION: French Restaurant, Different This Time
THREAT LEVEL: Low (too polite to murder you, probably)
You arrive five minutes early.
Nanami is already there. Of course. The man probably arrived at the restaurant's founding and has been waiting ever since. His suit is different from last time…. but somehow just as pristine. Just as distracting.
Stop noticing his suits, you tell yourself. You're supposed to be making him uncomfortable, not yourself
"Mr. Nanami." You slide into your seat with what you hope is a seductive smile.
"Please." He stands as you sit…. gentleman, goddamn him…. before settling back down. "Nanami is fine."
"Nanami." You lean forward… smelling his cologne. It’s a nice cologne. Stop smelling him "I have to admit… I was surprised you wanted to meet again. You don't seem like the type to call women for second dates."
"I'm not."
"So what's different about me?"
There's an intensity to his gaze that wasn't there before… or maybe it was, and you just didn't notice. "I haven't determined that yet."
Okay. That's either flattering or terrifying.
You push forward with your strategy and order the messiest thing on the menu… pasta with red sauce, specifically chosen because there's no elegant way to eat it. You twirl your fork, let sauce drip onto your chin.
"Sorry," you say, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin. "I'm such a messy eater. But it's so good. Don't you think food just tastes better when you're not worried about being neat?"
"I... wouldn't know."
"You should try it sometime." You tilt your head. "Don't you ever just want to... let go?"
His eyes turn dark and hungry in an instant, sending your belly into free fall.
Oh
"I assure you," he says, voice low, "I am perfectly capable of letting go. When the situation calls for it."
Your heart rate spikes. “I need the bathroom….. ”
You practically RUN.
When you come back, he’s still there, perfectly composed, looking at you like you’re dessert and he’s planning how to eat you.
“Shall we order dessert?” he asks
“I’m good…..”
“Pity. I was hoping to watch you enjoy something sweet.”
Abort. Abort mission. This is not going according to plan.
Toji Fushiguro - After the first date
Toji wasn’t a stalker. He wouldd like to make that clear.
He followed you out on instinct, hands in pockets, expression bored, telling himself he was just making sure you got into a car and didn’t kill yourself crossing traffic.
You were different from the other rich bitches his family throws at him.
He had seen women play dumb before. Usually it's an act… a way to seem unthreatening, to make men feel smarter, to manipulate without being obvious.
This one couldn’t even walk straight… in heels you clearly couldn't handle, and….
You tripped.
Right there on the sidewalk. Over literally nothing. Your bag went flying, contents scattering across concrete.
"Fuck my life," you muttered, loud enough for him to hear from ten feet away. "Fuck it right in its stupid face."
Toji snorted.
He followed you all the way to your apartment building, watched you struggle with your keys for a full two minutes before getting the door open, and then stood on the street below your window like the world's most pathetic stalker.
Your light turned on. Then off. Then on again. You’d probably forgotten something in the dark.
Cute.
The word popped into his head uninvited. He immediately wanted to punch himself for thinking it.
Toji was fucking gone.
Hey, he typed on day seven. You're weird. I'm in.
His family's going to lose their shit when they find out he actually wants a second date for once.
Date 2 - Toji Fushiguro
LOCATION: Some random address in Shibuya
THREAT LEVEL: Unknown (not much details, which is concerning)
The address turns out to be an arcade.
An arcade???
You stand outside, staring at the neon lights and the sounds of digital explosions leaking through the doors, and wonder if you've been pranked.
"You came."
You spin. Toji is leaning against the wall beside the entrance, looking like he wandered in from a motorcycle gang's photo shoot. Leather jacket. Jeans. That scar on his lip curving with his smirk.
You follow him inside, immediately assaulted by flashing lights and the cacophony of a hundred games happening simultaneously.
"What are we doing here?" you ask, dodging a kid running past with a stuffed prize twice his size.
"Having fun." He looks back at you with an expression that's almost... soft? "You do know how to have fun, right?"
You tried your bimbo act. “I…. yes, of course I know how to have fun, I'm very fun, I'm the funnest…”
"That's not a word."
“Oh”
You lose spectacularly at every game you try.
"You're terrible at this," he says, leaning against the machine while you die for the fifteenth time.
You huff, pushing away from the machine. "Whatever…. the game is broken…”
Toji laughs, full and genuine, and something in your chest does a weird flutter thing.
No. Absolutely not. Focus.
"Let me try something," he says, and steps up to a basketball shooting game. He feeds in coins, picks up a ball, and proceeds to sink fifteen shots in a row without missing once.
Tickets pour out of the machine like a waterfall.
He hands you the tickets. "Pick a prize."
"What?"
"You've been looking at that giant cat thing since we walked in. Go get it."
He noticed that?
"I don't need you to win me prizes," you say, trying to recover your strategy "I can win my own prizes…..”
He's already walking toward the prize counter, your tickets in hand. You trail after him, protests dying on your lips.
The giant cat is even fluffier up close. The employee hands it to Toji, who hands it to you
"There," he says. "Now you have something to show for today."
You clutch the ridiculous stuffed animal to your chest and feel something dangerous building in your ribcage.
Don't, you tell yourself. Don't you fkn dare.
But when he drives you home on his motorcycle (motorcycle???)… you clutching the cat with one arm and his waist with the other….you can't help thinking that this was the most fun you've had in months.
Gojo Satoru - After the first date
Gojo knows you're lying before you even sit down.
It's the eyes. The too bright smile. The way your voice goes slightly higher when you're saying something you don't mean.
He's spent his entire adult life surrounded by liars. Business partners who smile while plotting. Models who swear they're "not like other girls" while being exactly like every other girl. Family members who claim to love him while treating him like a prize show pony.
He's learned to spot deception… instantly, instinctively, with a vague sense of disgust.
You're not as good at it as you think.
The church talk? He almost laughed. Your lockscreen might’ve had a church on it, but your nails had remnants of black polish, and there was a tiny tattoo peeking out from your collarbone that you had tried to cover with concealer.
The purity workshop thing? Just to avoid temptation.
Oh, sweetheart.
You wanted him to be tempted…. he thought…. That was the whole point, right? You had dressed like a nun specifically to make him think about undressing you.
Reverse psychology. Classic move. Bold as hell, though…. he'll give you that.
Most women try to impress him. They wear tight dresses and push up bras, laugh at his jokes, agree with everything he says.
You showed up looking like you were about to lead a prayer circle and told him he needed Jesus.
Gojo is delighted.
He pulls out his laptop, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work.
Social media: Private Instagram…. which yes, he has access to…. with party photos going back to college. Twitter that was mostly complaints about your job and retweets of cat videos.
Dating history: College boyfriend for two years, ended badly. Three short term relationships after that, all ending with you ghosting them when you got bored.
Employment: Work in management, hates your boss, online shops during meetings.
“Miss Virgin Mary,” he grins, scrolling through a photo of you doing a keg stand in 2019. “You absolute fraud”
Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don't worry, I'll be on my best behavior. He hits send
He can practically hear you screaming when you read it.
Perfect.
Date 2 - Gojo Satoru
LOCATION: His Place (concerning)
THREAT LEVEL: Maximum (the man is a predator)
Strategy: Bring actual chaperone.
You arrive with Shoko in tow. She's agreed to play the part of your "church friend" aka chaperone… for the evening, which basically means she's going to sit in the corner, drink his expensive alcohol, and watch you make a fool of yourself.
"You brought a chaperone," Gojo says when he opens the door. He doesn't look surprised. He looks delighted.
"I told you I would." You fold your hands primly. "This is my friend Shoko. She's from my congregation."
Shoko waves. "Praise Jesus."
Gojo's eyes sparkle. "Please, come in."
His apartment is obscene. Floor to ceiling windows with a city view.
Furniture that costs more than your entire existence. A kitchen that's clearly never been used for actual cooking.
You sit on the couch… knees pressed together, hands in your lap, the picture of modesty.
“So," Gojo says, settling across from you. "How's God?"
"Huh? Oh… He's... good. Great, actually. Very blessed."
"Mmm." He leans forward. "And what does God think about us? Did he give you any revelations this week?"
"Actually, yes." You clasp your hands together. "I've been praying a lot, and I really feel like the Lord is telling me to take things slow. Very slow. Probably years of courtship before any... physical contact."
"Years?" he asks
"At least."
"How many years?"
"Um." You hadn't thought this far ahead. "Seven?"
Shoko chokes on her wine.
Gojo's smile doesn't waver. "Seven years. Of no physical contact."
"Exactly."
"No kissing?"
"No." You smile brightly
"No hand holding?" he pouts
"Probably not."
"What about eye contact?" Those blue eyes fix on yours
"I…. what?"
"Eye contact can be very intimate." He's leaning closer now, voice dropping. "Some people find it even more intimate than touching."
You swallow. "I suppose... brief eye contact would be acceptable."
"How brief?"
"A...a few seconds?" you stutter
"Three seconds?" he asks
"Sure?"
"Like this?" And then he just... looks at you.
Three seconds stretch into five. Five into ten. His eyes are impossibly blue, impossibly bright, impossibly knowing. You feel stripped bare. Exposed. Like he can see right through your modest dress and your fake cross necklace and your bullshit act straight to the core of you.
Your face burns.
"Stop that," you manage.
"Stop what?" His smile is innocent. His eyes are anything but….. "I thought eye contact was acceptable."
"Not like that."
He laughs, low and warm, and you feel it in places you definitely shouldn't.
The rest of the evening is a torture. He finds ways to make everything sound suggestive. Offers you water and comments on how good you are at swallowing.
By the time you leave, Shoko is crying with suppressed laughter and you're seriously considering actual prayer for the first time in your life.
"This was fun," Gojo says at the door. "We should do it again."
"I don't think…. "
He cuts you off "Without the chaperone next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"Mmm." His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is feather light. Devastating. "We'll see."
Fuck Fuck Fuck
AFTERMATH - The great ghosting
You decide to disappear.
No texts. No calls. No responses. Complete radio silence. Maybe if you ignore the problem hard enough, it'll go away on its own.
(This has never worked for any problem in the history of problems, but hope springs eternal.)
Day 1: Peace.
Day 2: Your mother called 47 times.
Day 3: Your father sent an email in all caps.
Day 4: Silence.
Day 5: Maybe they gave up….
DAY 6:
A cheese platter arrived at your office.
Expensive cheese in a wooden box with a card: “Since you can clearly tell the difference. - Sukuna”
Your coworkers descend on it like vultures. You barely get a piece.
When you get home: you can't open your front door. Because there's a bouquet blocking it.
Not a bouquet. A monument. Red roses…. hundreds of them…. piled so high you can't see over the top. It takes thirty minutes to drag the whole thing inside.
Card: “Red suits you better. - Gojo”
Three missed calls from Nanami.
Shoko sends you a screenshot of Toji lingering outside your building. “Should I be concerned?" She texts
Day 7
"There's four guys at reception," your coworker, Mei says, poking her head into your office. "They're asking for you.”
Your blood leaves your body “Four?”
"They're kind of... arguing? With each other? Security is considering calling the police."
You walk to reception like you're walking to your own execution. And there they are.
Gojo, arms crossed, glaring at Sukuna. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Sukuna, looking murderous. "I could ask you the same thing. How do you know [name]?"
Toji, leaning against the wall. "Keep her name out of your mouth."
Nanami, trying to be the voice of reason. "Perhaps we should discuss this calmly….”
"Fuck calm," Sukuna snaps.
Mei appears at your elbow. "Are those guys here for you?"
"Please kill me."
"Do you owe them money?"
"I wish." you whisper
You take a breath. Then another. Then you walk into the chaos.
"Excuse me," you say.
They don't hear you. "Excuse me."
Still nothing.
"HEY!!!” you shout
Four heads turn. Four pairs of eyes land on you. Four expressions shift from hostile to... something else entirely.
Nanami opens his mouth, probably to say something reasonable, but you cut him off.
"Do you all…. know each other?" you ask weakly.
Silence.
“Unfortunately." Toji mutters
Gojo just grins. "Small world, isn't it, sweetheart?"
Your coworkers are watching this like it's the season finale of Love Island.
You are so fucked.
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶💕
Please, Please PLEASE For the love of god, JJK fandom, The Jujitsu Kaisen fandom. STOP USING THE WRONG TAGS! AND STOP TAGGING OTHER CHARACTERS IN FICS WHERE THEY ARE NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER IN THE FIC OR IN THE FIC AT ALL. YOU ARE DROWNING THE TAGS WITH THE WRONG CHARATERS!! AND STOP TAGGING ALL THE CHARACTERS TO GAIN TRACTION ON YOUR FICS!! BASIC FANDOM ETIQUETTE!!!
EX: A Gojo fic should be with the Gojo Tags, not the Nanami Kento tags. A Toji fic should be with the Toji tags attached, not the Geto tags! Etc, etc!
Summary: He barely talks, swears too much, and is somehow already under your skin.
Word count: 10.5K
Notes: Friends to lovers with a good portion of longing. Slowburn with a little smut thrown in the mix as well, enjoy
Masterlist
Bucky is nothing like you'd imagined him.
From the way that Steve had described him, you'd been picturing a womaniser, a charmer who could speak the panties off of any woman he met, a daring silver tongue - but the word that best describes the Bucky you've met?
Withdrawn.
He's been at the compound almost two weeks now, always following Steve around looking anxious and slightly beside himself as he tries his best to blend in with the wall behind him, flinching if someone comes a little too close or laughs a little too loudly near him. You've all noticed his nervous eyes constantly darting all over his surroundings, clearly checking for the nearest exit to make sure he can escape at just a moment's notice.
You also haven't heard him say much apart from his name when he first arrived and the occasional 'yes' or 'no' when Steve asks him stuff, but you've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you've got your attention directed elsewhere.
You wonder if he's having a hard time adjusting not only to his new home but also to the flourishing friendship between you and Steve, so you give both of them space to find each other again. After all, Steve is important to you, so by proxy, Bucky is too.
Day 19
Three weeks in and you're eating dinner by yourself in the kitchen when you hear footsteps from the hallway.
"Smells like the kitchen's occupied right now," Steve's soft voice sounds from the other side of the wall before he's even shown himself in the doorframe, "come on, we'll just come back later."
"You can come in, it's okay," you call back over your plate of chicken tikka masala, excited to finally have an excuse to talk to Steve after weeks of almost complete radio-silence.
He pokes his head around the door frame. "You sure? We can wait 30 minutes until you're done - we don't mind, do we Buck?" He looks over his shoulder and you hear Bucky mumble something incoherently before Steve looks back at you with an apologetic smile.
"No, no please come in," you urge the two of them forwards with a wave of your fork, "it's been a quiet day, I would love some company."
"Well it does smell lovely in here," Steve smiles broadly and steps inside, immediately striding over to you by the dinner table while Bucky silently follows him.
"Hi sweetheart," Steve mutters happily and kisses the top of your head, "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages.”
"Hi Stevie," you lean into him and send Bucky what you hope is a disarming smile from over Steve's shoulder as he sits down at the far end of the table. He looks as if he'd rather be lying under a rock.
"I didn't want to impose on your big reunion," you explain, "I thought you guys needed some well-deserved time to reconcile."
Steve sends you a grateful look and starts emptying the fridge of vegetables.
"So what've you been up to today?" you ask as he pulls out a bag of chopped kale and a sad looking winter squash.
"Uhm, not much," Steve eyes the squash suspiciously. "Went for a run earlier, showed Buck around the gym. Had my ass handed to me in the ring, didn't I?" He laughs and looks over at Bucky who's sitting quietly between you like a polite child.
"I - I don't know about that," Bucky says uncomfortably and darts his eyes over to you, checking for your reaction.
You remember feeling like that; scared that others would be afraid of you if you showed them exactly what you were capable off. It makes your stomach ache.
"Come on Buck, you beat the living shit out of me," Steve laughs unknowingly and it makes Bucky's ears turn red and his mouth reduce to a thin white line.
"I hear you're skilled with a switchblade," you speak directly to Bucky, wanting to show him that you're neither afraid of him nor his capabilities. "I could use some pointers for close combat if you have any," you try to shrug as nonchalantly as humanly possible. "I usually spar with Sam or Steve but they're both terrible with knives."
"It's true," Steve grins. "You're a better match for her, Buck."
Bucky's eyes dart between you and Steve but he doesn't reply.
"Say the word, and I'm yours for an afternoon, James," you smile.
Bucky grunts and uncomfortably slinks back in his chair.
Day 24
There's a strong burning sensation in your eyelids as you blink for the first time in what feels like hours and you turn your head to the side, only to realise the clock is up by a mere three minutes.
4:42
It's mocking you. Red digits staring at you in the dark, reminding you that you have exactly two hours and eighteen minutes before you have to be dressed for your weekly sparring match with Sam. You give out an involuntary groan at the thought and try placing yourself differently on the mattress although it feels like you've tried out every possible position already.
It's the third night in a row you haven't closed a single eye, and it's starting to drive you crazy! It's not as if you really have a job where you can afford an off day. Off days usually results in getting badly injured - or in worst cases; killed.
With yet another annoyed groan, you sit up straight on the mattress. 4:44.
"That's it," you mumble under your breath and swing your legs over the side of the bed frame, grabbing your wollen socks and your book in the process as you determinedly decide that you're not gonna waste the next few hours fretting over missing sleep.
The entire first floor is completely dark as you walk the empty hallway, so when you enter the living room, you're surprised to find another person already occupying the room.
"James?"
He's sitting in the big winged chair, his hair unruly, shoulders slumped, dark bags under his eyes. He doesn't even look up to greet you but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the table in front of him as he gives out a tired grunt in response. The skin underneath his eyes is irritated and spotted, and you think to yourself that it looks like he's been crying. A lot.
"Are you okay?" You ask and he blinks a few times at the question but still doesn't look up.
"M'fine."
He looks awful and you cannot help but think to yourself that Steve definitely doesn't know about this. That if he did, he'd be sitting right here beside the man he's been missing like a piece of himself.
"How long have you been up?"
Bucky's eyes flicker to the clock above the door. "A while," he grunts and you get the immediate feeling that maybe he's never even gone to bed.
"Hmm," you nod, not sure what else to say. "Come, I'll make us coffee."
"I don't want coffee."
"Well come anyway," you urge him.
His eyes meet yours for the first time and you guess he's considering how to gently turn you down, but after af couple of contemplative seconds, he finally sighs as he pushes himself up from the chair and reluctantly follows you. Even though he pulls the bill of his cap down towards his eyes, it feels like a victory. Thank god for his impeccable manners or he probably would've turned around and left altogether.
He sits down on the bar stool at the kitchen island and you pour both of you a mug of instant coffee.
Normally, he seems to thrive in silence but you've never seen him look more uncomfortable, so you decide on breaking the ice.
Carefully, you clear your throat and his eyes immediately dart towards you. He already looks sick of the question you haven't even asked him yet, but still, you continue.
"You're on the ninth floor, right? Next to Sam."
He nods.
"Have you settled in nicely?"
"Mhm," he grunts.
"I live on the floor below. Sandwiched between Steve and Nat."
"Okay," he nods, probably wondering why you won't just leave him alone.
"Do you like it here?"
"Yes," he hesitates and sighs in slight annoyance when he realises that his short answers aren't going to keep you from yapping away. "People here are nice. I guess," he gives in with a shrug.
You chuckle and watch as he takes a sip of the coffee and scrunches up his nose, looking at the coffee as if it's offended him.
"I don't know if you know this-" you say as you finally look away from him now that you have a reason to continue the conversation, "- but I'm actually quite new to the compound too. I've only been here about six months."
"Steve told me," Bucky nods and tries to hide that his fleeting eyes are studying your every movement. "He talks a lot about you."
It makes you smile. "He talks a lot about you too."
Bucky follows the movement of your fingers as they tap the rim of the mug in front of you but doesn't say anything.
Entertained by how he studies you, you slowly bring the cup to your lips. "Where is Steve?" You ask him and take a sip.
Bucky's eyes briefly catch yours again and a thin line immediately appears between his dark eyebrows. "In bed," he grunts, "- why?"
"Does he know you're-"
"He's not my babysitter," he cuts you off pointedly.
"I know," you give him what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I was just wondering if he knows you're not sleeping. There are remedies for insomnia these days, you know."
His eyes seem to stare straight through to your soul. "Like coffee?" he grunts, challenging you.
It makes you chuckle. "Touché!"
The muscles on his forehead seem to relax a little now that he's figured out you can take a joke. "No, he doesn't know," he mumbles and looks away. "He has enough to deal with being Captain America and all. I don't want to burden him more than I already have."
"I see," you nod and go back to your coffee, thinking to yourself that Bucky might no longer be the great charmer Steve's told you stories about, but he's definitely a good man. Perhaps with some humour in there if you dig deep enough.
"Are you going to tell him?" He asks with slate blue eyes coming back up to stare right through you once more. He's challenging you again.
"Don't see why I would," you shrug. You want to show him that you can be trusted. That he doesn't have to rely on Steve alone.
He stares at you intensely a couple of seconds before his face fades back to neutral, but you see the way the tension of his shoulders eases just a fraction. Finally, he's disarmed.
"How do you like the coffee?" You ask, pleased to see that you've passed his tests.
His probing eyes direct the attention to the Falcon mug in front of him. "It tastes like ass," he grunts sincerely and stares disprovingly at the mug.
It makes you laugh.
Day 25
It's 5:23 when you hear dragging feet shuffling in the hallway. They stop right outside the kitchen door but nobody enters.
You know who it is, and you know he's currently contemplating going back to his quarters so he doesn't have to talk to you, but you decide on ruining his plan.
"You can come in," you say cheerily but the door stays immobile for a second or two before a heavy sigh sounds and he gently pushes it open.
Once again, you're thankful for his impeccable manners.
"Good morning," you say cheerily and turn off the heat to the pot on the stove.
"Mornin'," he mumbles while giving off an aura of slight annoyance, but you catch the brief interested look he shoots the eggs sizzling in front of you.
"How'd you sleep?" You ask as you plate your breakfast and sit down opposite him.
"I didn't."
"Me neither," you muse. "Are you hungry?" You ask him altough you know he is. He didn't show up for team dinner last night.
His eyes dart from yours, down to the shakshuka between you and back up again. He gives you a curt shake of his head but his stomach gives him away by growling.
"Come," you smile and hand him an extra fork, "we'll share mine."
He hesitates.
"- come on, I can tell you’re hungry."
"I’ll wait for Steve," he mumbles, "I don't want to ruin your breakfast."
"What are you talking about? I was lonely until you joined me," you push your plate towards him. "Let me do something nice for you in return."
He looks at you perplexed as if he isn't sure how to respond to your kindness. Slowly, he casts his eyes downwards so they scan the red sauce and eggs between you instead. "I don't know what it is."
"Try some," you offer him a reassuring smile.
You cannot decide whether he looks more curious or annoyed. "Okay. Thank you," he mumbles quietly and takes a small amount of sauce and eggs on his fork, carefully inserting it in his mouth. "It's spicy!" He furrows his brows and looks at you as if you've just tried to poison him, and before you can even react, his eyes widen. "Jesus FUCK!" He coughs.
You have to hold back a splutter of laughter at his sudden cursing. "Sorry! I forgot to tell you!"
He takes a gulp of water. "Fuck me!"
You chuckle, "Are you okay?"
He sucks in some air and waves his hand dismissively between you.
"Oh my goodness I'm so sorry," you full on laugh and catch his desperate eye as he takes another big gulp of water, "I always make it too spicy for Steve too."
"Shit," he wheezes and looks at you with tears in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry," you grin with tears in your own eyes, "I can make you something else."
"No, I like it," he continues coughing a little, "- I think."
"You think?" You laugh.
"I just didn't even know food could taste like this," he purses his lips and suck in some cooling air while eyeing the shakshuka between you. "For the past seventy years, I've only had stew and potatoes."
"Mmh," you sigh with a suddenly serious frown, and for a second, Bucky looks as if he's scared he's said something god-awful wrong but you interrupt him before his mind starts to wander. "Sorry - it's just: I remember that all too well. Eating the same thing over and over again. Personally, I haven't touched beets since I escaped."
He freezes slightly in his chair "...Escaped?"
You nod, "yeah. I was trained under the Soviet Armed Forces."
Bucky's gaze tells you that he's well-aware of the things you must've endured. "...Oh," he puts down the fork he's been holding.
"Yeah. Thank god I knew Natasha or I would probably still be stuck in Moscow."
"Hmm," he furrows his eyebrows. "I was told stories about Operation Red Room back when I was..." he clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and you refrain from telling him that you heard stories about him too. That from a young age, you'd been told that the Winter Soldier would come in the night if you didn't practise your ballet. "- You were... brainwashed too?" His eyes find yours.
You nod slowly. It seems you've finally found common ground.
He furrows his brows. "But you're normal?" he states matter-of-factly and immediately looks embarrassed by himself.
You smile at his expression. "Just as normal as you I guess."
Bucky's mouth twitches a little as he offers you the first hint of a smile you've ever seen on his face. It's hesitant, but it's there. And it lingers when he goes in for a second bite of your breakfast.
Day 30
Last night at dinner, Steve had told you that Bucky was having one of his more 'gloomier weeks' (his words) and that he would neither leave the bed nor have anything to eat no matter how much Steve tried to coax him.
Of course you haven't mentioned to anybody that you've shared your breakfast with Bucky every early morning for the past week, getting a chance to talk to him before he sneaks back to his room as the rest of the compound starts waking up, so when his pale cheeks suddenly appear behind Steve's back not even 30 minutes after you've wished him a good day, you try not to make too much of a fuss about it.
"Mornin' guys," you smile at them from over your coffee cup. They're both dressed in running gear with a huge Captain America logo on the front and you smile a little at how Bucky looks like he's about to hurl himself off of the nearest cliff. Your eyes meet his as he unsuccessfully tries to smooth back his long hair. "- Doing anything fun?"
"Thought we'd take some laps around the lake, didn't we Buck?" Steve smiles and pushes Bucky forwards so they're at the same level.
Bucky merely grunts, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.
"Sounds lovely," you sip your coffee, happy that you haven't come up with the same insane idea.
"Yeah, it's the first day of spring and the sun is finally out!" Steve sighs lovingly while Bucky rolls his eyes dramatically, clearly annoyed by Steve's peppy morning routine. "-Wanna join?"
"Oh absolutely not," you splutter with a laugh. "This is your insane idea. Don't drag me into it."
It makes Bucky's upper lip twitch familiarly as he tries smoothing back his long hair again.
"Big Captain America fan?" You joke as you nod towards the giant star on Bucky's chest.
Luckily, he doesn't miss a beat and picks it up immediately; "not really," he says in a sour tone of voice, "I'm only wearing this because they were all out of Iron Man shirts."
It makes both you and Steve laugh and Bucky sweeps back his hair again, for a brief moment looking proud of himself.
You're still grinning as you lock eyes with him and hand him the hairtie from around your wrist. "Here," you say as you wobble it in the air between you "to keep your hair out of your eyes."
Bucky hesitates as he looks between you and the black elastic band.
"It's a game changer, trust me," you grin and once again urges him to take it.
He's still hesitating when he takes a step forwards and grabs it from your hand, slowly tying the smallest ponytail you've ever seen at the nape of his neck. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome, James," you smile at him and he briefly smiles back before his expression fades to neutral again.
With pink cheeks, he looks at you while nervously shifting his weight around on his feet. "You can... call me Bucky if you'd like."
You smile at him and he carefully returns your smile. He's actually quite cute. "Okay Bucky," you nod, "I'd like that."
Steve looks as if he might burst from joy.
Day 34
Four days later, Bucky sits down next to you on the sofa. It's the first time during the day he isn't following Steve around like a dark shadow and it really suits him to be this independant.
"Hello," he says carefully.
"Hey Buck, what's up," you greet him and put down your book.
"I was thinking," he starts off slowly while fidgeting with the metal plates of his left hand. "If maybe you'd wanna show me one of those movies you were talking about at dinner the other night?"
"Yeah," you immediately grin and have to hide your excitement of finally having him seek you out voluntarily. "Anything in particular?"
"I don't know," he shrugs, already much more relaxed. "I don't really know any movies apart from Bambi and I doubt that's still a hit."
"You'd be surprised," you laugh and turn on the Netflix app, ready to show him your favourite movie. "Get cozy," you throw him a blanket, "I know exactly where to start."
He nods and carefully unfolds the blanket as he directs his attention to the title on the movie displayed on the screen. There's something heartwarming about seeing the world's most deadly assassin wrapped in plaid, sitting stiff as a trunk with his hands folded neatly in his lap, but you make sure not to look too obvious as you smile widely.
As the movie plays, you carefully watch his reactions to make sure he's thoroughly entertained, but even though he doesn't laugh at the funny parts, he still assures you that he liked it when the movie ends.
"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it."
"Okay," he chuckles so beautifully your stomach lurches forwards, "- maybe I would have liked to change some things around, but overall, I liked it."
"Okay, good," you smile.
"Maybe you can show me all your favourite movies?" He tries to shrug nonchalantly.
"I'd like that, Buck"
Day 37
"Hey sweetheart, I have a favour to ask you," Steve says when he catches you coming back from the bathroom during a movie break. He's dressed in tactical gear from head to toe, carrying his shield on his back and talking in his serious, low voice as he pulls you to the side so no one can hear the two of you. "I have to go with Tony to Boston for a few days. It's an emergency," he sighs, "do you think you could keep an eye on Bucky until I get back? Make sure he gets something to eat, that he comes out of his room. Stuff like that."
You look over Steve's shoulder and see Bucky sitting on the sofa, looking at you curiously from over the back. You feel a pang in your heart when you see his anxious face, and you almost get offended on his behalf. Over the last few days, he's really been showing progression. "I don't mind keeping him company," you turn your attention back to Steve, "but don't you think he deserves a little more credit?"
"I know, it's just -" Steve winces, "- I'm still a bit worried about him and it would really ease my mind to know you'll help out. Please, I have to leave in a bit."
"Just go. Don't worry, we'll have fun."
"You're the best," he grabs your hands and kisses your knuckles. "Thank you," he says and adjusts the strap over his shoulder before he waves at Bucky and heads out the door.
When you sit back down on the sofa again, Bucky's weirdly distant.
"What did Steve want?" he asks after a few seconds of silence.
You turn your gaze towards him, scan his face and feel the same pang in your heart as before. "Honestly?" You sigh, "he wants me to keep an eye on you."
The colour in Bucky's cheeks drains so he becomes more pale than you've ever seen him. "So now you're babysitting me too?"
"Nope," you say unceremoniously and press play on the remote. "I told him to fuck off."
He smiles at that.
Day 39
It's almost midnight and you and Bucky are sitting outside on lawn chairs with cups of steaming hot tea cradled in your hands as you quietly look up at the stars above you. Normally, you like talking and could do so for hours, but lately, you've come to enjoy the quiet hours in Bucky's company too.
You give out a content sigh and briefly turn your gaze towards him as he studies the constellations above you.
Even though the March air is so cold you've put on several layers of wool just to be able to sit outside, he's only wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, his thick bicep bulging nicely against the black hem. You wonder what he might look like with his shirt off.
"You're staring," he mumbles, a cloud of vapour escaping him as he breathes against the chilly air.
"Sorry," you chuckle and look away, slightly embarrassed by your unsolicited staring. "I just can't really believe you're not cold."
"Serum," he mutters matter-of-factly.
"Wish I had some of that," you sigh and snuggle further down into your scarf.
"Trust me, you really don't."
"Why not?"
"You ever been over-stimulated? It's like that."
"Mmh," you nod. "All the time?"
"Pretty much."
"What does it feel like?"
He shrugs, "neurons firing. Like everything's dialed up to eleven. Summers are unbearable. Loud noises even more so. Annoying people become three times as annoying," he shoots you an amused side-eye and you can tell he's about to make a joke. "Just imagine what I go through with Sam."
"Eat a bag of dicks, Wilson," you repeat the words you heard Bucky mutter the other day when it was suggested that he switch out a protein bar for a can of tuna.
He smiles at you. "You heard that, huh?"
"Just because Sam chose to ignore you, doesn't mean the rest of us didn't hear you being crass."
"Sorry," he grins.
"I can take it."
"I know you can," he arches an eyebrow, about to say something, but is cut off by a sudden loud bang from above that has both of you look upwards.
"Ooh!" You immediately exclaim with enthusiasm as you follow the illumination of colours above. "Fireworks!" You lean into him, excitement quickly slipping from your face, however, when you notice the state he's in.
He's sitting as if petrified; stiff, glossy eyed, panting. His chest is heaving in shallow breaths and he stares at you with desperation.
"Bucky!" You cry out and immediately grab his pale cheeks, holding his face close to yours.
"Can't. Breathe," he's gulping for air, hands desperately clinging to your elbows.
"Look at me," you say and slowly heave in some air, trying hard to get him to match your breathing. "Focus on me," you exhale slowly.
His eyes flitters across your face but it works. He has his breathing under control within three deep breaths but then another loud bang sounds and he flinches.
"Come," you grab his hand and drag him inside to safety while he pants and whines behind you.
With the door kicked shut and your hands immediately on his cheeks again, you quietly remind him where he is. "You're safe, Bucky. It's just fireworks. You're safe here with me."
He clutches his heart as he slides down the wall behind him.
And when you hug him tightly, and over and over again remind him that he's safe, he slumps down against your shoulder and cries into your neck, holding onto you for dear life.
Day 40
Although he's been around you all day, Bucky hasn't uttered a single word directly to you since the panic attack the night before, so when he suddenly breaks the thick silence between you with a loud clearing of his throat, you immediately listen.
"Steve wants us to be friends," he says bluntly and completely out of context.
You look up from your book. "What?" You furrow your eyebrows. "- you don't think we're friends?"
"I - I don't know," he bites his inner cheek and finally looks at you for real, "I wasn't sure after the... you know."
"That changed nothing for me," you try to shrug nonchalantly although you want to shake him to make him understand. "You just panicked, Buck."
"Well who the fuck panics at fireworks?" he mumbles and looks away, "you must think I'm fucking mental."
"Definitely not," you smile with a shake of your head. "I just think you have some invisible scars. That doesn't mean we can't be friends."
"Mhh," he grunts without fully accepting your words. "I'm not sure I deserve your friendship," his mouth pulls to the side disapprovingly.
"You do," you put your head in the crook of his neck and breathe in his scent. It's earthy and fresh; orange and cedar wood.
"So you don't think I'm.... off?" He asks quietly, lips close to your scalp. You can almost feel them vibrating.
"No, Buck," you smile with closed eyes, enjoying the close proximity. "I don't think you're off," you breathe in. Orange. Cedar wood. "Quite on the contrary. I like spending time with you."
He nods slowly while contemplating your words. "I - uh - I like spending time with you too."
"That makes me very happy to hear," you smile into his shoulder. "So you agree? We're friends?"
"Yeah," he nods and carefully puts his chin on top of your head, not fully resting. "We can be friends."
Day 42
Steve's back from Boston with an injury.
"He took a blade to the glute so now he can't even walk," Bucky explains after coming back from visiting him in the med wing. "He says it's his hip but I just know it's because he's too decent to say ass in front of doctor Cho."
"Poor Steve," you wince while chuckling slightly at Bucky.
"Yeah... Even with the serum's recovery time, he figures he'll be out for the rest of the month."
"Well," you smile, "at least that means you finally found a legit way out of going on morning runs with him," you muse as you measure a cup of water for the dinner you're making the two of you.
"Yeah, thank fuck for that!" He agrees in relief, "I cannot listen to one more word about how much he loves bird song in the morning."
"God he's so old!" you laugh and switch your voice over in your best imitation of Steve, "Oh look over there, Bucky! A blue crested warbler!"
It's not even that funny but the voice you're making has Bucky laughing!
It's the first time since you first met him and, oh my god, if it isn't the most beautiful sound you've ever heard! The skin around his eyes crinkle softly, his head tilts backwards and he gives out a 'ha!' so loud you can see the back of his teeth.
You want to freeze this moment in time. To make him laugh at your stupid joke for an eternity while your stomach flips in slow motion.
Your own reaction to it perplexes you so much that the cup you're holding overflows.
Day 43
You've barely entered the gym before Bucky's let go of the bar he's doing pull ups in and has approached you to ask if you'll be his sparring partner for the day instead of Steve.
"Hip still a bust?"
Bucky nods and throws his grips to the ground. "What do you say?" He pants and wipes a drop of sweat from his temple. "We're both out of a partner. Might as well use each other as punch bags."
"Are you sure?" You arch an eyebrow while trying to ignore the sudden dryness of your inner cheek. "I mean; you look pretty beat already. How long have you been down here?"
"Couple of hours," he shrugs, "since breakfast."
"Since breakfast?"
Bucky shrugs again. "You were out."
"So you resorted to training for five plus hours because you were bored? I'm flattered Barnes."
He grins.
"- but yeah, sure, I guess I have time to throw you around for a bit," you wink at him and he grins again. It makes you feel warm. "But be warned, I might not be as good with a knife as you are but I'm faster than Steve and sneakier than Sam."
"So you say," he smiles and ties the small pony tail at the nape of his neck.
"Cute hair," you chuckle at him while you grab your makeshift dagger from your gym bag.
"A-har-har," he says sarcastically, "don't forget whose hairtie I'm wearing."
Day 46
He's sitting shirtless beside you, still panting from your daily sparring match, and you're trying your absolute hardest not to stare at the intricate scars that zigzag across his torso and comes to a blazingly red halt where flesh meets metal.
Over the last couple of sparring matches, you've thought to yourself more than once that he looks absolutely beautiful in all his scarred beauty.
"I talked to Steve this morning," he cuts the silence, thankfully giving you something else to think of other than tracing the red lines of his chiseled chest. "He's ready to start training again."
"Yeah?" you try and read his neutral expression. "Looks like morning laps around the lake are back on the menu for you then," you wink at him.
"Well at least I had eleven amazing days without bird watching," he jokes.
"I know you secretly love it," you smile, "- Okay, maybe not the bird-watching bit but the running at least."
"Yeah, it's fine," he leans forwards, puts his weight on his elbows an shoots you a glance. "So, what do you wanna do about us?"
Your stomach flips at the way he pronounces us. Like you're a unit.
Your voice suddenly seems raw. "What do you mean?" you smack your lips to bring them back to life.
It has Bucky follow your mouth intendedly. "I mean, I guess you don't have to keep sparring with me now that Steve's back on the roster," he says, "I like sparring with you, but that doesn't necessarily mean that -"
"Don't worry," you cut him off, relieved that you still have an excuse to be in this close proximity with him. "I like sparring with you too."
He smiles jokingly at you. "Even though I always win?"
"Even though you're always lucky," you chuckle, "and lets be honest, it's only because you fight dirty."
He sends you a puzzling look.
"As if taking off your shirt isn't a trick to get me weak in the knees!"
He gives you the loud 'ha!' you've been awarded with only a handful of times. It makes your stomach all warm and in the heat of the moment, you get the sudden urge to press your lips to his skin. To see if he tastes as good as he smells and feels and looks.
"Alright," he rolls his eyes and stands up from the bench with a groan that have your knees feel like rubber. "Come on, let's get back to me kicking your ass."
You look sceptically at the hand he's stretching out before you. "Will you be putting on your shirt to give me a fair chance?"
"No fucking way," he winks at you.
You flip him off.
Thankfully, it has him laughing again as he pulls you to your feet.
Day 49
"Sweetheart!" Steve exclaims excitedly as him and Bucky enter the living room at lunch time. "I haven't seen you in days!" He immediately strides around the table and hugs you while giving your cheek a brief kiss.
"Hey guys!" You smile at them and then turn towards Steve; "how's your butt?"
He shoots you a tired smile and you can tell from his face that's Bucky's already been giving him hell about his injury. "Butt's fine," he sighs and changes course. "How about you? What have you been up to?"
"Not much," you shrug, refraining from telling Steve that you've been spending almost every waking hour in Bucky's company.
"I hear you're kicking Bucky's ass," Steve chuckles.
"Well, he's a liar," you wink at Bucky who in return sends you the boyish smile that you love. "- He beats me at everything from shooting to stabbing. It's annoying."
"Don't listen to her, Stevie," Bucky protests with a smile as he crosses his bulky arms over his chest. God, you want to touch him! "She's doing fucking amazing."
"You know what?" you turn to Steve, "for someone so foul-mouthed, he's actually strangely polite!"
Steve laughs, "if you think that's bad, you should hear him when you're not around," he blows out a little air, "yikes!"
It has Bucky roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he chuckles, "lets not make it worse than it is."
"Come on Buck, you'd never use that kind of language in front of a beautiful dame," Steve grins.
"A beautiful dame?" you snicker at the old fashioned term. "Did you seriously just call me that?"
"Yeah," Steve chuckles and bumps his elbow against yours, "of course I think you're a beautiful dame."
"Gee thanks Steve," you grin, "that doesn't make me feel like a grandma at all," you look to Bucky for confirmation, but he awkwardly looks away.
Day 50
You and Bucky are watching the newest blockbuster on Netflix and have just arrived at the part where the final stand between the lead and the villain takes place, when in the middle of the tenacious battle, Bucky decides to talk.
"Is Steve your boyfriend?" He asks suddenly while following the burning helicopter debris on the screen in front of him.
You have a feeling that it's a question that's been nagging him since yesterday, but that he suddenly couldn't hold it back anymore.
"Steve?" You look over at him, a little perplexed. His eyes are glued to the screen in front of him and you're having a hard time figuring out if he's just embarrassed by the slightly prying question or if there's more to it. "- Why'd you think that?"
Bucky's face turns almost crimson. "I don't know," he says while pursing his lips but you have a strong feeling he knows exactly why. "You seem... cosy," he shrugs. There's a different tone behind the last word as if he had to struggle to even get it past his lips.
"We're just friends, Buck."
He stares ahead, body as tense as the first day you met him. "He thinks you're beautiful," he mumbles uncomfortably though he tries to hide it by feigning nonchalance. "And he's always kissing your face..."
"You should really ask Steve about that," you smile, "but no, there's nothing between us. Promise." You want to tell him that you only have eyes for him. That you want him to kiss you.
He gulps and flitters his gaze across your face, studies every angle while you follow his blue irises. Your stomach lurches, it's definitely the most intimate moment you've ever shared and you can feel the electricity between you.
"Just for the record," he says quietly, "I think you're really pretty too."
Your throat tightens. It's suddenly hard to breathe. And before you've had a chance to react to his words, to take his lips between yours, he looks back at the screen and tightens his jaw.
You bet he's thinking of how much smoother this used to go.
Day 51
"Sooo," Sam sings as he playfully plumps down on the sofa next to you, "spill the tea!"
"...About?"
"Rumour has it that you and Bucky have the hots for each other." He pumps his eyebrows annoyingly. "Has he smooched you yet?"
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. Because no, Bucky is taking things a little too slow for your liking and he hasn't smooched you yet though it's all you can think about when you're with him. "I don't know what you're talking about," you mumble.
He takes your bad attempt at dodging his question as confirmation. "Lucky guy!" He laughs, "seventy years on ice - God knows he must be excited to finally get a little sugar!"
You want to punch Sam.
Day 52
You've already gone to bed when there's a knock on your door.
"It's me," Bucky mumbles from the other side, "can I come in?"
"Sure!" You sit up straight and briefly fiddle with your pyjamas front even though you can tell by your bedside mirror that it looks fine.
He peers in from behind the door and you feel the familiar embers come to live inside of you when he shoots you an amused smile. "Nice PJ's," he cackles and steps inside.
He looks amazing dressed from head to toe in his tactical suit complete with thigh strap and makeshift sniper rifle attached to his back.
"You're in your most comfortable outfit too, I can see," you grin and nod towards the grenade launcher he's holding. "What are you all dressed up for, sergeant Barnes?"
He gives you a crooked smile at the old familiar name. "It's Tuesday," he brazenly waves the launcher in front of his face as if you're supposed to know what that means.
"Which means we have to sacrifice someone?" You joke.
"Steve and I usually do Tactical Tuesdays in our combat gear. But apparently, his ass is still sore," he grins and you can tell he has to hold back a laugh, "I - uh - I was wondering if you'd wanna come with me instead? Sorry, didn't realise how late it was."
"I'll come!" You say excitedly before he's even had the chance to finish his sentence. "Give me two seconds," you grab your tactical suit and bag of knives, quickly changing in the bathroom while Bucky patiently waits for you.
When you re-enter your quarters, knifes neatly arranged in the belt strapped around your waist and all, Bucky briefly forgets all about his manners and runs his eyes down your full length. You know you look good in the skin-tight suit, but even though you'd picked the all-black outfit for his pleasure, you're still surprised to have him so discomposed before you.
You clear your throat so his slate blue eyes snap back up to meet yours and he realises he's been caught red-handed. "Get a good look?" You smile at him.
"Fuck off," he grins with pink cheeks and turns his gaze away and opens the door for you. "You ready?"
"Yeah," you excitedly step past him and into the hallway, feeling his gaze burn on your backside.
"Okay I have to ask" you say as the elevator zooms towards the gym on the ground floor. "Is it really necessary with four guns? What are you compensating for?"
He smirks. "Says the woman who brought six knives."
"Touché," you laugh, "but if I know you correctly, you also have a few daggers tugged under your belt."
He smiles knowingly.
"How much do you reckon it takes to take me down when I'm in my tac suit?" You ask him, bemused. "Four guns and two daggers?"
He looks at you with an arched eyebrow.
"- And lets not forget about the grenade launcher," you chuckle as the elevator doors ping open. "Super handy for close combat."
"I'm just putting it in my locker," he rolls his eyes at you as he holds open the door to the gym. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Oh I would never," you grin and watch his broad backside as he dumps the launcher on the top shelf of his locker, picking up his switchblade instead. "What?" He chuckles when he turns around and sees your cocked eyebrows, "it's my weapon of choice."
"You are so only bringing that because you know I love your little knife flip."
He shakes his head with a grin as he leans down to tighten the laces of his right boot.
Just to have something other to do than stare at his muscular form, you adjust the white sportstape wrapped around your knuckles. You cannot wait for training to begin so you have something else to focus on.
"Okay," he straightens up and runs a hand through his hair, tying the small pony tail that, in the time since you've come to know him, has turned into a bun. "Ready?"
"Come at me Barnes," you smile while taking on your fighting stance, parrying your face with your taped up fists.
He smiles at you briefly before he surprise-lunges forwards, ready to sweep you off your feet, but you know he fights aggressively and has seen it coming from miles away. Skilfully, you jump as high as you can, swinging your knee over his neck so you're sitting on top of his shoulders.
He crouches over before you've had a chance to yank his collar, makes you do a somersault over his head and throws you down on your back, immediately pressing his dull practise switchblade against your throat.
"Fuck!" You admit defeat.
"That's got to be a new record," he grins, "10 seconds."
"Dammit!"
"Come on," he offers you his hand and pull you to your feet, "let's go again."
"Alright," you take on your stance once more and try to read him, "you got lucky this time."
"Sure," he says and grins while skilfully swinging his switchblade so it swooshes in the air between you.
"Show off," you stick out your tongue and take advantage of his momentary grinning as you run towards him, slip down to your knees and slide between his legs, plunging your little white plastic dagger into his right calf so the blade disappears into the handle.
"Right side injury," you yell to make him simulate that he's hurt and kick his left leg in the hope that he will fall down.
But even off balance, he's sturdier than you think and keeps his stance, so you jump to your feet and charge at him again, this time jumping him on his front, forgetting that he has a vibranium arm as you try and injure his left shoulder.
"Shit!" You say through gritted teeth at the sound of metal clanging against metal.
He takes advantage of the added weight to his front and falls forward on purpose so you land on your back, knocking the wind out of you in the process.
He lands on his knees between your legs, and even though you have your ankles wrapped around his waist and your plastic knife inside his arm pit, his fake gun is out of its holster, and he's pointing it straight at your heart.
"Got you," he's panting hard as he studies your face, moving his torso a little closer to you, and you get the sudden feeling he's about to lean in and finally kiss you, so you tighten the grip your legs have around his waist, silently telling him to come closer. But he looks away and re-holsters his gun.
"That was better," he admits and stands up, holding out his hand for you to take. "Nice detail with the surprise kick."
With disappointment pooling in your stomach, you let him pull you up from the floor. "Mhm," you grunt. "And it would've worked too if it wasn't for your stupidly large feet."
"Sorry," he smiles, "Kick harder next time. Bust my fucking ankle" he winks at you.
"I'll bust your balls," you mutter, analysing the way he distributes his weight to predict how he'll move.
He laughs, "I love when you talk dirty to me!" He flips the daggers he's holding in each hand.
"God, you're so cocky right now!"
He grunts and readies himself for your attack, "I'll fucking show you."
Which he does. Two times more.
"Again!" You grunt in annoyance.
"How much more can you take?" He chuckles as you get in position for the fifth time.
"More," you parry your face again.
"Alright alright," he wipes his forehead on his wrist, "just gimme a second. I'm sweating balls."
"Don't you dare take off your shirt just to throw me off!"
"I would never!" he grins and grabs the neck of his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion, revealing glistening pecs and that small trail of hair that you've dreamt of licking.
"You're fucking infuriating, Barnes," you say while charging straight at his dumb smile, but he grabs you around the waist before you've even had the chance to react and throws you to the ground, unstrapping your knife belt in the process so you only have a single dagger left to defend yourself with.
He throws himself on top of you, pins your wrists over your head and incapacitates you by pressing his chest down on your lungs.
"Fuck!"
"Five seconds this time," he smirks. "You're slipping. Should've stayed in bed, huh?"
"Did your mom ever tell you how fucking annoying you are?" you wriggle to get loose but he merely tightens his grip. "Can't you just let me win once?"
"Can't help it. I love when you turn all aggressive."
"What happened to all the gentleman-crap you and Steve always advocate?"
"It went out the door when you starting cursing at me," he grins and pulls on your wrists so you stretch your shoulders with a small groan.
"Careful Barnes or I'm not gonna want to play with you anymore," you do another small wriggle to break free.
"I have a hard time believing that," he says and with a grin turns his gaze down the length of your neck again, fixes his eyes on your panting chest.
The electricity you've felt between you as of late swells and grows, settles in your chest cavity at the way his weight feels between your legs, his handsome face mere inches from yours. Voltage in your joined skin.
You study his every move as he briefly licks his lips and look back at you.
With your eyes locked on his, he gulps, suddenly uncomfortable. Neither of you say anything but the look he sends you speak volumes when he settles his gaze on your mouth.
"Bucky," you say tenderly and search his face in the hope that it will finally get him to kiss you, but it does the opposite. Instead, it looks as if he awakens from a trance.
He blinks twice, parts his lips as he carefully examines your expression and then he sends you an apologetic smile as he lets go of your wrists. "Sorry," he says and move away from you, stands up as he avoids your disappointed gaze. "Let's call it a night."
You have a hard time being as nonchalant as he is about the situation he just denied the both of you, and you jump to your feet with annoyance radiating from your entire being. "Hell no!" You protest as you clip on your knife belt again, "I'm not done with you."
"Sweetheart," he sighs pointedly with a raised eyebrow but the new nickname doesn't escape you and it takes the edge of the infuriation you feel.
"Don't sweetheart me," you say and bend down in your hips, balling your taped-up hands into fists. "Get in position. I'm gonna find your weak spot soon enough, Barnes."
"If you say so," he sighs in defeat. "Come on then," he lazily waves you forward and you run straight towards him, copying the manoeuvre from the first round by swinging your knee over his neck.
Again, he tries to throw you off by bending forwards, but this time you're holding on much tighter to him and you stay put. He slashes the plastic switchblade against your arm, yelling out "injury!" while throwing you off his shoulder again when you're not allowed to use your left arm to hold on to him any longer.
Luckily, you land on your feet so you kick his left arm, making the switch blade fly out of his grip and you spin again, this time fuelled by so much frustration towards him, that you kick him straight in the chest with so much force he immediately falls down.
He lands on his back with a thump while you land straddled across his chest, your face close to his, the small plastic dagger in your hand pressed tightly against his Adam's apple.
"Okay," he gulps and opens his palms to signify surrender, "this time, you have me. That kick was ballsy!" he grins boyishly. "Your flexibility always amazes me."
"Told you I'd find your weak spot," you pant with a proud smile on your lips, enjoying having him in his lying like this.
The knife is no longer pressed to his skin but neither of you are doing anything to move out of the position you're in, and when his eyes search your face and he lets out a small inaudible gulp, you lean forwards without thinking, finally claiming his lips in a hungry kiss.
He follows you immediately and it doesn't take long before your tongues are intertwined and his right hand is cradled around your chin.
"Bucky," you whisper against him and stretch out your arms over his head and you slink forwards, dragging your front over his.
"Mmh", he hums against you and sits up so you straddle his waist, presses his pelvis towards yours and kisses you again while he grabs you around the ribcage, scoots you closer to his. "You are my weak spot," he pants and pushes his tongue inside your mouth, lets his arousal grow.
You bury your fingers in his long hair, let him lick your neck while he groans beneath you. "Take off my clothes," you whisper in his ear and lick the shell of it.
"Ah shit," he whispers against your skin and gives you a brief, wet kiss before he moves his head to get a better look at you. "You are so beautiful," he whispers and goes back to kiss your wanting lips, vibranium fingers slowly pulling down the zipper at the front of your suit, revealing your naked chest to him.
"Fuck me," he gulps when he looks down at the exposed skin between you, "you're so fucking beautiful," he whispers and leans forwards, takes your nipple between his lips and kisses you sensually
"I'm crazy about you," you confess in a whisper and throw back your head as his hands become more wanting, his hips suddenly moving in small thrusts. "Fuck me Bucky," you fist his hair and hold him at an arms length while moving your hips to simulate you riding him which has him grunt a few excited times.
He looks at you with pupils blown wide, mouth falling open. "Oh my god, you are so dirty!"
"I want you so bad," you pad his erection through his cargo pants and he shoots back his head in response, the most beautifully sinful look etched on his face. "Take off your pants."
"Yeah," he grins and flips you onto your back, gives you a brief kiss before he stands up, unbuckles his belt and pushes down his pants, kicking them and his boots off. He gives a raspy exhale when he sees you sitting on your knees before him, and he groans gutturally when you find the edge of him through his boxers and you trace the massive outline of him with your lips.
He takes a step closer to you, buries his hands in your hair as you kiss the trail of hair from his navel down and lick the muscles giving his torso a distinct V running down beneath the elastic band of his boxers.
"Sweetheart," he groans without looking away, tenderly holding your hair back so he can see your face as you kiss and lick him. "I've been dreaming of this."
"Me too," you trace his head underneath the dark fabric, suck a wet spot at the tip and cup his balls in your hands, letting your index finger slip back to touch his tight perineum.
"Jesus fuck, you are so fucking dirty," He shoots back his head with a groan, eyes suddenly fixating on something above you, but you ignore it.
You're about to pull down the last layer of fabric separating him from your mouth, when he takes a step back. "Hey, hey," he suddenly says in a different tone of voice and he puts his hands on your arm to get you to stop moving, eyes still fixated above you.
"Sweetheart," he looks down at you with a shocked expression as he takes one more step backwards while drying off saliva from the corner of his mouth. "Not here, okay?"
"Why not?"
"There's a camera pointing straight at us." He points over your head and you notice the red dot immediately.
You release the grip you have on him with a sigh. "Tony and his fucking security," you mumble.
He quietly helps you up and pulls on his pants while you zip up the front of your suit so you're decent again.
"So now what?" you grin a little awkwardly and take a step closer to him, hoping that he will suggest one of your bedrooms.
"Come on," he's suddenly serious as he grabs your hand and pulls you towards the elevator, silently pointing out the security camera blinking angrily in the corner of the lift as you zoom up to your floor.
"Being cockblocked by a camera really wasn't on my bingo card for this year," you joke.
He smiles a little but you can tell it's forced and it doesn't change the frown he's sporting.
You both get off on your floor and he follows you to your quarters but doesn't follow you inside when you open the door.
"I should go," he furrows his eyebrows.
"What?" You turn around staring at him.
"The footage," he mumbles and his upper lip twitches. "I have to go destroy it."
"We can do so tomorrow," you smile at him and grab him around the waist, kissing his neck to try and coax him into continue where you left off.
"Might be too late then," he whispers.
"Bucky, come on. It's just Tony."
He leans forwards and for a brief moment, you're sure you have him convinced but then he presses his lips to your cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart," he says quietly and with that, he's out the door.
His prescense lingers even after he's gone and all you can think about is what would've happened if he'd stayed.
Day 53
You listen to him pace the floor of his quarters above you half the night before deciding on getting up yourself.
He doesn’t join you around 4 am as he usually does when neither of you are able to sleep, and at 7:30, Steve comes down, dressed in his running gear, alone.
"What's up with Bucky?" He asks while scratching his beard. It's not something you've ever explicitly discussed before but of course he too has noticed how much time you've been spending together outside the ring.
"I don't know," you shrug and turn your attention back to the book you've been pretending to read for two hours straight.
Even with your eyes fixed on the yellowing pages in front of you, you can tell that Steve stops mid-motion. "...Did you two have a fight?"
"No, we did not," you scoff, "we're not children."
"I know. But you're both wearing the same long face, and he's usually occupying that chair - " he points to the bar stool opposite you, "- when he's making up bad excuses to spend more time with you instead of coming out for a run with me."
"I don't know what's up with him, Steve," you say pointedly, "he doesn’t tell me anything and I'm not his girlfriend!"
Steve puts his weight on his elbow and leans close so you can see his expression from the corner of your eyes. "Is that what this is about?" he asks quietly, "You want to be his girlfriend?"
Your cheeks light up and you determinedly fix your gaze on the first word of the page. "I'm not having this conversation with you," you mumble even though you know your cover is made.
"You don't have to," he shrugs. "I've already had it with Bucky."
Finally, your interest is piqued. You shoot Steve a nervous side eye. He's looking at you like a disappointed father.
"...and?" You ask when he doesn't continue.
"I really don't think this is a conversation you should be having with me."
"Well you started it," you mumble and look back down again, flipping the page of your book even though you haven't read a single word.
Suddenly, Steve stands up straight. "Hey man," he says over your head and you don't have to turn you gaze to know who's just entered the room.
"Hey," you hear Bucky's voice from the doorway before he fully enters the room though he stays close to the exit.
"Right," Steve nods and pads your hand before pressing past Bucky, clapping his shoulder in the process.
Finally alone, Bucky takes two steps closer to you. "Hey, sweetheart," he mumbles quietly, hands buried in his pockets, "can we talk?"
You look up at him, the air between you thick. "Sure," you sigh but cross your arms over your chest.
He takes the bar stool next to you, drums his fingers against the steel kitchen counter, purses his lips. "Last night was -..." he trails off and closes his eyes in frustration when he cannot find the right words.
"Disappointing?" You say and cock an eyebrow.
"Yeah," he agrees honestly. "It was very disappointing. I'm sorry about that."
He looks sincere but you're not sure how to react. You want to accept his apology - to have him back on your side - but you need an explanation.
"It wasn't because I didn't enjoy it," he quietly continues, "- because trust me, I did," he sends you a pained look and you ease up on the defensive position you're holding yourself in as he carefully grabs your hands, kisses your knuckles tenderly. "I didn't lie when I said that I've been wanting it for quite some time," he looks at your joined hands and your heart cracks at the confession that Steve insinuated. "- been wanting you."
"Then why'd you leave?" You ask quietly.
His gaze crawls up to meet yours. "Truth be told, I got scared."
"Of... us?"
He shakes his head. "No, sweetheart. Of that camera."
"The camera?" you tilt your head to the side and search his face, "Honey, it's just Tony. I know there's bad blood between you, but he would never expose any of us."
"I know," he gulps. "It's more what the camera represents. Usually, I'm so aware."
"Of what?"
"Everything," he breathes as if it's a relief to say out loud. "It's like I told you; the serum enhances everything inside of you, dials everything up to fucking eleven. So in terms of combat and targeting enemies it's great, but when I'm with you, I don't feel anything else..."
You furrow your brows. You don't understand.
"Sweetheart... I can tell by the colour of the dust underneath Sam's shoes where he's been taking his latest date. I know when you're on your period just from the way you wash your hair. I know when Nat's talked to her sister last, when Steve's not sleeping - even when Coulson's wife's van needs an oil change. I'm aware of every emergency exit, surveillance measurement and guard change of every building I've entered in the past six months, but that camera last night? Sweetheart, I forgot it was there."
"Buck," You whisper achingly. "That's an awful lot to carry around."
"I know," he mumbles. "Being alert of everything has been my default for so long - a survival mechanism if you will - but last night, you were all I saw. And I got scared when I suddenly realised how easily you've made me put down my guard," he sighs. "That's why I left."
An involuntary whimper escapes your throat, you fiddle with the golden link that runs over the back of his left hand. "I know it scared you but I bet it must've felt good to let go too."
"You have no idea," he breathes out a sigh of relief. "But it's not easy to let go of something that's such an integral part of your way of living. Contemplated what to do all night."
"What did you conclude?" Your heart starts to hammer in your chest.
"That kissing you definitely beats remembering where every security camera in the compound is," he shoots you a careful smile. "Look I know I screwed up, and I know I should've kissed you weeks ago. And I'll probably still get scared of the effect you have on me from time to time," he moves a little, uncomfortable. " - but if you want me, I'm yours."
"If I still want you?" You smile at him, "you're all I want Buck. You know I'm in love with you."
"Yeah," he nods. "I'm in love with you too."
"I know," you bite your lower lip and search his face.
He moves a little closer to you, snakes his hands around your neck in quiet desperation and finally kisses you.
"Hey," you whisper in-between tender kisses. "Perhaps you wanna show me your room?"
"Yeah," he grins against your lips. "I wanna fucking show you the world."
He's yours and you're his. And in that moment, you know he's done leaving.
what do you do when your three best friends are trying to steal your precious little sister and your new friend group suddenly starts asking about her, too? ask your brother suguru geto, he’s living through it.
content: language, crude humor, crack fic, mentions of honkai star rail and dota
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽.2
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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I KID YOU NOT THEY'RE STEALING FICS IN MASSES AND TOOK MY ENTIRE KINKTOBER LIST LIKE ITS EXACTLY the same TAGS AND ALL
im so so so sorry to tag spam this is the first and only time ill ever do this but theyre literally pillaging peoples stuff rn and i will not allow anyone to gain anything off MYYYY work
Add Kashiwagi to that list. Firm believers that him and Yayoi had something going on at some point. A firm believer in Kashiwagi is Daigo's actual daddy.
I love your kashiwagi content! Especially gen-san! Could you do angsty hcs on kashiwagi breaking down when he sees s/o injured? He's normally calm and collected but when he sees s/o hurt, he goes crazy :')
OOoooo Kashi-angst. I am assuming since you mentioned Kashiwagi that you meant this ask to be about him and NOT his Ishin Gen-san persona, but plz correct me if I am wrong on that. Hcs below, mwah.
There are few people who can match Kashiwagi when it comes to levelheadedness, so when he starts losing it, literally everyone knows it. Even the lowest grunts at the Tojo Clan can feel the uneasiness permeating the air.
Kashiwagi's always been a solitary man so everyone was surprised when he started bringing you around and annoucing you as his s/o. He doesn't go around blasting the news that you got injured but your sudden lack of prescence combined with his mood sends a clear message to everyone.
The scene of your injury becomes a bit of a tall tale from the few Tojo men who were around to see Kashiwagi there. He ignores the whisperes of his underlings talking about how they'd never seen Kashiwagi push his way through others like that, frantically craddling you in his arms, eyes wide with fear and panic on the face of a man who had never exhibited either of these emotions before in his entire career.
Majima, Saejima, and the rest of the older guard try to keep these rumors under wraps but even Daigo knows that the only reason Kashiwagi doesn't tell anyone to stop saying these things is that these statements were in fact the truth. Kashiwagi really did push his way onto the scene, right past Daigo who tried to hold him back to prevent him from seeing you like that.
Kashiwagi didn't actually say a word that day, but everyone could hear in his breathing that he was desperately trying to hold back a scream. His visits to see you in the hospital were the same way: painfully silent. Even if you were asleep or too weak to talk, he'd just sit patiently by your bedside without saying a word.
He isn't a man for revenge typically. Daigo assigns the work of tracking down who was responsible for this to Majima or Saejima but Kashiwagi insists on going with them, not to get revenge but because he feels it's his responsibility. He won't say it out loud but he feels guilty, convinced that if you hadn't met him, you wouldn't have gotten hurt.
Even in such dire circumstances, Kashiwagi doesn't actually lose his cool during the manhunt. If/when they track down who's responsible, he'll fulfill his duty without overstepping his bounds. Those around him can feel how this has changed him though. Every punch he throws has such a heavy weight behind them, as if every swing he takes he secretly hopes to rid himself of the guilt he feels inside.
Anonymous: "!FYI this will contain spoilers for Y3 and Y7!
I think that Yayoi had an affair with Kashiwagi during her marriage to patriarch dojima. They continued their relationship after the patriarch's death but kept it secret to avoid scandal.
After Kashiwagi's "death", Yayoi began receiving bouquets of flowers on days like her birthday or valentines day and the like from an anamous sender. The bouquets would always contain a romantic card from her secret admirer."
