Warnings: unprotected sex • age-gap dynamic (45-year-old Leon × younger adult Reader) • plus-size!Reader • oral sex (f receiving) • penetrative sex • praise kink • size/strength difference • mild possessiveness • Leon being touch-starved and emotional • cursing • unprotected sex •Fingering
It was supposed to be a simple first date.
Dinner, a few drinks, something light and low-pressure. You didn’t expect Leon Kennedy to show up at your doorstep in a sleek black Porsche, hair neat, shirt slightly rumpled, looking both painfully handsome and like he’d spent the last ten minutes giving himself a pep talk.
“You… look beautiful,” he said when you stepped outside.
You smiled shyly, he blushed darting his eyes away from you.
The date is perfect, awkward in a sweet way, full of small smiles and soft laughter. Leon’s sarcasm slips in, but so do those dumb jokes he clearly thinks are hilarious.
“Two cannibals are eating a clown,” he says, deadpan. “One looks at the other and says, ‘Does this taste funny to you?’”
You snort, then let out a small laugh behind your hand, he stares at you like he just witnessed a miracle.
By the time dessert comes, you’re leaning closer without realizing it. His hand brushes yours — accidental, innocent and the poor man looks like he’s going to combust.
And then the sky opens.
Rain slams down in sheets the moment you step outside the restaurant. Leon immediately puts a steady hand on your lower back, steering you toward the car.
“Right...of course,” he mutters. “I’m not driving you home in this. The last thing I need me driving and crashing and us dying on our first date.”
You laugh. “Dying? Are you that bad of a driver." You teased.
"I am an excellent driver."
You roll your eyes, but he’s already guiding you into the Porsche, carefully holding your dress so you don’t snag it.
He’s protective without being pushy.Gentle without being patronizing.And so painfully unaware of how attractive that is.
The rain gets worse on the drive, thunder rolling, wind shaking the car and Leon’s knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
“Yeah,” he lies. “Just don’t like bad weather when I’ve got someone I care about in the car.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
He glances at you, cheeks pink, then looks back at the road.“Uh. I mean. On a date. With someone. A hypothetical person,” he mumbles. “Shit.”
You giggle.
He pulls into the covered spot outside his building, something tidy, a nice place as he turns off the engine with a determined exhale.
“You’re staying here until the storm passes,” he says. “I’m not sending you into that.”
You start to protest, but lightning cracks you squeak, and Leon gives you a look that brooks no argument.
Inside, his apartment is… tiny.
It's clean, not expecting from a man who works as a DSO agent. The kitchen looks decent but barely used, the couch looks lived in and you can see his bed down the hall.
He rubs the back of his neck.“Yeah. Home sweet shoebox.”
“I like it,” you say honestly.
He glances at you, really looks as warmth spreads through his expression.
“I don’t get why you said yes,” he murmurs suddenly, almost too quiet to hear. “I mean. You’re… young. Gorgeous. And I’m—”
“Leon,” you interrupt gently. “You saved me.”
He freezes.
“From that creep outside the bar. A few weeks ago. My date stood me up, and you made sure I got home safe.”
Leon’s ears go pink, he clears his throat then adverts his gaze.“Yeah, well… I, uh...I also maybe… used my job to look up your number because I was too much of a coward to ask for it.”
You blink.
He winces coughing into his hand“Illegal,” he mutters. “Super illegal. Don’t tell anyone. Please.”
You laughed, a soft, warm sound as you cup his cheek.
He melts, eyes slipping closed leaning into your touch.
Lightning flashes outside.
Thunder shakes the window.
And suddenly Leon’s hands are on your waist, gentle but firm, pulling you closer. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for weeks — soft, controlled, then deeper, hotter, as you curl your fingers in his shirt.
Your lips part for him.
He groans softly into your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “I swear I’m trying to be a gentleman—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “Not tonight...I don't want it."
He lifts you, guiding your legs around his waist as he carries you toward the bedroom. Your curves press against him, soft and warm, and Leon’s breath stutters.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers against your throat. “Do you know that?”
His hands roam your back, your hips, your thighs, reverent and hungry and when he lays you on the bed, he pauses just staring for a moment, chest rising hard with each breath.
Your thighs part instinctively as he climbs over you,pulling your dress up, worshipping every inch of soft skin with slow, warm lips. His hands knead your hips, your thighs, your belly like he’s memorizing the shape of you.When he finally slides your panties off, slow, steady, eyes locked on yours—his breath stutters.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice breaking. “So perfect.”
He strokes your pussy, fingers sliding through slick heat, and you moan his name.
He shudders violently.“Say it again.”
“Leon.”
He lowers between your legs, mouth hot against the inside of your thigh. “Leon—” you gasp.
“Let me taste you,” he murmurs, kissing higher. “Please.”
His tongue finds your pussy so gently you gasp — slow licks, soft kisses, savoring you as moans into you.
You thread your fingers into his hair, your hips lifting, your thighs trembling as he eats you with slow, deliberate hunger, building you up until you’re panting, clutching the sheets.
Clothes vanish and when he finally climbs back up your body, his cock hot and heavy against your thigh, he cups your cheek again trembling slightly.
“Tell me if you want me,” he whispers. "Or tell me to stop and I will...I'll stop and we can forget this ever happened."
You don’t hesitate.
“I want you, Leon.”
His eyes darken instantly.“Sweetheart,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
He slides into you slowly, deeply, until he’s fully seated inside your warmth.
Your pussy squeezes him instinctively and Leon’s breath breaks.
“Oh.....fuck...”
He holds himself over you, arms shaking, trying to let you adjust while his cock throbs inside your heat.When you move your hips just a little, he chokes on a moan.
“You feel… god… you feel unreal—”
He thrusts once, slow, deep and your mouth falls open. “Leon—”
He kisses you again, swallowing your gasp as he moves inside you, slow at first, then deeper, then harder when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
“You’re so warm—” he groans into your neck, “so... fuck...sweetheart.I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you—”
His rhythm turns desperate when your pussy clenches around him, your moans growing breathless.
“Please, Leon,don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he pants, thrusting harder, deeper. “Not— not stopping until you come on my cock—”
Your orgasm hits fast, sharp, overwhelming, your body arching as you squeeze him tight. Leon groans into your shoulder and thrusts deep, spilling hot inside you, holding you close as he trembles through every pulse.
He stays inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your cheek.
“Rain’s not stopping anytime soon,” he murmurs.
You smile lazily, fingers brushing his hair.“Good,” you whisper. “Then neither are we.”
Leon laughs softly, warm, breathless, undone as he gives you a lazy kiss.“Sweetheart,” he says, kissing you again, “I am so in trouble.”
THE SUNLIGHT WAS RUDE.Absolutely, unapologetically rude.
It spilled through Leon’s half-closed blinds, warm and golden and unforgiving, sliding across your bare skin and finally crawling up the length of Leon’s spine where he lay tangled with you.
He groaned.
Not the sexy “I want another round” kind of groan.
The “my spine is stiff and reality exists again” groan.
You blinked awake, still wrapped in the smell of his sheets, the warmth of his chest, and the pleasant ache of a night that went far deeper than either of you expected. Leon had fallen asleep with one arm around your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his face buried in your shoulder like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
He squeezed you unconsciously as he shifted.
Then he froze.
He lifted his head just enough to look past your shoulder, squinting at something across the room.
You followed his gaze with a tired hum.
The clock.
The clock read 12:07 PM.
Leon blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then.“…no.”
A beat.
“NO.”
He shot upright with the kind of speed that belonged on an action movie poster, nearly knocking himself off the mattress as he scrambled for his pants.
You sat up, clutching the sheets to your chest, startled and confused.“Leon?! What—?”
He was already halfway into his jeans, hopping on one leg like a frantic golden retriever.“I was supposed to be at work at SIX.”
He checked the clock again like it might apologize.
“SIX A.M. SIX!”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "Leon, it’s—”
“Twelve. It’s TWELVE. I am six hours late!” he cried, pulling his shirt over his head backwards, ripping it off, and then trying again.
He looked delirious, hair sticking in every direction, face flushed, shirt misaligned, belt half buckled, socks nowhere in sight.
He ran to the mirror, cursed, ran back to the bed, cursed again when he realized he still had no socks, then dropped to his knees searching beneath the furniture.
It was one of the most unintentionally adorable things you’d ever seen.
“Leon,” you said gently, leaning on a pillow as you watched him spiral, “shouldn’t you call your boss?”
“I can’t call my boss, sweetheart, it’s the government...if I’m late they assume I’m dead!”
He found one sock.
Held it up like triumph. "Ha!"
Then immediately misplaced it again.
You finally crawled to the edge of the bed, giggling softly. “Leon. Stop. Breathe.”
He stared at you, stressed, beautiful, and wildly disheveled before melting slightly.
And then he leaned in, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you.
Not a rushed kiss.
But a soft, slow, I would absolutely choose you over punctuality kiss.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers brushing the familiar scars there.
He groaned,quiet, helpless and leaned further over the bed to kiss you again, deeper this time, his lips warm and lingering. Tongue brushing yours as he held you close.
For a moment, he forgot he was late at all.
Then the clock beeped, that annoying grinding sound that snapped him back into reality.
Leon ripped away from you like he’d been shot, eyes wide, lips swollen.“I HAVE TO GO!”
He grabbed his keys, dropped them,grabbed them again and kissed you a third time, somehow sweeter than the first two.
And you blinked up at him, dazed and flushed.
He froze at the doorframe, realizing he was still half on the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress as he tried and failed to stand upright.
You laughed outright now.“Leon, are you okay—?”
He pointed at you with dramatic urgency, finger trembling.“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE!” he blurted, breathless.“I’LL BE BACK! I PROMISE! JUST—DON’T LEAVE!”
You blinked, heart melting completely.
“Leon,” you whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled like you’d just handed him oxygen, his head nodding slowly. “Okay. Good. Great.”
He kissed you again, quick, clumsy, desperate as his body trembled. “I’ll bring food. And coffee. And—shit....shit...I gotta GO—”
He stumbled out the door, slammed it behind him, immediately reopened it, shouted“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE!”
And then disappeared again.
The apartment fell silent.
You fell backward onto the bed, warm, smiling, and very much in love with a man who could single-handedly dismantle bioterror threats but could not handle a late morning after a first date.
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things.
You got Bucky Barnes instead.✦
✦warnings/tags: roommates, enemies to friends to lovers, insecurity, jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, slight body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'm trying something. Enjoy!✦
“Do you… have any pets?”
The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.
But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room.
Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left.
So quiet isn’t great.
It’s far better than your other options.
And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside.
Gloves.
It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty.
He is pretty.
Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate.
“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds.
“I clean things up. For people.”
You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?”
He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”
“I’m like a janitor.”
“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs.
“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”
Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”
He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“
“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”
James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.
It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-
“You got my name, on that paper?”
You blink at him. “Yes?”
“Look at it again.”
You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case.
He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue.
You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social-
Born in 1917.
You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.
“Are you a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”
You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“
“They do a unit on world war two?”
“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes.
You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-
“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?”
“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
You frown. “Staged dates?”
“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“
“Yes.”
“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.”
“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”
“And when you move out?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.
But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers.
And he really is pretty.
It helps.
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”
James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”
“Because you’re… old?”
“Because of the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”
“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“
“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”
He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”
You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one.
“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush.
“I- I know. Sorry-“
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.”
James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”
“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.”
His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”
James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath.
Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.
You can have him as a roommate.
It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.
It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.
You really don’t have that many other options.
So James Barnes is going to be your roommate.
———
He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water.
You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.
At first, it’s perfect.
Then the second week hits. And James is still never home.
But his presence is everywhere.
You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.
Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door.
But you go to grab them, and they’re gone.
The jacket, and your keys.
A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck.
You need your keys.
And you rip up half the apartment before you find them.
Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute.
You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work.
It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.
Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him.
But it only gets worse from there.
You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.
So it doesn’t stop.
The cleaning.
Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel.
It needs to stop.
You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare.
James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six.
“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”
“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”
You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself.
So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you.
You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not.
The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep.
If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.
So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes.
“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”
You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”
James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”
“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”
“Your… what?”
“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”
He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
“You did ask me to clean up.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“
“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“
“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“
“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“
James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“
“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”
He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.”
It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-
“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.
White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists.
“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts.
“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”
Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him.
His mother raised him better than that.
Than you.
You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts.
Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here.
You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.
Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower.
Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist.
It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway.
——
You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.
He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table.
He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway.
But he’s not.
You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats.
It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit.
You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care.
All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one.
You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.
And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name.
If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place.
Not your place.
Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish.
And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack.
And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.
James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty.
You still want to strangle him.
“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”
“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”
“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown.
He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress-
Oh.
Your dress.
Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid.
James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle.
To a hundred-year-old, you might be.
It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.
“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him.
This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”
His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”
“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”
“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”
He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.
You’re not childish.
As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth.
——
“Where are you going?”
You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror.
You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him.
So you’re doing it in the living room.
“Out.”
“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”
“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”
He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”
You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.
But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again.
It’s all exhausting.
Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting.
You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door.
It’s the high point of the night.
Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.
He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them.
“Can you see yourself having kids?”
You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“
“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”
You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”
Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head.
“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”
“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”
Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.
He asks if you want dessert.
You shake your head politely, and call a cab.
Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds.
You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career.
You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave.
James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes.
“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.
“Dogshit.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.
“She bites back.”
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”
James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”
You flip him off, and slam your door behind you.
You’re not going to die alone.
Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire.
And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips.
He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place.
You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.
He’s still pretty.
A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.
But you’re tired of just sex.
So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.
———
You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it.
And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years.
You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat.
With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.
You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and-
“Are you hungry?”
You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.
“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly.
“No, huh.”
You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown.
“What-“
“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”
He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure.
“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs.
“Tortellini.”
“And it’s… good?”
His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”
You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever.
But he’s trying.
He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.
You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it.
“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”
It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta.
“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head.
“Ate at the Watchtower.”
“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“
“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare.
You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.
It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose.
“Have you ever made tortellini before?”
“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“
“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.
James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“
“I’m hungry.”
He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin.
“There’s no superhero sabbatical.”
You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing.
“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”
Home.
You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves.
It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut.
It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta.
“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”
“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”
You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze.
You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”
“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”
“Did we?”
His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”
“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”
“Why?”
He pauses. “Because we live together.”
“People live together and hate each other all the time.”
“Well, do you hate me?”
You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask.
But his words sound sincere.
And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up.
“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”
You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice-
“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss.
You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would.
You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid.
“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”
You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.
“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.
“Oh- Okay.”
He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”
You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”
“Most people call me Bucky.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”
“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”
A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”
“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”
That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”
He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”
“Do you not like your job?”
“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”
You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced.
None of this is forced.
And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him.
It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at.
So this is easy.
“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”
Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks.
You might be losing your mind.
“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”
He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious.
And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem.
So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.
“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”
“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look.
“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“
“You’re havin’ sex on dates?”
He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more.
“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“
“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.”
“What, all two of them?”
He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”
Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.
“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”
“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this.
And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw.
That might be too far.
You just started liking him.
You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend.
But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin.
Shit.
You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers.
You’re just horny.
“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”
“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”
He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”
You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”
Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”
“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety.
As if you’re something that matters.
It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them.
That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”
“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit.
But he made it for you.
“We’re good.”
———
It’s happening so fast.
You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place.
He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry.
Which means you’ve touched his boxers.
And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things.
You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts.
You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky.
Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations. He even showed you his motorcycle.
“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head.
“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”
“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“
“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights.
He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.
You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it.
In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around.
And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle.
“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“
“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“
Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool.
“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”
You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage.
And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky.
But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person.
You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky.
He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera.
“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought.
“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”
It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy.
“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”
Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”
“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”
He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”
You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs-
Not going to ruin it.
This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this.
That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night.
You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work.
He’s not an option.
So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried.
But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love.
“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”
You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”
It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him.
He picks up in two rings.
“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”
“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“
“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”
He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”
“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”
“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”
You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch.
That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine.
You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-
Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side.
“Hey, what-“
“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“
Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it.
He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief.
Then it hits you.
You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-
Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back.
“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“
“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head.
“I’m okay-“
“You get dinner?”
“I-“ You lean back. “What?”
“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”
You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man.
Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry.
“You wanna take this home and eat there?”
You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”
He snorts. “Gross, doll.”
You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real.
Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“So what was wrong with him?”
You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”
“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”
“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”
He raises his brows, and you sigh.
“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”
“That’s it?”
You nod, and Bucky snorts.
“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“
“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”
You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”
“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile.
He’s being serious.
So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”
You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head.
It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating.
And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while.
It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better.
Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke.
So you’d really rather stay here.
———
You’re wasted.
It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby.
You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink.
So you drank.
And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision.
The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope.
Bucky sighs from behind you.
You don’t remember calling him.
It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all.
“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”
Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”
“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”
His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”
“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”
He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”
“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”
“Yeah, for about two years.”
“Were there stars?”
Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“
A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit.
Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.
Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath.
Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“
“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”
He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side.
Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head.
“Were they pretty?”
“What?”
“The stars?”
He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”
That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night.
You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content.
Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy.
The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there.
You know Bucky did.
And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.
The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore.
You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name.
Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember.
Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head.
And you never want to do anything but sleep again.
———
You did something stupid.
You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more.
Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages.
All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”
You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“
“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”
You give him a flat look. “How much is this building worth, James.”
“’bout a billion.” He shrugs. “Means they got the money to replace things. Come on.”
The elevator doors open, and Bucky starts to herd you through the halls of the Watchtower. You don’t know how he talked you into this, but you’re also hitting a strange, foreign point of doing almost anything Bucky asks you to do. You trust him. He’s usually rational, and always has a logical reason for things—even when that thing is why the cheese needs to go in this drawer—and it makes your brain do a funny kind of static drawl.
You don’t know if he feels it the same, with you. If he feels anything at all.
But you’re not going to ruin it.
So you won’t ask.
“Here.” He turns you into a massive, glossy kitchen, and your mouth falls open.
“Are you saving the world with cooking?”
Bucky snorts, and moves you further into the room. “No, we’re just overfunded. What’re we making?”
“I-“ You stare around the room, trying to force yourself out of the daze of Bucky right behind you and the majesty of the kitchen. “I was going to do pizza?”
“Alright.” His voice is right in your ear. It’s distracting. “Tell me what to do, doll.”
You flush again, scanning over the cabinets. “I’m just going to give you all the instructions, but you’re going to do the actual work yourself, okay?”
Bucky hums, and you start to list off the ingredients. You’re expecting to have to run out for some things, but this miracle kitchen has everything. Even if this building does get attacked by terrorists and supervillains all the time, you sort of want to stay here forever. There’s soft music playing over speakers, and everything smells like cookies, and you’ve never seen so much space in your life.
But Bucky chose to leave.
And you still don’t really understand why.
“Bucky?” You say carefully, watching him roll the dough from your seat on the counter, and he glances up with raised brows.
“What, am I rollin’ it wrong-“
“No, you’re- You’re doing fine. Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you decide to move out of here? It’s… really nice.”
Bucky sighs, stopping his rolling, and you swallow.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-“
“No, it’s fine.” He lets out a slow breath. “Guess I just got sick of it. My family wasn’t the worst off, in the 40s, but I haven’t been used to… this.” He waves to the kitchen. “In years. Feels wrong.”
You nod, swinging your legs back and forth. “The luxury?”
“All of it.” Bucky does the tongue thing. He does it all the time. It’s never helpful in making you focus. “Never really wanted any of this. Just sorta happened. Valentina wanted me to walk this weird fuckin’ line of being down to earth and normal, after the news broke about John’s divorce. I told her I’d quit if she made me parade around like a monkey.”
“But…” You frown. “You didn’t quit.”
“No. Got a deal. I’d keep workin’, but I’m allowed to live normally otherwise.” He chuckles to himself, resuming his work on the dough. “Least I don’t have to be in congress anymore. I nearly punched about fifty people a day.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and before you can respond, a bellowing, thickly accented voice echoes through the room and nearly starts you out of your skin. You fall off the counter.
Bucky catches you around your waist, and his face is oddly tight—almost apologetic—but you don’t really have the brainpower to think about it.
He’s touching you. You’re pressed right to his chest. And he really is warm.
It’s taking a tremendous amount of effort to not press yourself into his chest. You won’t ruin the only easy thing in your life.
Certainly not in front of other people.
“Bucky Barnes!” A large, bearded man walks into the kitchen with spread arms, and a wide grin on his face. “You have returned!”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and he’s still holding onto you. You’re not sure he’s going to let go. “I’m not back, Alexei, we’re just using the kitchen-“
“We?” The man—Alexei, the Red Guardian, you’re meeting a second superhero and Bucky promised this wouldn’t happen and you’re going to kill him—leans around, his eyes landing on you. “You have brought a girl!”
Bucky tenses. “No-“
“Yelena!” Alexei calls over this shoulder, voice echoing through the halls. “Bucky Barnes has returned with a girl! Ava- Ava, look-“
Alexei grabs someone from the hall, and a terrifyingly beautiful woman walks into the kitchen, shoving his arm away.
“Do not grab me, Alexei-“
“I did not know if it would work.” He shrugs. “You might have vanished, was a fifty-fifty. And this is important, Barnes-“
“Brought a girl. I know, I saw them enter the building.”
Alexei gapes at her. “And you did not tell me such important news?”
“No, she didn’t, because she respects privacy.” Bucky glares between them, and you’ve started to hold his arm. You don’t really want him to let go. “I told you, we’re just using the kitchen, we don’t all have to-“
“What is so urgent that we are screaming.” A shorter, equally scary and pretty blonde woman appears, growing around the small group. “It is loud, Alexei, you could have texted me-“
“There is no time for texting.” Alexei waves her off. “Bucky Barnes has brought a girl to meet us.”
“I don’t think she’s here to meet us.” Ava drawls, looking more amused than anything. “He’s been avoiding the hall cameras. And he would have told us, if he was bringing someone, he cared about enough for us to know.”
“Really, Ava?” Bucky glares at her, his grip on you tightening, like he thinks you’re going to run. “It’s not a matter of caring, I was just trying to avoid this happening.”
He waves his hand to Alexei, and Ava grins.
“I know. You’re cooking.”
“He is cooking?” Yelena frowns at Bucky. “You do not cook, Bucky Barnes. You burn everything.”
Bucky’s words sound like he’s pushing them through his teeth. “I know. That’s why we’re practicing here.”
“Why would you practice here, Bucky.” Ava hums, still grinning. “Why not at your apartment.”
Alexei gasps, and the glare Bucky shoot Ava probably would have made you start crying, but she just grins.
“This is the roommate?” Alexei claps his hands, and suddenly they’re all looking at you. Every inch of your body wants to move closer to Bucky—see if he can shield you from all of it—but you don’t think that would help your case. “You work for charity, yes? Very good cause, I believe we could talk about an opportunity. Red Guardian sponsored vaccines-“
“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, and his glare is somehow scarier than before. “How the fuck do you know where she works.”
“Because I ran a background check on her.” Another person, a blond man with a beret, materializes next to Yelena, and you’re starting to think they’ve just been hiding in the walls. “You think I’m just going to let a member of our team go and live with some random woman? She might have been a murderer.”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “She’s not a murderer, John, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s hurtful, Bucky. I could have saved your life.”
“I do not think you saved his life, Walker.” Yelena says flatly. “Look at her, she is like a baby bird.”
“Well, we didn’t know that before- Hey, wait.” John frowns at you. “This is the roommate, Bucky? The girl that you-“
“John.” Bucky hisses. “I will take your taco shield, and turn it into pieces of a taco shield.”
John sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you, man. Unless you want Ava to be your wingman.”
“I don’t need-“
“Hey, guys.” Another blond man—why are they all blond—appears from behind Alexei, and if you’re up to date on current events, that should finally be all of them. “Why are we all in the kitchen?”
“Bucky is back, Bob. He has brought a girl, but not to meet us.” Yelena sighs. “John is being an idiot. Alexei needs to take a walk before he begins to ask stupid questions.”
Alexei frowns. “I am not asking stupid questions, Yelena-“
“What was the next thing you were going to say?”
There’s a long silence, and Alexei heaves a long, dramatic sigh.
“I will take my walk.”
He starts to shuffle away, Ava following him with a mock pat on his back.
Bob clears his throat and raises his hand. “Bucky, as long as you’re back, can you please fix the toilet? I don’t want to bother Valentina, and I’m pretty sure John would just make it worse-“
John cuts him off with a scowl. “Hey-“
“Yeah, I can fix the toilet.” Bucky turns back to you, squeezing your arms. “Stay here. If anyone starts to be a dick or bother you, ignore them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh- Okay.” You give him a small smile. “Bye.”
He does the tongue thing again, then nods and walks out into the hall, taking a nervous looking Bob and annoyed John with him.
Leaving you with Yelena.
She stares at you, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to work out if you should smile at her or not. Probably not. She doesn’t seem like the type to love smiling. All you can really think about is what just happened. How Bucky’s told them about you. Which means you’re not just his roommate. You’re at least his friend. A good enough friend to mention to other friends. The girl that-
Something.
John hadn’t finished his sentence.
And it’s going to fucking eat at your every thought, until it’s all empty except for what John going to say. What does Bucky tell them about you. Is it good. It should be good, or they probably would’ve been acting differently.
But you need to know.
Yelena’s right here.
And when you look up at her, she’s still staring at you.
So you swallow, trying to stand a little taller, and give her a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Me?” Yelena blinks at you, and you nod nervously. “Is it something about the New Avengers? Because I do not know any of the approved press answers, Valentina thought we should be memorizing them, but I think that is stupid, so I have not-“
“It’s not about the New Avengers.” You cut her off, rubbing at your arms as you speak. “I, um- I just wanted to know what Bucky’s told you guys about me?”
Yelena nods slowly. “Why?”
“I-“
“You know, I do not actually care.” Yelena moves across the kitchen, starting to sort through a cabinet. “He has only said good things about you.”
You flush, and the glow spreads down to your toes. “Really?”
“Yes. Are you who he is texting, all the time?” Yelena turns back around with a bag of chips, and you blink.
“I- I don’t text him all the time.”
“Yes, you do. All he does now is smile at his phone. Like a puppy. I did not know he could make that kind of face, but now he will not stop making it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be.” Yelena mutters, taking a large bite of a chip. “He is all soft now. Like a-“ She cuts herself off with a frown. “All I can think of is puppy. But that is what Bucky Barnes has become. It is adorable, and annoying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a proper apology, but you can’t really think outside of he says good things. And he smiles at his phone. And-
“It is nice.” Yelena sighs to herself, cutting through your thoughts. “He is more focused now, on a mission. No more brooding, like a-“
“Puppy?” You finish for you, and she stares at you for a long, tight second before smiling.
“I like you. You are funnier than Bucky. If he breaks your heart, you can call me and I will steal his arm and hide it where he will never find it.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, then shake your head. “No, Bucky doesn’t- We’re not-“
“I know, it is not worth ruining.” Yelena rolls her eyes, taking another chip before starting out of the room. “It isn’t anything, Yelena, and we’re supposed to be focusing on the mission, so shut the hell up.” Her voice has dropped to a deep, mocking tone similar to Bucky’s. “Like he does not smile all the time.”
“He-“
“I had seen Bucky smile three times.” She snaps, holding up her fingers. “That is a pathetic amount of times. But yes.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen, voice echoing behind her. “Keep acting like it is nothing. I am sure that will be very fun and fulfilling for both of you.”
———
The ceiling hasn’t changed in hours. It won’t. It’s a static object, it’s white with all the same little popcorn dots, because this is a nice apartment but it’s not that nice.
You don’t stop staring at it though.
Maybe, if it starts to shift, that will be a sign. A clear green light from the universe, that you should do something about this.
About you and Bucky.
There is no you and Bucky. There shouldn’t be a you and Bucky. It wouldn’t make any actual sense. He’s a hundred-year-old superhero, and you’re you. Nothing about you screams superhero’s girlfriend. Nothing about you screams girlfriend in general, because you have horrible streaks of luck in love, and you don’t want to hit Bucky with any of that.
You don’t even know if Bucky would want to date. He’s got other things going on, like being a New Avenger and trying to reintegrate into civilian life. You can’t really be worth that much time over the world, over something that he’s been trying to do since before he met you. And he might not even like you like that.
He smiles all the time.
Bucky’s always sort of smiled at you. It had been a crude, slightly mocking smile at the start, but you’d also screamed at him a lot. When you’d met him, he’d let out that low, amused noise that was basically a barking laugh in Bucky-words.
But he’s also talked about you, with the other people that—despite what he might grumble on the drive back home—he considers friends. And they’d all tried to keep talking to you, after he’d fixed the toilet, because they’d seemed to think you’d have information for them.
You don’t.
All you know is that Bucky is Bucky. He’s the first really good thing you’ve had in a while. It easy to come home to him and harder to leave him in the morning, and when he texts you, it always makes that glow in you rush right down to your core and toes and fingers. He’s pretty, but he’s always pretty, even when you want to rip out his stupid, handsome throat.
And maybe you’re in love with him. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more it remains the same, the more you feel the same.
Like you love him.
There’s not much more to say.
Every time you close your eyes, he’s lingering behind them. You can still feel every place he’d touched you all day. He’s scattered all over your apartment now, but you’d never want a single trace of him to go away.
He went to work today, even though it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent most of the day glancing at the door or your phone for an update.
You don’t know why he’d give one to you. It’s probably some big, fancy classified mission.
But you’re still rolling to the side, just to text that you haven’t missed the buzz of your phone.
Your screen remains dark.
The ceiling doesn’t change.
When he gets home, you should tell him that you love him, so he can text you safety updates.
No, you shouldn’t. That’s a stupid fucking reason to tell someone you’re in love with them. Especially when you’re not sure they love you back.
He smiles all the time.
He could just be more relaxed, when he’s not doing superhero things.
He hadn’t been relaxed the first month of you living together.
This is going to drive you insane. You won’t sleep until Bucky is home. Until you know that he’s safe, or you get a sudden text from him saying I love you, in case you were wondering. But Bucky wouldn’t type like that. He wouldn’t just tell you over the phone if he loved you, either.
You can’t picture him telling you that he loves you. That might be a bad sign.
Or you just haven’t had someone say that in so long that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
Bucky might not even be coming home. He might have had the mission run late enough that he decided to crash at the tower, and he could stay in all that luxury and decided he’d rather have that over cleaning up after you and eating dinner on the couch, and the text is going to say he’s moving back out and you’re never going to see him again-
There’s a loud bang out in the living room, and the ceiling shakes. You shoot up in, grabbing for your pepper spray, and slide quietly off the bed. Bucky’s told you, if you ever did have a break-in, you should barricade your room or go out onto the fire escape, while he deals with it.
But Bucky isn’t home. So it’s just you and the pepper spray.
You keep your steps light across the floor, carefully taking the doorknob and pulling it open, holding the pepper spray far in front of you as you scan over the dark.
No one is there. The door is even closer, but-
A little off its hinges. The wood looked sort of splintered. And you definitely heard a bang.
There’s a low groan of your name from across the room, and it sounds like-
“Bucky?” You grab for the light switch, wincing slightly as you’re blinded by the lamps. “Bucky what-“
Your mouth falls open as you round the couch, and he’s lying on the floor, eyes half open, breathing heavy, and a lot of red staining his clothing.
Blood.
That’s fucking blood.
“Oh my fucking- Bucky-“ You kneel down, tossing the pepper spray off to the side and taking his face between your hands. “What the fuck happened, I- We need to go to a hospital-“
“No.” He grunts, grabbing one of your wrists. “No hospital, doll- ‘m fine-“
“You’re bleeding-“
“Not mine.” He starts to push up with a low groan, and your hands move frantically, trying to find some way to help him. “Just tired, doll, I’ll be alright- Fuck-“
He groans, slipping back slightly, and you only manage to catch him with your full body weight to his back.
“You’re not fine, Bucky.” Your voice isn’t strong, but you’re either about to stop crying or throw up. It’s like a small, waking nightmare. You’re not going to lose him because of luxury. He’s just going to pass out on the floor and not wake up. “Can I at least get you to your team?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He starts trying to sit up again. “Not injured, nothin’ they can do.”
“Not- You’re obviously fucking injured, you idiot-“
“I don’t get injured, baby.” He squeezes your hand, and your eyes are stinging too much to really register his words. “We got any food-“
He groans, slumping against the couch, but at least he made it upright this time.
“You’re not eating until I figure out what’s wrong with you.” You mutter, settling yourself between his legs, and he groans.
His hand is resting on your waist. You’d bet a lot of money he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
“Nothin’ is wrong,” he mutters your name, but doesn’t fight it as you turn his face, trying to find some sort of writing that says infected wound on leg or something. “I told you, I don’t get hurt, would take a fuckin’ bomb to get me.”
“Was there a bomb?”
“No, doll, just some assholes shootin’ bullets.”
You glare at him. “Did you get hit?”
“No.” His lips twitch slightly. “You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Yes. I am.” You grab his jaw, turning it up, and he hisses. “Does that hurt.”
“No.” His words are through his teeth. “I swear, I’m just tired. Everything is spinning, if I go to bed it’ll be fine in the morning.”
You pause, your hand dropping to rest on his chest. “Everything is spinning?”
He nods, reaching up to cover your hand with his own. “Not you, though. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, flushing slightly as you scan over his features. “Bucky, did you hit your head at all?”
“Uh…” He pauses, and you can see it now. The lack of focus behind his eyes. “Maybe.”
“How hard?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t-“ You let out a slow breath. “Well, what hit you?”
“Pipe.” He mutters, suddenly avoiding your gaze. “Big pipe.”
“Big-“ You sigh, bowing your head. “God, fucking- You have a concussion, dummy.
“No-“
“Yes.” You grab his hand, slowly pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you need to get to bed.”
Bucky groans, but lets you help him up. His arm tosses around your shoulders, his face pressing into the back of your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the shiver it sends up your spine.
“You smell nice.” He mutters against your skin, nose nuzzling against a soft spot, and you take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“Look nice, too.” He’s a deadweight over your shoulders, and it’s an effort to keep him moving when he doesn’t seem to want to contribute all that much. “Like a flower.”
“I look like a flower?”
“Yeah. Pretty.”
You’re not going to let yourself think about that. He’s basically drunk right now, so it doesn’t really mean anything. Your only job is to get him into his bed—which, through an almost herculean effort, you do—and make sure there’s no serious brain damage with the limited knowledge of concussions you have.
“I think you’ll be okay.” You mumble, watching his eyes dazedly follow your finger. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, we’re going to the Watchtower so your team can look at you, okay?”
“Fine.” He grumbles, his hand still resting over yours. “I’m sorry, doll.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You didn’t want any of this heroing shit in your life. I dragged it in with me.”
“You didn’t mean to. And it’s not like you wanted any of it, either.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want-“
“Yes, it does.” The words fall out of you before you can stop them “And it’s not like aliens are invading my bathroom. I think that would be the line.”
He sighs. “I bled on the floor.”
“We’ll clean it in the morning.” You shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he’s still holding your hand. His eyes scan over you, almost blindingly blue through the dark, and a little more focused than even a second ago.
Time seems to slow to a drizzle like honey, slipping through your fingers but sticking to them at the same time. It can’t go slow enough, but it’s still too fast to give you the chance to think.
Bucky pulls you gently down, his free hand cradling the back of your head. His tongue does the little flick thing, and you swallow, settling a little further over him. He’s warm, but his metal thumb is sweeping over the back of your hand, and it’s just enough to tell you that this isn’t a dream.
You let out a small, soft gasp as Bucky kisses you, and it’s lazy. His lips move perfectly against yours, his touch on your careful and tender. He tastes a little like sweat, but it’s hard to care when his tongue presses between your lips, and he groans down your throat.
It’s easy to deepen it. To push a little further, and run your fingers through his beard, maybe lean further down and try to feel him everywhere when he nips at your lower lip, and you whine.
Then he pulls back suddenly. Without warning. Leaving you still lightheaded, but falling back to earth far too fast.
Bucky shakes his head, pulling away with a low groan, and it starts to sting. Your eyes, your throat, your skin.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t mean it, or you took it too far, or you took advantage of him in a vulnerable state, and now you’ve ruined it.
“I- I’m sorry.” You move off the bed, wrapping your arms around your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same as before.
But everything has changed.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” you whisper, and Bucky grunts your name.
“Wait, let me-“
“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ You swallow, and you’re not going to cry in front of him. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
Bucky tries to call after you, as you walk out of his room, but he’s hurt. He shouldn’t have to deal with your feeling being hurt right now. You can wrap your head around just friends later, right now you just need to sit in the pain. In what you destroyed, in all the lies you’d been quietly telling yourself that maybe this time it would be different.
It won’t be.
It never is.
But when you cry in bed, the man in your fantasies is still Bucky. Because you love him, and that’s not going to be as easy to brush off as a meaningless date.
You hope it will pass.
But there’s a chance he’s going to linger in your head for the rest of your life.
You fall asleep with muffled sobs into your pillow.
And your brain is cruel.
Because you dream of Bucky all night long.
———
You’re have a plan to avoid him. You spent the bleak hours of the morning, thinking about it. You’ll give it just enough time and space for Bucky to understand that you’re not hurt by it—he never needs to see the tears staining your cheeks, or the swell of your lips from chewing them into oblivion—and then everything will go back to normal.
Your heart hasn’t stopped beating for him, no matter how hard you’ve grabbed your throat and tried to force it down. Bucky doesn’t love you back, and that’s okay. It’s in line what you know. How painfully aware you are that you’re just not the type of person who gets to have that. Which can be fine. You have good friends. A good career. Maybe to make up for the gaping hole splitting through your chest, you can talk Bucky into getting a cat.
Or he’ll just move back into the tower, to avoid the awkwardness. Which means you’d get that cat.
But lose him.
You’ve sort of already lost him. You’re not sure you ever actually had him.
Which is what you’d thought. So you were right.
You’d never wanted so bad to be wrong in your life.
It’s easy to avoid Bucky, for most of the day. You poke your head into his room while he’s sleeping, just to make sure he’s still alive. He’s snoring, his hair mussed and face smushed into his pillows, and it takes a lot of effort to pull yourself away. He doesn’t want you. You have absolutely no right to watch him in this vulnerable state, when he’s very obviously already feeling better.
After that, you dance around him. Put on the coffee, and leave enough for him to have before you go out to get some food. Sit in a cafe and turn off your notifications, but still glance at your messages every few minutes, just to see if he’s messaged you.
It’s an hour before the first text comes through.
Where are you?
You sigh, quickly type back, out working, and close the thread. You’re only telling him, so he doesn’t worry about kidnapping or something. If you keep talking to him, you’ll just miss him more, or he’ll bring up last night and you’ll have to act like everything is fine.
Finishing work happens too fast, so you go for a walk. Then another walk. Then get lunch, and stare at your phone. At the little 3 notification on your calls, and the 10 on your messages. It might not even be Bucky. It’s still better to not look.
You only go home once the Sun starts to set, and you have it all rehearsed. If he stops you, you’re going to tell him that it’s not a big deal. It was only a kiss. You never have to speak of it again, and nothing has to change. If he pushes it, you’ll keep your head level, because you’re an adult. You’ve had a lot of failed romances, and this wasn’t even an actual relationship. So it’s not a big deal.
One failed kiss hurts more than any previous break-up, though. Feels like your heart is being split in half, and you’re never going to put it back together quite the same.
But that’s not Bucky’s problem.
So you’ll stick to your lines, and recover in your room, where he can’t hear your tears.
You open the door slowly, close it silently, and yelp as Bucky grunts your name from right behind you.
“Jesus fucking- James-“
“Where were you.” He snaps, and he’s standing really close. His arms are cross over his chest, eyes narrowed, and all the carefully practiced words are dissipating in the heat from his body. He sounds angry, his eyes boring into you like he’s going to pull the answer out of you with only a glare.
He might be able to.
You feel lightheaded again.
“Out working-“
“All day?” Bucky narrows his eyes, and you swallow.
“I had a lot of work.”
“Enough that you couldn’t pick up the damn phone?”
Your eyes are starting to blur again. “I was busy,” you whisper, and Bucky lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Well don’t fuckin’ do that. I came home from a mission, someone coulda followed me, and if you-“ He shakes his head, glowering at the air. “Just tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.” You give him a small smile, rubbing your wrists behind your back. “Is that it?”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who cornered me-“
“And you’re the one who’s been ignoring me all day.”
Shit. “I wasn’t ignoring you-“
“Yes, you were.” He grunts, taking a step forward, then freezing as you take a smaller one back. Something like hurt flashes over his features, and it drives right into your heart.
“Bucky-““No, it’s-” His voice is low, and it doesn’t sound fine. “I’d never hurt you, doll. Nothin’ could make me hurt you-“
“I know.” You say quickly, and you want to cross over to him, so he knows, but your knees feel like they’re about to give out. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m trying to give you space-“
He cuts you off with a frown. “Give me space?”
You nod weakly, and he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“I don’t want space.”
“But-“
“No, I was callin’ you all fucking day, and you think I want space?” He takes another step forward, eyes driving into some raw, needy part of you that’s pulling to him like a magnet. “You’re the one dodging me, doll. Do you want space?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to sound like every thought in your head isn’t melting into Bucky. “I just don’t want it to be weird-“
Another step. “Why would it be weird.”
“Because I kissed you.” You mumble. “And- It’s just a kiss-“
“It wasn’t just a kiss.” He grunts, and it’s getting harder to remember what you’d told yourself you’d say.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a big deal-
“No, it doesn’t.” Bucky stops, right in front of you, but he’s not touching you at all. It’s a small, strange torture. You can smell him, see twitch of his jaw and breath. But he’s not touching you. “But I kissed you, doll. So it’s up to you if we want to make it a big deal or not.”
The world does a stutter-stop. Time slows back to that honey, and his words take a second to skin under your skin. Another second for you to understand them.
When you speak, your voice is just a whisper. “What?”
“It’s fuzzy for me.” He mutters, and you’re trapped under his attention and low voice. “But I know I kissed you. So we can forget it, if that’s what you’re telling me to do. Is that what you’re tellin’ me to do?”
You shake your head. “You- You stopped kissing me-“
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
“Like… What?”
“Casual.” He mutters. “Just because you felt bad for me or some shit.”
“I-“
“If you want to keep doing your casual thing, I’m not going to stop you.” Bucky leans down as he says your name, and his breath is hot over your lips. “But I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m takin’ all of you, or none of you. Again, your choice.”
You feel dizzy. “You- You want me
Bucky chuckles, his lips curling into that handsome, teasing smile. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you, doll. You were the prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. Smart, too. Spent a lot of nights wondering what mighta happened if I just asked you out instead of moving in.”
“What might have happened?” You’re half echoing, because your brain is caught in a loop of whatever Bucky is saying. But the other half is a question. Because he can’t mean what you think he means.
That would mean you hadn’t ruined it.
That would mean there was a chance.
“Between us.” He mutters, just his metal hand moving on trace over your wrist, sending small shivers up your spine. “We could’ve skipped all the fighting, doll. Just gone straight to spending time together. Doing crosswords. Makin’ dinner.” He gives you a small grin, something teasing behind his eyes as his voice drops. “I might be bendin’ you over the couch right now, instead of trying to convince you that I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in eighty goddamn years.”
He’s still looking at you. It’s making your tongue loose, your core molten. “I wanted it to.” You whisper, and he nods.
“I know, babydoll. But,” one last step, and you’re almost pinned to the door by his weight above you. “You need to tell me what you want. I’m not old-fashioned enough that I won’t touch you, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it for a while. I-“ He takes a long breath, looking down to where he’s still stroking your wrist. “I don’t get to keep things I love, usually. So I’m not just gonna mess around.”
The world is definitely blurry. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You love me?”
Bucky’s throat bobs, but he looks back up, and nods.
You take his face between your hands, and give him a wide, bright smile, the glow from your chest seeming to burst through your whole fucking body as time comes rushing back. It’s going to keep moving.
You’re not going to be alone.
“I love you too,” you keep smiling, and Bucky’s eyes shine on yours. “And I don’t want it casual, I- I just want you.”
Bucky’s voice is hoarse, as he drops his brow to yours. “I want you, too.”
You hum, standing up a little taller, just enough for your lips to brush. “Can you show me?”
Bucky makes a low, deep sound from his throat, and time isn’t dripping anymore. It’s flying, rushing through you and sweeping you away, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day or the end of the world.
All you can feel is Bucky.
His mouth crashes over yours, and this isn’t a soft, slow kiss like last night. It’s hungry. Rough and possessive, with his hands groping at your ass and hips, his pelvis pressed right against yours, and your grip on his shirt the only thing keeping you upright. Every single second the kiss only gets deeper, until you’re gasping against his lips for air and scratching at his chest for more, you can feel him pressing right into your leg, thick and big, and you need more-
“You have no idea,” Bucky almost growls, starting to kiss—open mouthed and wet—down your neck. “What you do to me, pretty girl. How hard it’s been,” he thrusts his hips forward, and you let out a high squeak as he sucks on a soft, pulse point. “To be a gentleman, to not get on my knees and fuckin’ beg you to give me a shot.”
“You- You wouldn’t have had to-” You let out a needy moan as his hand slips under your shirt, playing with your nipples as he kisses over your shoulder. “God, you wouldn’t have had to beg, Bucky, I’ve been thinking about it too-“
“I got that now.” He hums, grinning at you as he draws back, and you only gape at him as he slowly pulls your shirt over your head. “Fuck, you’re perfect, doll. Look at you.”
He leans back down, kissing your open mouth with an almost mocking sweetness, and unhooks your bra in one motion. You melt into him as he kneads at the skin of your hips, his cool, metal hand groping and squeezing at your breasts. His thumb runs over your nipple and starting to roll it, and you arch into him with a whine. The groan that rumbles from his chest is animalistic, and it vibrates right into your core, making your thighs rub together for a little friction.
“Oh, Bucky, I- Fuck-“
He pulls you up, keeping you trapped between the wall and his body. Your pants are quickly shed by your own frantic hands, and Bucky tosses them away, rubbing your pussy over your panties. You moan as his fingers tease your slit, then whine when they move away. He grabs your ass, lifting you a little higher, and your legs manage to wrap around his torso, your chest level with his face. He looks up with a hooded awe as you grind against his body. You throw your head back, a coil starting to build in your core, and Bucky groans your name.
“You’re like a fucking painting, baby.” He mutters, and you whimper as he kisses over your breast. “Think I could watch you try to fuck yourself on me forever.”
You shake your head, your hips rutting up as another needy sound leaves your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“You want a little more, though, don’t you.” He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. You writhe above him, thighs starting to get sore as he doubles his efforts.
“Oh my- Ohmygod-“ Your words start to slur, and Bucky’s teeth graze against you.
He pulls back with a lazy grin, the metal hand slowly starting to tease back over your panties. “You’re soaking,” he says your name, a low reverence in his voice. “This for me?”
You nod weakly, and his gaze drops down to where you’re spreading your legs. You try to use your grip around him to pull him closer, but he pinches your inner thigh, and you squeak.
“Patience, baby.” He mutters, kissing your neglected breast as he slowly pulls your ruined underwear to the side. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good, treat you right.”
Two metal fingers drive right into your core, curving right against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, and his mouth wraps around your nipple once again. Your mouth falls open in long, loud moan as he starts to pump in and out of you at an unforgiving rhythm, always crooking at that same spot, twisting slightly every few thrusts. His tongue plays over your nipple, taking the peak between his teeth before his tongue presses flat.
Your fingers fly into his hair, and you tug hard.
Bucky fucking moans around you, and the vibrates against your tit, shooting right down to your core. You yank again, grinding down onto his hand, and he grunts. Bucky pulling his fingers fully out and leans back, licking his lips as he glares up at you.
“You get bratty.” He mutters, spanking your clit once—just enough to make you shake and send a rush through your body—and kissing your neck softly. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna get you in bed before we even get a proper date.”
“A- Oh-“ Bucky’s fingers push back into you, now going at a torturous, taunting pace. “A date?”
He hums against your skin. “I’m taking on you on a date before I fuck you, baby. I told you, we’re not doing casual.”
You nod, voice breathy as his thumb presses over your clit. “But- We can still- Fuck-“
He chuckles, starting to rub slow, firm circles over the bundle of nerves. “Not until the date. But don’t worry.” His fingers start to rub fast against that spot inside of you. “I’m still gonna make you cum on my hand.”
Bucky’s mouth moves back to your breast, and you take a sharp breath as release threatens to snap in your core.
“James-“
“Shit,” he mutters, kissing on a bruise he’d left on your collar. “Keep saying my name, babydoll. Make all those sounds I’ve dream about.”
You moan, loud and lewd, and Bucky grunts, his fingers picking up the pace. You tug at his hair again, and his thumb starts to flick your clit.
“I- James, I’m close-“
“I know.” He growls, returning his to your almost abused nipple. “Play with your tits for me, baby, c’mon-“
You cry out, grabbing your free breast and pinching your nipple, pulling at Bucky’s hair as you fall right over the edge. Your vision goes white as you clench around Bucky’s fingers. He presses in further, every shake of your body only seeming to make him work harder. Your thighs press together, when his finger finally pull out, but then he refocuses on your clit. Gives it small, rough hits that make your breath short and eyes roll back.
You try to squirm away from him, but he’s stronger, and into not until you’re a shaking, soaked and panting mess that he pulls away.
Bucky grins, leaning up to press at sweet, gentle kiss to your lips, and you melt over him. It’s just a kiss.
But it feels like everything.
Like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
Eventually you find your voice, murmuring against his lips. “Do you have to pay my father a dowery now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old, baby. And,” he nips the of your nose. “We aren’t gettin’ married right now.”
“Right now?”
Bucky hums in acknowledgment, you lean away with small grin, playing with his hair.
“If we do…” You focus on his lips, swollen from touching you. “What would it be?”
“Your dowery?”
You nod, giving him a small smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“How about I just get you a cat, doll.”
Oh.
He’s perfect.
You beam at him, moving back down for another kiss. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rubbing gently against your still-sensitive skin. Holding you carefully.
Holding like he never plans to let go.
“You like that?” He mutters, and you smile.
“Yeah. I do.”
✦End note: I need those metal fingers to do unspeakable things to me okay. Please join me on that journey ✦
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Series summary: You’ve been assigned to write a column for your school paper on the team’s spectacular running back. You don’t care very much for your university’s football team; you just can’t understand the hype, okay? Turns out your distaste for football bigheads was exactly on point: James Barnes is insufferable.
MAIN MASTERLIST | Follow my notification blog @sanguine-marvel for fic updates!
Summary: Bucky Barnes, the infamous frat guy, known for sleeping around and throwing parties left and right, constantly invites you, out of all people, to all of them. His intentions though remain a mystery to you. Following a troubling event that leaves you shaken and anxious, Bucky is there to pick up the pieces. Stolen glances and exchanged smiles gradually blossom into a connection that goes beyond what meets the eye.
Word count: 14.1k
Warnings: annoyance to friends to lovers; panic attacks!; creepy man; angst and comfort; Bucky is a frat boy
author’s note: This took longer than I hoped, but I love it!
Masterlist
One minute.
One minute did it take for the class to end and yet it felt like an eternity.
You stared at the clock in anticipation, not paying an ounce of attention to what your professor was talking about.
Was he even talking?
Were you supposed to write something down?
You wouldn’t know.
RIING
Finally, the blissful sound of the bell pierced through the monotony.
You took your eyes off the clock in the far corner of the lecture hall, a sigh of relief leaving your lips and started packing your stuff.
“Alright class! See you on Monday! Have a great weekend.” Your professor exclaimed before walking out of the hall with a wave.
Amidst the chorus of thank you’s and see you on Monday’s and packing your laptop in your bag, alongside your pen and notebook (basically for small, unnecessary doodles, instead of notes) including your water bottle, you noticed Wanda slipping onto the bench beside you with her backpack draped over her right shoulder and an amused smile plastered on her face.
“Late again,” she teased.
You groaned. “Blame that slowpoke of a bus driver.”
“You know you can always ride with Pietro and me.” She nudged your shoulder playfully.
You offered her a grateful smile but shook your head. “It’s inconvenient for you.”
After being forced to live on campus for your first year of college you decided to get a small apartment to save some money and get the privacy you wanted and needed. Living on campus was expensive enough and with the small amount of money you got for working in a café and babysitting sometimes in the evening there wasn’t much left for you to enjoy yourself a little.
You never really enjoyed living in a dorm together with someone you didn’t know and sharing that same space. Your roommate for that first year was perpetually boisterous and tried dragging you to every party within a five-mile radius. Despite your initial resistance, you eventually succumbed to peer pressure. After enduring an eternity of loud music and plastic cups thrust into your hand, you found yourself in the grim confines of a bathroom stall, holding back your roommate‘s unruly hair as she retched into the toilet bowl. It was a moment of disillusionment that solidified your resolve to seek solitude and sanctuary away from the chaos of dormitory life.
Though you hated every minute of that day, in the end, you were glad you went, because it was where you met Wanda.
As fate would have it, Wanda found herself reluctantly dragged to the same party by none other than her brother, Pietro. Aforementioned guy managed to catch your roommate since she ‘accidentally’ slipped in front of him. She kept giggling with his arms draped around her and you apologized to him and Wanda though you knew it was actually really not your fault.
So while your roommate occupied Pietro you had a pleasant conversation with his sister. You clicked immediately.
“It takes ten minutes Y/n, it’s truly no big deal.”
“Well, I’ll keep it in mind! Thanks, Wan!”
You walked out of the hall and crossed campus together. Since you just had this one lecture today you signed in for a shift at the café you worked at and were just about to bid Wanda goodbye when-
“Maximoff!”
You didn’t make any attempt to even try not to roll your eyes.
Wanda turned around and so did you eventually, not concealing your dissatisfaction with the approaching guy, a scowl forming on your face.
Bucky Barnes.
Of course.
Now, there were a lot of things you tolerated. It was hard to rile you up, but Bucky Barnes? He exceeded every limit.
You couldn’t stand the guy. And he knew it.
He caught up to you girls and kept his attention on your friend.
“Hey, Wanda! You have a minute?”
Before she could react he turned to you, pretending to see you just now.
“Oh. Y/n! Haven’t seen you there.”
You wanted to punch that arrogant grin off his face.
“What do you want?”
“Well as I was gonna ask Wanda,” he emphasized her name with a playful drawl and turned to her, “You and your brother are coming today right? Sam got the drinks and we got a new beer pong table. We gotta initiate it correctly.”
Another eye roll escaped you as Wanda shot you a brief, amused glance before addressing Bucky. “Pietro’ll come. The party was the only thing he talked about this morning.”
“Perfect!” Bucky grinned. “You’ll come too right? You can have a plus one!” He nodded his head towards you while meeting your steely gaze with unwavering confidence.
“Nothing will get me to enter your stupid frat party Barnes!” you retorted dryly.
Bucky’s grin remained firmly in place, his cockiness bordering on infuriating.
“Well I’ll be there,” he declared, turning his attention toward you with a smirk.
You cocked your head. “There’s the reason why.”
A soft sigh from Wanda diverted your attention, prompting you to check the time on your phone.
“Whatever, I gotta go!” With a brief hug, you bid her goodbye.
“Text me later?”
“Course, Wan!”
You flashed her a quick smile before striding away, ignoring Bucky’s futile attempt to prolong the conversation.
“Where ya goin' ?” he shouted after you.
“Work!” Your response was curt and you continued your way.
****
“That’ll be 4.75$.”
The girl in front of you swiped her card through the card reader and you placed the cup with her latte on the counter separating you.
You thanked her for the small tip and turned away when she left, to stock up on the coffee beans. You leaned down and grabbed the bag out of a drawer from under the counter as you heard the door to the shop open.
Your coworker went to the storage room to store the milk that came in a few minutes before and it wasn’t that busy so you were good on your own out front.
“Just a sec!” you called while opening the bag and pouring the beans in, standing with your back to the counter.
“All good! I’m in no hurry.”
You stilled for a second, almost pouring over the beans. Although you couldn’t see him right now you could tell he wore that shit-eating grin again.
You pulled the bag away harshly with a few falling out. You would take care of that later. Probably not though.
You put the bag aside, preparing yourself to turn around, and came face to face with the one and only Bucky Barnes.
Seriously?
Two times in a day?
You wiped over your apron and met his gaze. “What can I get you?” You tried feigning that kindness you were supposed to show your guests though you knew you could try more.
Not taken aback by your grimace and still slightly annoyed tone he leaned on the counter and pretended to contemplate what to get.
You crossed your arms over your chest and stared at him.
“I think I’ll go for a black coffee,” He grinned at you.
You uncrossed your arms to get to work. “Small, medium, large?” You were really trying to stay professional here.
“I’ll take it medium, doll.”
It wasn’t the first time he called you that, though you‘ve heard it come out of his mouth plenty of times to plenty of girls so you guessed he didn’t even recognize he was calling you that too.
You got to work while Bucky watched you intently, still leaning on the counter.
You hoped he would stay silent but guessed that thought was futile since he walked in here.
“So, you think about coming?”
“No.”
“No, you haven’t thought about it or no, you aren’t coming?”
“Both.”
It wasn’t the first time he somehow tried to get you to come to one of his frat parties. Be it through Wanda or Pietro or just blatantly asking you to come. You knew your answer every time. He should have known that too but he seemingly never stopped trying.
“Aww, come on doll! Already put you on the list.”
“Do whatever you please Barnes but I’m not coming,” you retorted while finishing up his coffee and sliding it across the counter over to him. “That’ll be 2.95$.”
Will Wanda come?” He didn’t attempt to grab the cup, instead he stayed rooted and looked at you.
“Don’t know. Maybe”
After that party your former roommate dragged you to, you avoided them at all costs and managed not to attend any other. Wanda sometimes came along with Pietro to get him back home after drinking too much. You considered coming along for moral support a few times but didn’t want to give Bucky the satisfaction of getting you to come. And Wanda always claimed she‘d be fine.
He leaned to take the cup of coffee and a milk pack from beside where you were standing.
“Alright well, you know where to go,” he slid over a 5$ bill. “Keep the change!” He lifted the cup a bit. “And thanks!” Giving you his signature smirk.
“Barnes that’s too much for a single coffee!” you protested and were about to collect his change but he was already halfway out of the shop.
“Keep it!” he threw over his shoulder and you looked after him a little irritated.
His persistence annoyed you to no end so why did your lips curl up in a smile, despite yourself?
****
You didn’t come.
It was nearly midnight and you found yourself nestled in your bed, the soft glow of your laptop illuminating the room as you rewatched a movie for the umpteenth time.
There probably would be a few things you’d like to do instead, but going to one of Bucky's notorious frat parties, will just never be one of them.
You couldn’t even really tell why you held such a grudge against the guy. He never really was explicitly rude or anything, yet there was something about his demeanor that rubbed you the wrong way.
Bucky Barnes had been a constant presence on campus since day one. Whether it was in the hallways or outside the building, Bucky was always surrounded by a rotating cast of admirers, girls vying for his attention. It became a familiar sight to see him engrossed in conversation with yet another girl, his charm seemingly boundless.
Amidst the flurry of attention and admiration that surrounded Bucky, there were moments when his gaze seemed to linger in your direction as if seeking to ensnare your attention as he did with others. You’d catch him looking at you in the hallways. You’d see him standing outside your lecture hall, although he didn’t even attend this class. However, you never attempted to acknowledge him and were set on keeping your distance.
In your second semester, you found yourself sharing a course with him. That was where he first initiated interactions with you. At first, it was a subtle passing glance, a nod, and a smile of acknowledgment, but soon his efforts to engage with you became more pronounced. It started with a request for notes when he wasn’t there the other day. And then there were times when you ran late and he saved you a seat beside him, sending you a wave and a charming grin.
But then you would watch him effortlessly flirt with other girls, letting them sit on his lap and whispering in their ear, you having the front row seat. You couldn’t pinpoint why his flirting with other girls left a bitter taste in your mouth, but it deepened your reservation, solidifying your decision to maintain a sense of distance.
Despite not sharing any classes with Bucky in your second year, he seemed determined not to let your lack of proximity deter his efforts to engage with you. His persistent attempts to catch your attention continued unabated - although you never gave him much to work with - seeming to find a way to cross paths with you all the time.
The first time he asked you to come to one of his frat parties, you were sitting in a small booth at a café near campus, nursing a latte and discussing your professors together with Wanda and Pietro.
You laugh. “Right? She once even gave-”
“Pietro! Hey, man,” comes his voice across the café and Bucky Barnes approaches you three.
You drop your smile and divert your attention to your latte as Bucky greets Pietro and Wanda.
“Y/n! Nice to see you.” His voice dripping with charm.
Upon hearing your name you lift your head and offer a strained smile, hoping to convey at least a semblance of politeness.
“Hi,” you answer lamely, not an ounce of enthusiasm found in your voice.
Bucky’s smirk deepens in response, a knowing glint in his eyes.
Your smile turns into a grimace.
“You coming tonight man?” he asks Pietro.
“Course Buck! I‘ll be there.”
“Great!” His attention turns to you.
“You girls are welcome too, you know.”Although addressing both, Wanda and you, he keeps his gaze on you.
“Yeah, no thanks!”
“We’ll think about it!”
Wanda sends you a glare, reminding you to stay nice. Though Bucky doesn’t seem fazed by your lack of interest, the boyish smirk still present on his lips.
“Well, I’d be happy to see you.”
You don’t even have time to answer him when a brunette, standing at the counter, calls his name.
You look in her direction though his eyes remain on you a few seconds longer until he turns away and bids his goodbye. Wanda and Pietro answer him while you remain silent, taking refuge in your coffee cup.
He was attractive, you gotta give him that but you never were someone to go after looks. There were so many more important things to see in people. Sure, you don’t know how he treated or saw his flings, or hookups, or whatever but you supposed you didn’t wanna know.
****
After you worked your ass off at the café during the weekend you were more than unpleased to be sitting in your lecture hall at 8 in the morning on a Monday. At least the bus was on time you supposed.
Wanda slid in beside you and put down a cup of coffee in front of you before unpacking her backpack.
“Oh god Wan, you’re an Angel!” You took a big sip and sighed dramatically.
Wanda snickered softly, organizing her notes.
“You know, Pietro told me someone was a bit disappointed,” she began and you looked at her confused.
“The party,” she continued but you just stared at her oblivious.
She sighed. “He hoped you’d come this time.” She studied you with a careful expression but you saw the corners of her lips turning up lightly.
You blinked. “Why would he think that?”
Wanda shrugged. “Well he’s pretty persistent,” She studied you some more and you began to feel uneasy, “You could give him a chance.”
“Huh?” you mumbled, caught off guard.
Turning toward you fully, Wanda leaned in slightly. “I don’t really know him that well, but he’s different with you. Pietro’s mentioned it. He’s never made this much effort with anyone else.“
Perplexed, you pondered her words.
“And honestly,” Wanda continued, “He’s a nice guy. I mean I get he’s got girls around all the time-”
You grimaced.
“-but he’s not the guy to lead anyone on or make someone feel worthless, I’m sure of it.”
That got you silent and you looked at her, pouting your lips in contemplation.
“He had a girlfriend once but as far as Pietro knows it didn’t end well. She moved away and they tried that long-distance relationship crap-”
You raised an eyebrow.
“-but she then started seeing someone else without telling him.”
You exhaled deeply, processing the information. “Alright well that sucks…sure…but is that a reason to use girls like that?”
“How are you so sure that’s what this is?” Wanda countered
Before you could respond, your professor arrived, saving you from further discussion. You were kinda glad he was on time cause you really had no idea how to answer that. You couldn’t know what he does with those girls. What he told them. How he treated them. How he made them feel.
Actually
You didn’t know anything about him at all.
****
Nearly two weeks had passed and you haven’t seen Bucky since he came by the café you worked at. Despite your efforts to push him out of your mind, you found yourself occasionally thinking about him or scanning the hallways for a glimpse of him.
Wanda got sick the day prior so you were sitting alone in class. After making idle conversation with some fellow students, you decided to stay back and finish up your notes.
You heard footsteps approaching but didn’t look up until someone settled beside you.
“That looks kinda complicated.”
Irritation bubbled up, but you were surprised to find you didn’t immediately feel the urge to roll your eyes all the way up to your brain at the sound of his voice. Reluctantly, you turned to face him, a sigh leaving your lips
“What are you doing here? This isn’t even your class!”
“Came looking for ya,” he replied, that familiar smirk playing on his lips.
You returned your attention back to your notes. “What for?”
“Shouldn’t you be able to tell?” He grinned and bumped your upper arm lightly.
That was the first time he initiated any form of physical contact and you weren’t sure what to make of it.
“Another party, I assume,” you remarked plainly.
“Smart girl! Missed you the last time.”
“Then have fun missing me this time as well,” you retorted, not bothering to look at him.
You felt his eyes on your profile but didn’t turn to him.
“Well just wanted to let you know you’re still on the list,” he said, his voice laced with that characteristic smirk.
That dude really wouldn’t give up, would he?
Quickly finishing your notes and packing away your things, you draped your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave the hall. As you turned to go, you glanced back at him.
“I’ll think about it,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm, though deep down you couldn’t deny that small part of you, that was considering his invitation this time.
****
The party started by now.
Standing in your bedroom you wavered on the threshold of the decision to go to his party or not.
You found yourself grappling with uncertainty, questioning the motivations behind your sudden inclination to attend the party. Was it a twinge of guilt for his past misfortunes that nudged you towards empathy? Or perhaps a genuine curiosity sparked by the desire to unravel the enigma of his persistent invitations?
You pondered, your thoughts swirling. Perhaps this was all a game to him? Or maybe there was something deeper, something he needed to prove to himself or to others.
Yet, the idea of subjecting yourself to potential humiliation at a frat party churned your stomach. You had no desire to be caught in the whirlwind of debauchery and recklessness.
But Wanda didn’t really make him seem like the kinda guy to pull shit like that.
Though how could she be sure?
The sudden ringing of your phone shattered the swirling thoughts that had consumed you, pulling you back to the present moment. With a grateful sigh, you glanced down at the screen, Wanda’s name lighting it up.
“Hey Wan,” you greeted her while laying back on your bed.
“Hey Y/n. I assume you’re not at the party.”
“Nope, you know me.”
“Okay well, could I ask for a favor?” Wanda’s voice held a hint of hesitation.
You sat up. “Yeah, sure Wan, what’s up?”
“Pietro will need someone to pick him up later but I’m still feeling pretty shitty at the moment and…I don’t know I was thinking maybe-“
“You’re asking me to pick him up?” you finished her sentence, sighing deeply.
“Kinda, yeah,” Wanda confirmed sheepishly.
You chuckled. “Sure, I can do that Wan, no problem.”
You could hear the relief in Wanda’s breath. “Thank you babes, I owe you! You can take his car, I’ll leave the keys under the pot outside.”
“You don’t owe me anything Wan, I’m glad I can help! You stay in bed and rest, alright? I’ll take care of your brother,” you assured her.
After exchanging a few more words, you hung up and prepared to leave. Opting for a casual outfit you threw on some wash jeans and a shirt.
Considering you spent a good amount of time on spiraling whether to go or not it got rather late already and it still would take you some time to get to Pietros car and to the party.
You grabbed the keys from under the pot, got in the car and started driving. It had been a while since you made use of your license considering you couldn’t afford your own vehicle, but you managed.
As you parked the car and stepped out onto the pavement, the distant throb of bass pulsed through the air, a tangible force that seemed to reverberate through your entire being. With each step towards the fraternity house, the music grew louder, assaulting your senses with its relentless intensity.
You walked up to the guy standing at the door with a ripped sheet of paper in his hand. You assumed that was what Bucky referred to as list.
“Hey, uh, I’m here to pick up Pietro Maximoff,” you stated, hoping to avoid being drawn into the revelry inside.
The guy’s smirk was infuriating as he chuckled dismissively. “Oh I’m sure he’s a little busy right now.”
Suppressing a sigh, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his remark.
“What’s your name sweetie, you could always go in and join the party.”
“Yeah no I’m fine, I’ll just-”
“Wait, are you the infamous Y/n?”
You blinked. You were not entirely used to people knowing your name. You’d like to believe you were nobody. Whether on campus nor in general. So why did this random guy know your name and call you infamous?
You didn’t have to answer, instead the guy nodded towards the door, granting you entry with a casual wave.
“Come on in, Buck will be thrilled to see you,” he remarked, stepping aside to let you pass.
Feeling utterly disoriented and out of place, you stepped inside, your senses assaulted by the overwhelming cacophony of noise and the oppressive heat of the crowded room. The stench of sweat and alcohol hung heavy in the air, causing you to wrinkle your nose in disgust. With each step, the floor seemed to cling to your shoes, a sticky reminder why you avoided this for so long.
You tried to adjust to the flickering lights and internally scolded the person who decided those colors were a good match when you heard your name be called.
“Y/n?”
You weren’t surprised to hear his voice since it was partly his party but you were surprised he recognized you this fast since you just stepped inside. Was he watching the door?
His smile greeted you as he stood before you, and you were blinded for a second there.
“You’re here!”
“Uh, well I’m kinda just here to pick up Pietro. Wanda asked me to.”
Bucky’s smile faltered slightly at your words. Clearing his throat, he offered a tentative response. “Oh. Well, haven’t seen him,” he exclaimed, his gaze momentarily flickering away before returning to meet yours.
As Pietro’s slurred voice called out your name, you turned to see your friend stumbling towards you, a wide grin plastered across his face. He draped an arm around your shoulders, and you instinctively supported him, wrapping your own arm around his waist to steady him.
“What’re you doin’ here, princessa?” Pietro slurred, his words punctuated by a drunken laugh.
You laughed. “Came here to pick you up, Piet. Wanda’s still not feeling well.”
But Pietro, clearly undeterred by your explanation, attempted to pull you along with him, his movements unsteady as he swayed on the spot within your hold.
“Let’s get you a drink, princessa,” he insisted, his grip tightening around you.
Refusing to indulge his request, you gently guided him towards the door, ignoring his protests. As you turned to leave, you caught sight of Bucky, his jaw clenched and his eyes darting away from your close proximity.
“I guess thanks for the invite Barnes but this really isn’t my scene.” You gave him a tight lipped smile and turned to Pietro again.
Meanwhile, Bucky remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the door you just disappeared behind.
****
Since that day at the party three weeks ago, Bucky had been somewhat of a ghost, disappearing from the usual campus scene. Despite not seeing him, thoughts of him seemed to linger in the back of your mind and you caught yourself looking out for him in the hallways.
You made your way to the restrooms between your two classes of the day cause you just had to drown yourself in coffee on your 4-hour shift in the café this morning.
After locking yourself in one of the cabins that still held toilet paper you heard the door to the restroom creak open and made out the hushed voices of two girls filtering in. One of them clearly crying.
“What’s wrong with me? He literally jumped in bed with every other girl on campus! Why not me?” the girl sobbed hysterically while her friend got her some paper towels from the dispenser.
You rolled your eyes at her antics and decided to just wait out until they left.
“I don’t know El, but Jake did say something about him wanting to change.” You could picture her gesturing quotation marks with her fingers at the ‘wanting to change’ part. And though you weren’t quite the type to gossip you held your breath and listened intently.
The other girl blew her nose while her friend continued.
“He hasn’t been to a party for the last, I don’t know, maybe three weeks or something. Just stayed locked in his room. That’s what Jake told me. Don’t know what to make out of it though,” the girl chuckled, “I mean it’s Bucky we’re talking about.”
As Bucky’s name entered the conversation, your ears perked up, and you felt compelled to listen. Thoughts swirl in your mind, multiplying like rabbits in a field. Was that night you picked up Pietro the last party he attended? Why the sudden disappearance into seclusion? Why would he lock himself in his room? Why did he dump that girl? You didn’t know who that Jake dude was but you weren’t sure if he was right.
You snapped out of your thoughts to catch the still crying girl whine again. “But I tried really hard Meg! I pinned notes on his locker, I smiled at him all the time, I sent him my notes from history per mail, the one time he didn’t come and I slipped my phone number into his backpack when he wasn’t looking-”
Suddenly you were grateful for standing right beside a toilet cause you felt the urge to vomit.
“-and he just straight up told me he’s not interested?!”
You heard the other girl, Meg, probably short for Meghan or something but why would you care, sigh. “I’m sorry El, but maybe he’s really just trying to become better than that.”
The crying thankfully stopped and was replaced by a scoff and an exasperated intake of breath. Personally, you’d describe it as overly dramatic but who were you to judge.
As the girls finally departed, leaving behind the remnants of their dramatic exchange, you released a sigh of relief.
After finishing what you came in here for in the first place you left the restroom as well and walked through the hallway on your way to your next class.
And as god, or the devil, or Mother Nature, or something the fuck else wouldn’t have it any other way there he was. Bucky was standing at his locker, taking a look at a pink piece of paper in his hand for only a second before crumpling it in his fist. You could only guess what it was.
He turned to the trash can to throw it in there and when he looked back up he met your gaze. His eyes lit up at seeing you, but nevertheless, you noticed the tired look he wore and couldn’t help but feel kinda bad for him.
Normally when passing Bucky in the hallway you wouldn’t spare him an attention spawn over two seconds but here you were giving him a somewhat genuine smile, a rare display of empathy, which he reciprocated immediately.
Even as you turned the corner and continued on your way, you couldn’t shake the sensation of his eyes lingering on you. You couldn’t suppress the warmth spreading in your stomach.
Bucky stopped asking you to come to his parties. As far as you knew he didn’t even attend them himself anymore. You shared with Wanda what you overheard in the restroom, and after confirming with Pietro, it became clear that Bucky was indeed making some significant changes in his lifestyle.
Bucky Barnes was truly an enigma.
Armed with insider information from Wanda, you learned that Bucky refrained from being seen with any girl for weeks and stopped planning and attending the frat parties. He seemingly even talked about leaving the fraternity altogether.
You don’t know what to do with those information but you did notice a shift yourself. You saw Bucky again two times since you passed him in the hallway a few days ago.
You were walking through the library together with Pietro and Wanda when you saw him sitting there in the far corner with his textbook open and a pencil poised. You stood and drank in the sight of him for a moment. His brows were furrowed deep in concentration and he lightly tapped his pen on his notebook rhythmically. He let his hair grow out a little, wisps falling onto his forehead. He sure as hell was a sight for sore eyes.
As if he picked up on your staring he lifted his head and looked over in your direction. The intensity of Bucky’s gaze sent a jolt through you, causing your heart to race as you hastily averted your eyes, feigning interest in the books on the nearby shelf. Despite your attempt to appear nonchalant, you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you.
Stealing another glance in his direction, finding him still watching you, his soft smile a stark contrast to the cocky grin you were accustomed to. The corners of your mouth lifted ever so slightly without having your consent.
The sudden interruption of Pietro’s arm around your shoulders broke the spell between Bucky and you, snapping him out of his reverie. With a subtle shift in his posture, he straightened his back and lowered his head back to his textbook.
The other time, yesterday, you decided to join Wanda and grab something to eat at the canteen. As you stood in line with Wanda you were the one to feel eyes on you, prompting you to turn and find Bucky’s piercing blue gaze fixed on you.
Your lips curled in a smile and Bucky’s sweet grin in response sent a flutter through your chest.
To your own disappointment, you ended up sitting with your back to him throughout eating, though you pushed it aside.
****
It was a long day.
You had a shift at the café this morning and then went straight to Uni where you dragged yourself through your classes of the day. It was already starting to get dark when you walked around campus to get to your bus station.
This was your routine on Wednesdays but something felt weird. There was a shiver creeping up your spine and you tightened your coat around yourself, hugging your waist, as a response to that feeling of unease.
“Hey! Girl!”
Your heart dropped at the shout and although it came from behind you, you just knew it was meant for you. Unconsciously you picked up your pace, hugging yourself tighter and scolding yourself for not getting pepper spray.
“Hey, you! I’m talking to you!”
You heard quick footsteps approaching you from behind and let out a gasp as rough fingers grabbed onto your wrist, turning you to the man with that gruff voice.
He was tall. His beard, grizzly and grossly outgrown, held a few drops of whatever might be in the bottle he held in his other hand. His clothes were lumpy and held stains, dark eyes pierced through you.
“I’m sure you’re so kind to give a man some money for cigarettes, little girl, huh?”
You stared at the man in front of you, frozen out of fear. Your heart plummeted in your chest and you felt the hand around your wrist tightening. You swallowed thickly but your throat still felt like sandpaper. You wanted to talk but nothing left your mouth.
“Well if I don’t get money you could always pay me differently,” He licked his lips and his eyes roamed over your body. He got hold of your other wrist and you suppressed a whimper.
You wanted to yell at him to let you go. You wanted to kick him where the sun wouldn’t shine. You wanted to scream for anybody to help you. But you couldn’t. You were frozen in place, your voice lost in your throat.
“Hey!”
Another voice.
“Let her go!”
You knew this voice. It was oddly familiar, but you couldn’t comprehend how you knew it.
There was a figure approaching in long, fast strikes and you wanted to go take a look but the man still standing in front of you grabbed you even tighter, which led to another gasp exiting your lips.
You heard your name called and looked in the direction of the newcomer.
Bucky.
It was Bucky.
Relief flooded your body and you finally were able to take a controlled intake of breath again.
“Do you know this guy?” Bucky's concerned gaze bored into you and you shook your head weakly.
That’s all he needed to turn to the guy still having a hold on your wrists. “You let her go right now!” The dangerously low and calm tone of his voice and the way he was talking to you way softer just seconds before let you shiver and caused your head to spin.
The other guy scoffed and let your wrists fall to take a step back, holding his arms up in a surrendering kind of way. Bucky immediately stepped in front of you. “Relax man, did nothing to that girl!”
“You better want to stay the hell away from her or anyone else. I don’t want to see you here again!” Bucky’s voice was laced with a dark, threatening tone, his stance unwavering as he shielded you from the menacing stranger. Despite the age difference, Bucky’s intimidation factor was undeniable.
Said man scoffed and stumbled away a little. Bucky kept watching him till he was out of sight and turned to you in an instant. Not sure if you were okay to be touched, his hands hovered over your arms as he leaned down to catch your eye, his concern evident in every gesture.
“Hey, Y/n, are you okay?”
Your gaze remained fixated on his collarbone, unable to meet his eyes. Absentmindedly, you rubbed the wrist of your right wrist, where the man had gripped you, feeling the tenderness and likely bruises forming there.
“Doll please look at me!” he pleaded, though you remained stoic, your emotions tightly locked away. His worry was palpable, evident in the furrow of his brows and the hesitant hover of his hands, unsure of how to comfort you.
“Eyes up here sweetheart, please!” His voice was softer than you’ve ever heard. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you lifted your head, allowing your gaze to trail up his face until your eyes met his. There was a hint of panic in his expression, his eyes searching yours with such urgency, that it was almost overwhelming. You felt a lump form in your throat at the raw emotion reflected in his blue orbs.
“That’s it doll! Just like that!” He let out a breath of relief but never took his eyes off of you. He signaled to your wrists without breaking eye contact. “Can I take a look?”
You swallowed thickly, your throat tight with emotion, but you gave a slight nod, granting Bucky permission to inspect your wrists. Gently he took your right hand in his left, lifting your sleeve with the other to reveal the red and purple marks beneath. His touch was featherlight as he trailed his fingertips over your sensitive skin, but when you recoiled slightly, he pulled back immediately, murmuring an apology.
With your eyes trained on your wrist, you felt Bucky's finger under your chin to tilt your head up gently, coaxing you to look at him once more. “I’ve got you doll, okay? He’s gone. It’s alright!” he reassured you, a hint of fury underlying his voice as he recalled the man who caused you harm and left you in this state.
Taking a hesitant hold of your hand once again, Bucky brushed his thumb soothingly over the back, his eyes never leaving yours as he watched you intently.
Despite your curt nod, you found yourself avoiding his gaze once more.
“I know it’s hard sweetheart but I really need you to say something. Need to make sure you’re okay. Can you do that for me?” Bucky’s voice was filled with gentleness, patience, and genuine concern, causing a lump to form in your throat.
Taking a deep breath, you mustered the strength to look at him again, your eyes glazed from the overwhelming emotions consuming you.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but Bucky heard you.
He squeezed your hand lightly and rubbed his other hand along your upper arm. “No need to thank me, sweetheart! I’m glad I was there!”
“Me too,” you found yourself saying, unable to hold back the gratitude flooding your heart. It was a miracle that Bucky showed up at the right moment, and you will forever be grateful for his intervention. The thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t been there sent a shiver down your spine.
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly and he watched you with such fondness and adoration, your knees grew weak. You even managed to muster a small smile in return.
You took a deep, shuddering breath in, feeling the awkwardness settling in as you realized you had never been that close to Bucky before. Although you felt surprisingly grounded in his presence, you couldn’t shake the discomfort of the situation.
Releasing his hand, you rubbed your forehead, avoiding his gaze as you tried to find the right words. “Uhm...thank you, Bucky, really, but I think I’m just gonna…,” you trailed off, gesturing towards the bus stop in the near distance.
“Woah hold on now doll! I’m not gonna let you go home alone!” Bucky protested, shaking his head.
“It’s fine Barnes really! I’m just gonna call Wanda or Pietro. Surely one of them can come pick me up,” you didn’t really consider calling them but you’d feel bad for inconveniencing Bucky when he would be at his flat in a few minutes himself.
But Bucky was determined.
“No need to call them. I’ll drive you! Sam has a car and we’re just, like, two minutes away,” he pleaded, gaze so intense, almost forcing you to look away.
You sighed, feeling torn. “That’s really nice but I don’t wanna bother you furthermo-”
“Y/n you’re not bothering me! Never! Now please let me do this. Let me take you home,” he interrupted gently but firmly, his grip on your elbow a reassuring presence. You tried to conceal your lingering stress, but nothing could hide it from him.
“I-I can’t ask you to do that,” you murmured, your eyes shifting.
“I’m the one asking sweetheart. Please let me drive you home.” His eyes were hard to discern in the dim light, but the sincerity and concern in his voice were unmistakable.
With a sigh and a final look at the bus stop, you nodded slowly. “Okay,” you whispered.
A smile spread on Bucky's face and he gently turned the hand on your elbow to the small of your back to lead you to the flat house.
As you approached the building, you recognized it from the brief time you spent at the party. However, without the thumping bass, overpowering smell of alcohol, and chaotic atmosphere, the place appeared surprisingly cozy in the dim light
Never once leaving contact with your back he guided you to a room at the end of the hallway. He knocked on the door softly.
“Took your sweet time man-” a guy - Sam, you assumed him to be - standing in the doorframe, stopped talking upon noticing you. A slow smile curled upon his lips. “Can see why.”
“It’s not how it looks like,” Bucky hissed quickly, talking through his teeth. “Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure, man,” confirmed Sam, reaching for a key from a hook beside the door. “Don’t be too late for class tomorrow,” he added with a wink.
A lump formed in your throat as you grappled with your thoughts. It was natural to assume Bucky would have certain expectations given his reputation. After all, he was known for his past behavior of sleeping around. The transformation he seemingly went through couldn’t happen overnight, after all.
You found it hard to believe that Bucky would take advantage of your vulnerability, especially considering how he came to your rescue during the unsettling encounter just moments before. Yet, despite this reassurance, your mind continued to wrestle with uncertainty, plagued by lingering doubts and fears.
Bucky could feel you tense beside him and shot daggers at Sam even when said guy already disappeared behind the door.
As he walked you to Sam’s car, Bucky held the door open for you, guiding you inside with gentle reassurance. Determined not to leave you alone for too long, he rushed around the front of the car to take the driver’s seat.
During the drive, silence filled the car as you tried to calm your breathing, focusing on the passing scenery outside the window. Your efforts to quell your anxiety were hardly manageable, due to the bouncing of your leg and your trembling hands, fiddling with the fabric of your jacket.
Bucky discreetly stole glances at you as he drove, noticing your nervousness.
15 minutes of driving later, Bucky came to a halt in front of your apartment complex. You unbuckled yourself and before you realized what was going on Bucky opened the door at your side. You didn’t even notice him getting out of the car.
Feeling weak in your knees you got out of the car. Bucky walked you to your door, hands held by his side in case you needed him and his presence offered you a sense of comfort. As you came to a halt in front of your door, you turned your body to him, trying to muster up a smile. You attempted to convey your gratitude although that unease still lingered in your bones.
“Thank you, Barnes! For everything!”
“No need to thank me, Y/n. I’m glad I could help. Will you be okay though?” His concern was genuine, struggling to leave your side.
He looked so hesitant to leave you, it would have been adorable in other circumstances. You felt guilty for entertaining the thought he would take advantage of your situation. You even believed he would be relieved if you asked him to stay with you. You had to admit, the comfort his presence gave you was easing your anxiety, though you couldn’t ask him to stay.
You conjured up a smile. “I’ll be fine,” you assured him, unlocking your door. Bucky stayed rooted on the spot, returning an unsure smile, looking torn. “I’m gonna be okay, really! Get home safe, Barnes.”
Bucky cleared his throat, evading his eyes for a moment and taking a reluctant step backward, but he remained turned to you. After exchanging a quick goodbye you disappeared behind your door.
Bucky watched you climb the stairs through the small window in the door, his gaze unwavering even as the hallway inside turned dark again. He remained rooted outside, his thoughts consumed by concern for your well-being.
Bucky couldn’t shake the desire to talk to you again, especially since that night at the party. He tried so hard to muster up the courage, never having a problem in that department before, but he was a nervous wreck. Now, in an unexpected turn of events he did get to talk to you again, however, he despised how it had unfolded. Seeing you struggle to hold back tears, desperately trying not to break down in front of him, pained him deeply. It hurt to witness your shock, pleading with you to snap out of your state.
The thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t returned, if he hadn’t forgotten his notebook, made him feel sick to his stomach. The mere idea of leaving you to face that situation alone was unbearable to him. Now leaving you alone so shaken felt inherently wrong in any sense, but he acknowledged he didn’t know you well enough to override your request that you would be fine. His instincts urged him to stay but he had to respect your words and your space.
Bucky seethed at the thought of Sam insinuating that he would use you in such a way. Sure, Sam didn’t know what happened to you and it wasn’t his fault Bucky had a reputation like that, but somehow it made him angry. You meant more to him than that. The mere suggestion of exploiting you for his own gain left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he silently vowed to prove Sam wrong by showing you the genuine depth of his feelings and intentions.
Girls constantly approached Bucky, attempting to touch him in the hallways or slipping their phone numbers into his locker, backpack, or books. Just the other day, a particularly bold girl even tried to write her number on his hand. Although she didn’t succeed, Bucky found himself standing in front of the sink for a while, scrubbing at his hand to erase any trace of her advances.
Bucky knew that he was viewed as nothing more than a means for physical pleasure. And he was okay with that, for an embarrassingly long time. The idea of being in a committed relationship and facing the responsibilities that came with it used to repulse him. His desires were simple - a brief encounter with no strings attached, followed by a swift departure, leaving no room for emotional entanglements. At a certain time, one smirk of a pretty girl was enough to jump into bed with her.
You were pretty too. Beautiful even. He acknowledged that day one. But never did he consider reducing you to a mere physical encounter. He noticed you in the hallways and felt intrigued, contemplating flirting with you just like he did with all the other girls. However, there was something different about you. He felt nervous around you, realizing that he cared about your opinion of him more than he cared to admit. He was strangely exhilarated at finding out you would share a class in second semester, trying to find a way to build some kind of connection with you.
That night, as you expressed your disinterest in frat parties, he felt the pull you had on him, without even knowing you well. The alcohol at the party suddenly tasted sour, the air felt stifling, the crowd too dense, the music too deafening, and the girls vying for his attention became an unwelcome intrusion. Their advances left him feeling an overwhelming sense of distress.
He found himself longing to leave his old reputation behind. He wanted something meaningful, something real, and the only person he could imagine it being with was you.
But right now?
Bucky’s heart sank as he got back to Sam’s car, feeling the strong urge to stay with you and ensure your safety. Sitting in front of the steering wheel and staring at your building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be by your side.
You got stuck in your head after examining your bruised wrists and trying to cool down the swelling with an ice pack. Before your panic attack rendered you useless to do anything you managed to call Wanda and she talked you through it. You stayed on the phone with her until you fell asleep.
****
As you woke up, a familiar sense of unease settled over you, accompanied by trembling hands and a racing heart. The thought of facing another day filled with potential triggers made you hesitate. You did want to attend class, unfortunately though the looming threat of another panic attack weighed heavily on your mind. With a sigh, you made the decision to prioritize your well-being and called in sick, sending a text to Wanda to let her know.
As said girl joined you later, bearing notes and takeout, you found solace in her company on your small couch, eating and talking.
“So uhm,” Wanda began, seemingly nonchalant, but you knew her better than that, ears perking up. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you but after Science class, I met Bucky waiting outside the hall. He was looking for you.”
Your chewing slowed as you processed her words, eyebrows knitting together, looking at her.
“He came up to me, to ask where you were and if you were okay.”
You swallowed, a wave of panic surged within you. “You didn’t tell him-”
“No! No, of course not,” she interjected you hastily, words tumbling over each other in her haste to reassure you. “I just told him you weren’t feeling well and called in sick but I don’t think he really bought that.” Her smile was sympathetic.
Your appetite forgotten you let your fork clatter into the plastic container, your forehead finding its way to the backside of the couch with a groan of frustration.
Wanda’s light chuckle broke through your troubled thoughts. “He also asked me for your number,” she revealed, her tone surprisingly casual given the weight of her words.
“What?” Your head snapped up, eyes widening in disbelief.
“Didn’t give it to him, don’t worry, though I kinda felt bad for the guy. He looked miserable.” Her voice tinged with sympathy.
Taking a deep breath, you attempted to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. Gratitude mingled with apprehension as you recalled Bucky’s unexpected kindness during yesterday’s ordeal. You remembered how his proximity seemed to ground you, warmth spreading through your body at the comfort he provided. You could still feel the lingering sensation of his hand on your back, even a day later. And yet, the intensity of those feelings scared you, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed walls you had built around your heart.
“Hey,” Wanda called out softly, her words carrying a gentle insistence. “He genuinely seemed worried. And I’m not trying to get you to befriend him or whatever but…he really is a nice guy, Y/n.”
Your gaze was fixed on Wanda, contemplation furrowing your brow.
“Listen, I don’t know what your problem is with Bucky, but-” she gave you a careful glance, “-if I’m being honest, I don’t think you know it either sweetie.”
Wanda’s words resonated with a truth you had been reluctant to acknowledge. Bucky’s genuine concern had managed to pierce through the barriers you had erected, leaving you grappling with conflicting emotions. Why did you hold onto this grudge so tightly? Was it merely a shield against vulnerability?
As you reflected on Bucky’s actions, a sense of clarity washed over you. There was truly no valid reason to hold onto the grudge you had harbored against him. He truly had consistently shown kindness and concern towards you.
Recalling the instances where he had gone out of his way to make you comfortable, a wave of gratitude washed over you. From saving you a seat in class to rescuing you from a precarious situation with a homeless man to checking in on your well-being through Wanda, Bucky had proven himself to be a decent and caring person.
With a newfound perspective, you realized that perhaps it was time to give him a chance.
****
The bus was late, as usual. Today, though, you couldn’t summon the energy to care. Your mind was still swirling with thoughts, and fatigue weighed heavily on you.
Wanda saved you a seat in class, checking in on you again and although you felt way better than yesterday, you couldn’t concentrate. The voice of your professor was merely a blurred murmur in the back of your mind.
With some time to kill before your next class, you and Wanda decided to grab a coffee. However, you barely made it out of your lecture hall before hearing your name called.
Heaving a sigh, you turned around and came face to face with an approaching Bucky.
He came to a halt, looking a little sheepish now that he was standing in front of you. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, and his hair a little disheveled, he cleared his throat, seemingly unsure of where to begin.
“I’ll head out already, Y/n. Take your time.” Wanda spoke up, giving you a quick hug before passing by Bucky and throwing you a wink over her shoulder.
Bucky cleared his throat again, shuffling on his feet a little before meeting your eyes. “So, uhm, are you okay?”
A soft smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, touched by his concern. “I’m fine,” you assured him, fidgeting with your fingers. “Thank you, again!” You added quietly.
He waved away your gratitude with a casual gesture. “No need to thank me doll. I’m glad I could help.”
He smiled softly, biting his lip, though there was a hint of something more in his expression. Sensing he still had something on his mind, trying to figure out how to say it, you remained silent.
“Listen, uh...,” he began, clenching his jaw and avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to apologize for…well for being pushy about the parties and all. Shouldn’t have bothered you like that.”
You blinked, taken aback by his unexpected apology. “Oh, uhm…it’s okay Barnes, really.”
He shook his head, letting out a breath. “Nah, it’s not. This isn’t your scene, should have respected that.” He opened his mouth again but closed it right after, swallowing.
“Don’t worry about it Barnes, it’s alright, seriously.” A tinge of disappointment lingered within you. The realization hit you, that without his invitations to parties, he might not seek you out as often. He only ever did, when asking you to come to his parties. So it would mean he might not annoyingly interrupt you in class, or approach you on campus anymore. You scolded yourself for feeling that way but you somehow didn’t want to lose that.
Needing to take hold of your thoughts, you wanted to get away from here. Your lips curled in a smile. “Alright, uhm, Wanda’s probably waiting for me so-” You were about to turn away but Bucky called your name again.
“Hey, uh-” he seemed nervous, his voice wavering slightly and he cleared his throat, a hand coming up to run through his hair. “You could always come to me - I mean, the frat - when you’re here late. I can always drive you again. Make sure you get home safe.”
He felt bad for bringing up the topic again, but he wanted you to know that he genuinely cared and would feel better if you reached out to him. He would gladly drive you home again, hoping you’d consider taking him up on his offer.
Surprised once more, you blinked at him, processing his offer. You mustered up a smile. “That’s nice, really Barnes, but I think I’ll be okay.”
“Alright, well, just know that I’ll be there if you change your mind,” Bucky replied, his tone sincere, expression soft.
You smiled again, nodded, and bid him goodbye.
Reflecting on the interaction, you couldn’t help but agree with Wanda. Bucky Barnes was a decent guy, held back by his reputation.
****
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the library, casting warm beams that danced upon the wooden tables and bookshelves. It was a stark contrast to the earlier rain, which had cloaked the world outside in a shroud of grey.
The faint whispers of fellow students, the gentle rustle of pages, and the occasional creak of wooden chairs created a soothing ambiance while you browsed through your textbook.
A groan from beside you, however, interrupted that. You lifted your head, diverting your attention to your friend sitting beside you.
“Why is all the information so scattered? Can’t find shit for this stupid paper.” Wanda exclaimed, her brow furrowed in frustration as she stared at her laptop screen.
As you chuckled and leaned in to help Wanda navigate through the vast sea of information on the internet, a sudden gust of wind sent a shiver down your spine, causing you to instinctively turn your head towards the entrance of the library. In walked Bucky, accompanied by the familiar figure of Sam. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting to be caught staring.
In the two weeks since your conversation, there had been a palpable change in the air whenever Bucky and you crossed paths. And that was a lot. You haven’t necessarily exchanged words but you grew more enthusiastic when seeing him, sending a smile his way, which he reciprocated immediately.
You were sitting in a café last week, nursing a latte, while having light conversation with Wanda and Pietro, as you recognized Bucky standing at the counter. Without thinking you lifted your hand and waved at him when he looked in your direction. His face lit up, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he smiled and eagerly waved back. He seemed to contemplate walking over to you, your hopes rising for a second, but his name called by the barista snapped his head away from you. After getting his coffee he sent another smile your way but left the café. Wanda and Pietro wasted no time in teasing you mercilessly after he was out of sight. The blush on your cheeks evidence of your embarrassment.
“God, this is getting ridiculous,” Wanda scoffed, amusement lacing her features. You turned to her, a hint of confusion littering your features, oblivious to what she was referring to. She nodded subtly to the side, her attention still fixed on her laptop screen. Following her nod, you spotted Bucky and Sam standing in the near distance, both seemingly focused in your direction.
Sam's face lit up with a mischievous grin and he started walking toward you girls, clapping Bucky on the back. Bucky looked visibly distressed, running a hand through his hair, before following behind.
Sam took a seat in front of Wanda and you, his toothy smile lighting up his face. “Ladies,” he acknowledged playfully.
Wanda laughed, continuing to type on her laptop. “What do you want Wilson?” she asked teasingly.
Sam leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “Just wanted to say hi,” he replied casually, shrugging his shoulders.
Meanwhile, Bucky took a seat next to Sam, looking a little awkward. He shuffled a little, leaning his elbows onto the table.
“Well hi, then,” Wanda said, finally looking up.
As Sam and Wanda dove into a discussion about their research papers, exchanging ideas and sharing insights, Bucky and you found yourselves stealing glances at each other.
There was a warmth in Bucky’s eyes, a softness you still were trying to get accustomed to. You felt a flutter of excitement in your chest, you didn’t even try to suppress.
Bucky cleared his throat, looking solely at you. “What’s your paper about?” he asked, his voice gentle yet filled with curiosity.
You smiled, grateful for the new opportunity to engage him in conversation. “I’m researching the impact of technology on interpersonal relationships,” you replied, the initial awkwardness fading away.
Bucky nodded, his interest piqued. With that you delved into a light conversation, discussing your topic in more detail, diving into the various aspects you were exploring and the questions you hoped to answer. Bucky’s gaze never wavered, his attention fully captivated by your words. You noticed that whenever you tried to turn the conversation back to him, Bucky seemed more interested in talking about you.
As the conversation between Bucky and you flowed effortlessly, you found yourselves delving into deeper topics. Bucky’s genuine curiosity about you as a person was evident, and you felt a surge of warmth spreading throughout your body at his interest in getting to know you better. He asked about your hobbies, your favorite books, your dreams for the future - anything and everything he could think of to get to know you better. A spark elicited in Bucky’s eyes at some point, as if he found something in your words that resonated with him on a deeper level.
It felt like you talked to Bucky for hours though it couldn’t have been more than half an hour. The presence of Wanda and Sam had long faded into the background, as Bucky and you connected. To your disappointment, Sam and Bucky had another class and bid you girls goodbye, wishing you good luck with your papers furthermore.
Wanda held her mouth after they left but the knowing smirk in her glance spoke volumes.
****
Weeks passed in a blissful blur. Your encounters with Bucky on campus evolved into something more than just brief exchanges. Conversations became the norm, each one stretching longer than the last, until you found yourself losing track of time altogether, arriving late to class oftentimes. Whenever your schedules allowed it, Wanda and you would meet up with Bucky and Sam to grab some coffee.
The soft smiles filled with adoration that Bucky sent your way didn’t go unnoticed, even when he thought you weren’t looking. You also noticed the little gestures, the quick hugs, he never seemed to pull away from fist, the hover of his hand over your back when walking around campus with you. He pulled you closer to his side a few days ago, his hand gently gripping the sleeve of your jacket as you navigated through the crowded hallway. Your heart skipped a beat at that.
And then there were moments when he seemed on the verge of saying something before parting ways, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak his mind, but then thinking better of it and closing his mouth with a clear of his throat and a hand running through his brown locks. His former cockiness seemed to have given way to a newfound shyness. He was holding back, afraid to cross some invisible line but you didn’t know how to approach him on that.
You also didn’t know if you eventually could cross a line at this moment. Darkness enveloped the campus, casting eerie shadows that danced in the dim light of the flickering lampposts. Wanda and Pietro were out of town and you decided to stay a little longer and finish up your notes. A bad move on your part.
The once bustling grounds now lay deserted, devoid of the usual throngs of students. A sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at you with every step. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind or the distant hum of a passing car. Every shadow seemed to hold a hidden threat, every rustle of the wind a whisper of danger.
You were thinking about the offer Bucky had made you a few weeks ago to go by his flat and let him drive you home again. You considered going to him but although he had made you that offer you didn’t want to inconvenience him. And just walking to his flat and asking him to drive you home? It seemed weird. But as your anxiety intensified and your hands started to tremble, you found yourself walking towards his flat on autopilot. The memory of your previous panic attack loomed large in your mind, threatening to engulf you once again.
There was a guy standing in the doorway with a cigarette in hand. You were approaching cautiously, not sure if this was a good idea.
“Hey, you lost?”
The sound of the stranger’s voice jolted you out of your anxious reverie, pulling you back to the present, momentarily breaking the spell of fear that had gripped you.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as you responded. “Uhm, actually I wanted...to Bucky.” Your voice wavered slightly, betraying the uncertainty that still lingered within you.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, eyeing you curiously as he took a drag from his cigarette. “Huh,” he muttered, looking you up and down. “Guy hasn’t had a girl over in weeks.”
You cleared your throat, too caught up in your own anxious thoughts to care about the stranger’s assumptions.
“Well, is he here?”
He nodded, a sly smirk forming on his lips. “Up the stairs, last door to the left,” he replied, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the staircase.
With a weak “thank you” you stepped past him and walked up the stairs, your heart pounding in your chest.
You stood in front of his door, staring at it long enough to notice the cracks in the woods, marring it’s surface, splinters standing out. Your lip was held in a death grip, teeth biting down on it. With a hesitant breath, you finally mustered up the courage to give the door a soft knock, the sound echoing faintly in the empty hallway. As you withdrew your hand you hid the shakiness in the folds of your sleeves.
There was a groan on the other side of the door, as response to your knock. A lump burned in your throat and you played with the thought to just bold out of that house again when you heard the doorknob turning.
“Sam, come on man-” Bucky stopped talking abruptly upon seeing you. His eyes grew wide, eyebrows shooting up, surprise clear as day upon his face.
“Y/n? I-Wow, uh, I didn’t expect you here,” Bucky stammered, shuffling on his feet with his hand running through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to compose himself. If your mind wouldn’t have been occupied with other things right now you would have found him adorable with his crinkled shirt loosely hugging his frame and hanging over some dark sweatpants, his unruly hair and flushed cheeks. But all you could do was swallow that burning sensation in your throat.
“Uhm,” you choked out, looking at you feet. “I-I’m sorry for bothering you, I just…I didn’t-”
“Hey, hey, doll, it’s alright,” he met you in the hallway, a hand coming up to your upper arm in a sense of urgency. He hooked his finger under your chin to lift your head. You met his eyes, your heart leaving your chest altogether. His face was twisted in worry, brows furrowed deeply, eyes so focused on you, the intensity of it washed over you like a wave. Your breaths still came in too elated, heart beating erratically. “Take some deep breaths for me sweetheart, follow my lead, come on.” He urged you softly.
With Bucky’s guidance, you focused on your breathing, drawing in slow, steady inhalations and exhaling the tension that had taken hold of your body. His thumb continued to trace soothing circles on his skin. As you followed Bucky’s lead, the erratic beat of your heart gradually slowed to a more steady rhythm.
“Atta girl, that’s it!” he whispered, rubbing his other hand up and down your arm. He nodded at you to keep breathing, eyes so intense it was the only thing you could focus on.
Standing directly in front of you and focusing on your eyes, he let your chin up to gently grab your other arm. “You wanna tell me what happened?” His low and gentle tone soothing you.
You took a deep breath, feeling ridiculous out of a sudden to stand here and burden him. “I-My bus didn’t come and-and I don’t know, I got scared I guess and…God I’m sorry Bucky I shouldn’t have come I-”
“Hold on a sec doll,” he interjected, brows pulled together further, concern dripping from his words. “You stayed on campus until now?” A confirming but weak nod of you let Bucky heave a breath. “There’s no need to apologize, sweetheart, I told you you could come, didn’t I? And god help me, I’m glad you did.”
He looked pained to some extent, but mustered up a warm smile. You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes still shifting with uncertainty and your hands were still secured in your sleeves, the nagging thought that you were burdening him still lingering at the back of your mind. Your tense posture didn’t go unnoticed by Bucky and he pulled you in his embrace, engulfing you in a warm hug. He never hugged you like that before but with the way his arms around you tightened and he leaned his head against yours, he supposedly wanted to.
As Bucky held you close, his warm breath tickling your ear and sending shivers down your spine, he whispered words of comfort and reassurance that washed over you like a gentle breeze. You couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, all you could do was melt into his embrace and let the soothing cadence of his voice and the tenderness in his touch ease the knots of anxiety that had gripped your chest.
Bucky withdrew slightly to look at you again, his gaze filled with affection and tenderness. “You want me to drive you home, doll?” he whispered, maintaining the close proximity you two harbored.
As you pondered his question, conflicted emotions swirled within you. Initially, you had sought Bucky out precisely for this reason - to ask for a ride home. But now, something had shifted. The idea of being dropped off alone at home felt less appealing. Wanda and Pietro were likely unavailable, and you hesitated to inconvenience anyone else. Yet, the thought of being alone right now was equally unsettling.
Sensing your hesitation, Bucky gently lifted your head again with his finger under your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. There was a soft smile you came face to face with. “Sam’s not here for tonight…Do you wanna stay? It’s just us.”
The offer was tempting, but you couldn’t shake the worry of being a bother. “That’s nice Bucky, but I-I don’t want to intrude,” you murmured, matching his quiet tone.
“You’d never intrude, sweetheart! Don’t ever worry about that, alright?” His hand found its way to the small of your back, guiding you into his room.
You settled on his bed as he led you there and couldn’t help but steal a glance around the room. It was surprisingly tidy, save for a small pile of clothes scattered on the floor. Overall, the atmosphere felt organized and put together. Your eyes drifted to his desk - again, neatly arranged - where a framed picture caught your attention. In it was a clearly younger Bucky, with chubby cheeks and a toothy grin. Standing behind him was a man who bore a striking resemblance to him, his father you guessed. A woman was beside him, dark hair in a bun atop her head and a radiant smile, presumably his mother. Cradled in the woman’s arms was a little girl, short brunette hair a little disheveled, and with a pacifier in her mouth but a joyful grin on her face.
A soft smile tugged at your lips as you took in the sight of his family. While Bucky had mentioned having a sister during your conversation in the library a few weeks ago, he had never shown you pictures before.
Bucky entered your field of vision, settling down beside you with a glass of water in hand. He held it out to you and you thanked him gratefully, taking a sip.
You felt Bucky shifting beside you, wiping his hands on his sweatpants, betraying his nervousness. “Do you-” His voice was raspy and he cleared his throat, starting again, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”
You huffed out a laugh, throwing him a grateful smile. “I’m good, Bucky, thank you!”
A hesitant hand came to rest on your knee. “You let me know if there’s something, alright?”
“Will do, Buck!”
He gave you a look. “I mean it, doll!”
You chuckled, being surprised by how easily Bucky managed to ground you, getting you out of your nervous spiraling. “I know, Barnes.”
Bucky watched you, own lips curled in a soft smile. You returned his gaze, warmth spreading through you at the sparkle in his eyes. His hand remained secure on your knee, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your jeans, a gesture that made you yearn for his touch on your skin instead. The amount of adoration twinkling in his gaze made you weak. Seconds ticked by and you still were looking at each other. There was something in his blue speckles that couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere else. A magnetic pull you were drawn to, holding you captive. You noticed his blues flicker down to your lips for a brief moment, and in response, your own eyes permitted themselves to wander to his. The movement of his thumb stilled on your leg, his hand laying flat and you could feel him leaning in.
Bucky often found himself lost in thoughts about kissing you. When the urge washed over him he imagined leaning in and capturing your lips with his own. But he had always held back, hesitant to take that final step without knowing if you wanted it too.
One time, when you two were walking together through campus, the wind was relentless, whipping your hair around your face as you tried in vain to tame it. Despite your efforts though, the wind was hard to go against and after the fifth failed attempt at trying to tame your hair, you started laughing, Bucky joining in. As he watched you, your hair obscuring your view, he couldn’t help the warmth swelling in his heart, the fondness that made his smile ache in his cheeks at the sight of your laughter. He found himself wishing to pull you close, to gently brush the strands of hair away from your face, and to kiss you with all the pent-up longing he felt. In that moment, all he wanted was to express the depth of his feelings for you in a kiss that would leave you breathless.
He often daydreamed about kissing you in the library. Surrounded by the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the windows, you sat immersed in your studies, your face illuminated by the gentle light. You looked so beautiful, all he could do was admire you. If only you had lifted your head from your notebook, you would have seen the adoring smile that graced his lips. He longed to express his affection for you in the form of a tender kiss, holding you close and sharing a moment of intimacy amidst the quiet serenity of the library. But he couldn’t do that, so he took the chance and admired you from afar.
But the one time he almost really did it was the time you called him ‘Bucky’ for the first time.
You sit in your usual café, nursing a large cup of coffee, the rich aroma wafting up to greet you with each sip. Bucky is seated in front of you, idly fiddling with the sugar packages stored in a box on the table. Your notebook lies open in front of you, pages filled with scribbled notes from your recent class.
After class, Bucky had caught up with you, asking what you were up to. You had mentioned grabbing a coffee and finishing up some notes, and he had decided to tag along. However, as you now sit together in the cozy café, it seems Bucky isn’t entirely pleased with the lack of attention you’re giving him, his relentlessness evident as he fidgets with the sugar packets in front of him.
He grumpily rearranges the sugar packages for the fourth time, his irritation palpable as you remain engrossed in your writing. You hear the crinkle of a sugar packet being opened.
“I don’t need any more sugar in my coffee, Barnes,” you warn him teasingly, without lifting your head from your notebook.
“Everyone needs a little sweetness in their life, doll!” he retorts with a knowing grin, tossing you a wink as you glance back at him. With a mischievous smirk, he lets the sugar cascade into your cup.
“Whatever you say,” you reply with a laugh in your breath, shaking your head in amusement before returning your focus to your notes.
You hear him open another package and let out a sigh. “You better not do that,” you warn again, eyes not lifting.
Another rip of a sugar packet catches your attention, and you perk up to see Bucky holding both open packages over your cup, letting the sugar pour in.
“Bucky!” you exclaim, the volume of your voice drawing glances from other café patrons, but you’re too focused on the playful banter to acknowledge them. “God, I can’t believe you did that,” you groan, pulling your cup closer to your side, in mock exasperation.
As your gaze locks with his, you’re prepared to scold him further but the look on his face catches you off guard. His eyes are wide, mouth agape, morphing into a beaming smile, white teeth on display.
Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What?”
“Thought I’d never get to hear you say it, doll,” Bucky laughs out, eyes sparking.
“What did I say?” you ask, puzzled by his reaction.
He leans forward, elbows resting on the table while his eyes remain fixed on you. That beaming smile is still plastered on his face, and his blue orbs seem to glow with amusement, sparking brighter than usual.
“You called me Bucky,” he points out, his voice tings with delight.
You took a deep breath in, regretting your slip-up. “Shit, I guess I did.”
Bucky now crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the back of his seat. He doesn’t seem able to stop the smile on his face. “If all it took was to annoy you then Imma keep doing that from now on,” he declared with a playful glint in his eyes.
Head in your hands you let out a groan. Bucky barks out a laugh in front of you and you reluctantly lift your head to look at him. You point a finger at him. “I’ll keep calling you Bucky, if you stop being annoying!” you propose, trying to stay serious but not being able to stop the corners of your mouth from lifting.
“Can’t say no to that,” Bucky conceded, smile growing fond, affection radiating from him in waves.
He never stopped annoying you but you kept calling him Bucky.
But now, as he sat in front of you, his hand resting on your leg, Bucky felt the familiar urge resurface. You were in his room, smiling at him, looking so beautiful, it took his breath away. Yet, despite the overwhelming desire, he knew he would never take that final step without your explicit consent, considering the circumstances you were here right now. Your state earlier left him uneasy and a nagging guilt was gnawing within him, thinking about that night he had driven you home and then left you alone that shaken. So he needed you to want this, to be sure you were okay. He felt sick at the thought of taking advantage of you in any way.
Thus, he did lean in but didn’t go further than a few inches, giving you the opportunity to make the next move or the space to show him you weren’t ready for that.
Your eyes darted to his lips once more, leaning in yourself. Your foreheads touched after some moments, noses brushing and you saw Bucky’s eyes flutter close, still not moving further. You took a few seconds before closing the gap and pressing your lips to his. Bucky let out a breath through his nose, slowly moving his lips in sync with yours. Again, he let you lead the kiss. His other hand made his way up to your face, the gentle touch of his fingertips brushing over your skin before tenderly cradling your cheek.
Eventually, you pulled away, opening your eyes but staying close to his face. Your hazy smile mirrored his, and he pulled your head back slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead before looking back at you, fondness clear on his features. “Are you okay?” he whispered, his fingers still caressing your cheek as his intense eyes locked on yours.
You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper as you held his gaze. “Yeah.”
After a few tender moments of loving touches and whispered assurances, Bucky handed you a change of clothes and let you use the bathroom.
Emerging from the bathroom, you were now dressed in a pair of his black shorts and a shirt, the fabric enveloping you in Bucky’s comforting scent. It made your stomach do flips, feeling at ease. A soft smile graced your lips as you took in the familiar aroma.
“I got another blanket, in case you got cold…,” he trailed off as he caught sight of you. His eyes swept up and down your figure, admiring how his clothes draped over your form. Though you couldn’t quite read his expression, the slight blush coloring his cheeks was enough to make you smile sheepishly in response. Bucky cleared his throat - he did that a lot around you - and turned away a little, composing himself.
There wasn’t much space in his bed you recognized as you settled in, but somehow you didn’t mind that much. Bucky sat down on the bed, looking troubled.
“Buck? Something wrong?”
Bucky took a breath, shaking his head slightly. “No,” he breathed out, an inner turmoil in his eyes, “I just…I can sleep in Sams’ bed. Maybe tha-”
“Hey,” you interrupted him softly, “I don’t mind Bucky, really! We can share.” He didn’t look convinced so you sat up straighter and heaved a breath, trying again. “And it would make me feel better,” you admitted quietly.
That did him in, breathing out a sigh and settling in beside you. Though he relented, he still was tense beside you, his muscles stiff. His shoulders were touching yours, so he felt you starting to shiver a little. His head snapped to you in an instant.
“Are you cold? Let me get another blan-” Bucky began, already halfway off the bed before you interrupted him once more.
“Hold on! I…uhm,” you hesitated, searching for the right words to express your request, “Could you maybe…cuddle me?” You fiddled with your fingers, a little nervous about how he would react.
To your relief, you heard him shuffle towards you, and soon you felt his arm wrapping around you. You smiled and turned, positioning your back against his chest. His other arm moved hesitantly under your pillow, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. With Bucky’s presence surrounding you, you felt a sense of security wash over you, easing any lingering nerves.
“Like that?” he breathed in your hair, a whisper so full of emotion.
“Yeah,” you breathed back, a sense of gratitude washing over you, “Thank you!” It wasn’t just a thank you for holding you in that moment; it was a thank you for everything he had done for you. It was a thank you for pulling you out of your anxiety - for saving you from a panic attack you surely would have endured if it wasn’t for him. It was a thank you for him offering his comfort and support in so many ways. And it was a thank you for inviting you to his many parties because although you never really went, it was the foundation of your current relationship.
And he knew. He knew the depth of your gratitude, the depth of your feelings. Because he had learned to read and understand you. Because he had learned to love you. And he would tell you when he thought you were ready to hear it. For now, all he could do was hold you close, squeeze you just a little tighter, and silently convey his unwavering support and profound affection.
“Love comes to you just at the right time; the time you never thought it would have”
Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.
Word Count: 13.6k
Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending
Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡
Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga
Masterlist
You hear the giggling before anything else.
It’s always the giggling.
And, as always, it grates on your nerves.
It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.
Then comes the keys.
The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.
Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.
Then the door opening.
More giggles.
His breathy chuckles.
Then the door closing.
Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.
You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.
Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.
And then, his bedroom door.
And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.
Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.
At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.
But then comes the moaning.
High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.
Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.
Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.
And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.
You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.
But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.
And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.
And that finally makes the tears flow.
They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.
You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.
They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.
The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.
Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.
Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.
Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.
Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.
You are alone in your grief.
The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.
Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.
However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.
Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.
And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.
Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.
The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.
The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.
And it makes you know.
He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.
Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.
Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.
Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.
Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.
If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.
Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.
You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.
It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.
Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.
So what is the point?
You don’t want to do another morning like this.
You can’t do another morning like this.
Not three times in a row.
Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.
Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.
The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.
And then, him standing there and watching you.
Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.
That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.
Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.
You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.
His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.
Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.
But you are certain, he won’t.
Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.
He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.
He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.
But tomorrow night, there will be another.
Tomorrow night will be the same.
And in the morning nothing will have happened.
Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.
You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.
Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.
You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.
The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.
Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.
The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.
The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.
The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.
The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.
And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.
Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.
You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.
The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.
Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.
No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.
You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.
You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.
But you keep walking.
Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.
It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.
You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.
The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.
You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.
You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.
You don’t look back.
Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.
It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.
Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.
“Y/n?”
You close your eyes.
“Y/n!”
Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.
You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.
But you can’t. You never can.
With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.
Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.
His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.
Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.
Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.
You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.
You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.
“Where are you going?”
The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.
As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.
You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.
“To Nat’s.”
It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.
“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.
“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.
Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.
All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?
But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.
So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.
“Go back to bed, Bucky.”
Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.
Not when you are already about to break.
“I- What?”
His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.
But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.
You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.
“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.
Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.
She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.
“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.
But Bucky doesn’t move.
His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.
And his eyes stay fixed on you.
Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.
And it makes your hands clammy.
The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.
He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.
“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”
You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.
“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”
“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.
“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.
But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.
“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.
And it’s cruel. So cruel.
Because you are in love with him.
And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.
“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”
You swallow down a choked breath.
Because this is making things so much worse.
That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.
Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.
But you are not broken. You are just in love.
“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even glance at her.
His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”
The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.
But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-
“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”
His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.
But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.
You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.
But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.
“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”
You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.
“No, you-”
He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.
Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.
“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”
Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.
You could run.
You should.
You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.
But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.
“Okay,” you say weakly.
Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.
And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.
Hating yourself for hoping.
Technically, you could just leave.
Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.
You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.
But you don’t.
You know you won’t.
Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.
And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.
Not Bucky.
Never Bucky.
You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.
You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.
How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.
And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.
So you stay.
With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.
But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.
You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.
Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.
Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.
He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.
And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.
Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.
Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.
The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.
Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.
His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.
Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.
His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.
His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.
Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.
“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”
His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.
You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.
“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”
It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.
And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.
He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.
“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”
You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.
You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.
The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.
Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.
“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.
“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.
He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.
“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”
His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.
And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.
He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.
Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.
But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.
His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.
But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.
You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.
So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.
“I-”
You try. You really try.
But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.
Because this time it’s her walking out.
She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.
Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.
Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.
But it’s not yours either.
She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.
She had the time for that.
Meanwhile, you can barely stand.
Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.
Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.
Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.
And Bucky is still looking at you.
Not at her.
You.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.
But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.
The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.
“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”
Your stomach lurches.
You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.
Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.
“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.
“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.
Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.
“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”
“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”
And then she’s gone.
But so are you.
You don’t even think about it. You just move.
Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.
It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.
Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.
You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.
You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.
His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.
“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.
“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.
And it’s not funny. Not even close.
His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.
You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.
Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.
“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.
“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.
His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.
But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.
And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.
“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.
You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.
His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”
You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.
Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.
And Bucky watches all of that.
His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.
“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.
You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”
Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.
“See, that’s bullshit.”
You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.
“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”
You want him to stop.
You want him to turn around.
You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.
But he won’t.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
And you break.
No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.
The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.
You feel so pathetic.
Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.
And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.
The second your breath hitches, he is moving.
Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.
You let him.
Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.
His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.
Like your pain is his own.
“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”
There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.
His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.
“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”
It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.
And it makes you cry harder.
Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.
Except it hasn’t.
It doesn’t.
Not in the way you want.
You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.
But you are not one of those girls.
You never will be.
And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.
So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.
It’s too hard. too cruel.
You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.
But it does.
Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.
So you cry harder.
Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.
Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.
“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”
But you can’t.
Because what the hell would you even say?
That you’re in love with him?
That you’ve been in love with him?
That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?
That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?
That you want him in a way he will never want you back?
You won’t.
So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.
“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.
He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.
His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.
Because none of this makes it any easier.
Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.
Because it’s him.
And that means it hurts.
You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.
But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.
He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.
Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.
He looks wrecked.
His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.
“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”
You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.
Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.
“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.
But you don’t.
Because somehow this makes it worse.
And you hate it.
You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.
Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.
Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.
But Bucky just shrugs.
It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.
Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.
Not with anyone. Not even with you.
You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.
And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.
You can barely breathe past it.
You don’t say anything.
And Bucky freezes.
His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.
There is something uncertain in there.
And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.
Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.
Like a switch has been flipped.
Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.
Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.
His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.
He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.
His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.
“Is that what this is about?”
It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.
You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.
“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.
“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.
Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”
It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.
“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.
“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.
You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.
“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.
But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.
He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.
“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.
It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.
It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.
“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”
And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.
Because you’re breaking his heart?
What does that even mean?
You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”
His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.
“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.
His eyes are pleading.
“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.
The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.
“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”
A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.
You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.
You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.
Your reaction must be answer enough.
Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.
A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.
The exact moment he realizes.
“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.
You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.
“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.
You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.
But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.
“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.
He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.
Bucky panics.
His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.
“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.
Not at you.
At himself.
“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”
It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.
And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.
“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”
He seems to hold back a scream.
Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.
You wish you could believe it.
“Bucky-” you croak out.
“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.
His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.
“Like it’s over.”
Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.
Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.
“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”
He cuts himself off, voice choking.
His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.
And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.
When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.
“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.
Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.
This thing between you.
Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.
It consumes him.
His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.
His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.
“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”
His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.
And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.
He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.
Bucky is crying.
It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.
You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.
But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.
And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.
But it doesn’t.
Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.
“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”
His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.
“I love you.”
Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.
He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.
Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.
“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.
But you don’t know how to.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.
Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.
You don’t and he steps closer again.
His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.
“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.
But what could you say?
Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.
But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.
“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.
Guilt.
It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”
You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.
And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.
“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”
Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”
“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”
Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.
“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”
Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.
Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”
It hurts.
It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.
You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.
But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.
That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.
Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.
It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?
But he still touched them.
Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.
While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.
And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.
But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.
He tried to fuck it away.
And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.
You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.
“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”
He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.
“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”
Your breath stalls.
Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”
He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.
Even if you know it might not be fair.
But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.
And he sees it.
You try to blink back another wave of tears.
His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.
“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.
“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”
You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.
And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.
But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.
The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.
The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.
But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.
Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?
You had no claim on him.
But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.
You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.
“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.
“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”
Your breath catches, body sways.
There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.
“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”
Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.
“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.
“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”
You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.
“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”
You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”
Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.
“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.
His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.
“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”
“Bucky-”
He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.
“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”
You nod.
He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.
He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”
Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.
You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.
“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”
You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.
Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”
You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.
Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.
And for a split second, Bucky freezes.
Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.
But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.
One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.
And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.
He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.
It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.
And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.
“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”
And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.
“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”
Summary : Bucky forgets his birthday. You, his secretary, remember.
Pairing : Congressman/thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Secretary!reader
Warnings/tags : Mutual pining!!! Fluff, angst if you squint. Cursing. Bucky Birthday fic!!!
Word Count : 3.7k
Notes : Hi!!! This is a queued fic for Bucky's Birthday, so my taglist isn't updated yet!! I'll reply to y'all tomorrow.
Bucky Barnes forgot about his birthday.
But then again, Bucky didn’t really have time for birthdays anymore. When you’ve lived as long as he had, when time had been stolen from you in fragments of war and violence, the idea of celebrating another year felt almost… pointless. Besides, no one ever really remembered.
Well, that was a lie. His friends did.
Last year, Sam and Joaquin had grabbed dinner in a greasy burger joint with him, and that had been enough, but this year, they were gone on some mission. And with his days now consumed by endless hearings, press briefings, and committee meetings, the date had slipped right past him. He had no texts, no reminders. Just work.
To be specific, he was just looking forward to spending the majority of the workday with you, his damn secretary.
Who he had been in love with for so long it was starting to become a problem.
It was embarrassing, really— how bad it had gotten, how much of you got to him. He had fought in wars, survived Hydra, been broken and rebuilt over and over again and treated like an inanimate object, and yet somehow, you were going to be the death of him.
He just couldn’t resist you.
Not when you tilted your head in focus, biting your lip as you sifted through dense legal documents. Not when you’d gently ask from the doorway, "Congressman, when was the last time you had a real meal?" like you actually cared. You knew he ran himself into the ground, so there was always coffee waiting on his desk— made exactly how he liked it, even when he hadn’t asked.
And god, did he freeze like a pathetic teenage boy every time you touched him.
Not inappropriately—never inappropriately—but it drove him insane all the same.
You’d adjust his tie, fingers brushing his throat, your touch so damn professional it only made things worse. You’d straighten his cuff before a meeting, and suddenly, focusing on anything else was impossible. Worst of all was that night at a charity gala. He’d been so tense, so sick of all the schmoozing and ass-kissing, so you had rested a hand between his shoulder blades to calm him down. "Breathe, sir," you had whispered in his ear. "You’re going to do just fine."
He’d been around beautiful women before— he wasn’t blind— but you never carried yourself like beauty mattered. Instead, you valued yourself where you were brilliant. You were so good at your job, so damn capable, it was honestly unfair.
And it killed him that he couldn’t have you.
It killed that every glance, every touch sent his brain into overload. It killed him to sit beside you in meetings, watching you flip through your notes, twirling a pen between your fingers.
When he worked late, you stayed too, typing away at your desk, refusing to let him go through it alone. When he got dragged into a PR mess, you were the one handling the fallout, guiding him through all this bullshit, keeping him from saying fuck this and walking out of Congress altogether.
He thought about those late nights in his office, when your exhaustion crept in, though you’d never admit it. You’d stretch in your chair, groaning as you rubbed your neck, and he had to physically stop himself from offering to do it for you.
And he still regularly thought about that one flight back to D.C., when you had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He had spent the entire damn trip staring out the window, doing everything in his power not to think about how easy it would be to turn his head and press his lips to your hair.
And yet, for all the ways you took care of him, he took care of you, too.
Like how he always made sure you got home safe, insisting on a car service whenever you worked late, even though you told him it was unnecessary. When you shivered in overly air-conditioned meeting rooms, he somehow always ended up draping his jacket over you, pretending he wasn’t using it anyway.
Like how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk when you two were heading out together. How he kept extra pens in his pocket because you always lost yours.
Or that time he figured you were late for work because of the rain as you stepped into the office soaking wet. The very next day, a black umbrella just appeared on your desk. There had been no note, no explanation. But you knew. When you thanked him, he only shrugged.
You probably thought it was just him being friendly. Just a good boss.
But fuck, if only you knew.
But you couldn’t know. That was the point!
You were untouchable.
Not just because you worked for him, though that was a big enough problem on its own. It was because you could do better.
Bucky knew about the job offers you’ve received, from private firms, from more lucrative companies. He’d seen them one evening on your desk, stacked neatly in a folder you probably meant to take home. He was wrong for doing it, but he read them. His heart dropped when he saw the salaries were better. The hours were shorter. Any sane person would have taken them. But you… hadn’t.
And he didn’t know why.
Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe you actually liked this job, despite the long hours, the politics, the absolute mess of it all.
But lately, he’d been worried.
Because you’d been staring at those offers longer, rubbing at your temples after grueling days on the Hill, looking more and more like you were getting ready to walk away.
And fuck, if it made him selfish, but he didn’t want you to leave.
Because even if he could never have you the way he wanted— never touch you, never kiss you, never pull you into his lap when you stood too close to his desk— at least he could still see you every day.
Talk to you.
Be near you.
And if that was all he could have, then he’d take it.
So no, Bucky didn’t have time to think about his birthday.
Not when he was too busy thinking about work and the bills he had to push through.
And not when, no matter how hard he tried, he kept thinking about you.
—
Today, you were acting… different.
And Bucky had no idea why.
The changes had been subtle, but Bucky was a soldier. He noticed things.
He noticed the shift in your steps, the tension in your breath. Something about you was… off.
Not bad, just different.
When he walked into his office that morning, there was a coffee waiting on his desk— not unusual, but this time, it came with a little pastry. One that came from the other side of town, from that tiny café he had mentioned in passing, months ago.
Bucky frowned, glancing at you. “What’s this?”
You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “Figured you might want something sweet, sir.”
Yeah, you, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, his eyes narrowed. “I– thank you.”
You finally glanced up, and for a second Bucky felt his heart skip a beat.
There was a hint of something— something he couldn't quite pin down. It’s like you knew something, like you were waiting for him to piece something together.
Your lips curled up into an adorably small smile. “You should eat, sir. You have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Bucky sighed and mumbled another disgruntled “thank you” before taking a bite, half-distracted as he studied you from across the room.
It was warm.
Did you…?
No, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to heat it up for him. You had better things to do, a busy schedule today, he had seen it in your calendar himself. And besides, Bucky had perfectly viable hands. He could have just walked to the microwave himself.
—
A few hours later, Bucky came back to his private office after hours of back-to-back grueling, mind-numbing, why-the-fuck-did-he-do-this-to-himself meetings.
By the time he made it back, his brain was more fried than his metal arm had ever been, and he was two seconds away from telling everyone in the building to go fuck themselves.
And then there you were, waiting with a small box in your hands.
Bucky stopped in the doorway. “What is that?” he asked warily.
You blinked back at him. “A present.”
His brow furrowed. “For what?”
You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers tightening around the edges of the box— like you were waiting for him to acknowledge something. You stepped forward and pressed the gift into his hands with a casual shrug. “I saw it and thought of you.”
Bucky’s fingers curled around the box on instinct. He lifted the lid.
It was a leather wrist cuff. Exactly his style, down to the precise shade of black and the subtle silver details.
Bucky stared at it. Then at you. “You just… thought of me?” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be.
You gave another small shrug, “Figured you could use an upgrade, sir.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then cleared his throat.
“Thanks,” he said.
You nodded, already turning back to your laptop like this wasn’t a thing. Like you hadn’t just made his heart ache.
What does this mean?
Was it the one-month anniversary of that bill he had pushed through? Was it be nice to your boss day? Was this—
What is it, what is it, what is it???
And why the fuck was his heart beating so goddamn fast?
—
Then, just as Bucky was preparing for the last meeting of the day, you dropped a wrapped package onto his desk.
He just stared at it, slowly looking up at you, brow furrowing.
“Another one?” His voice was almost a whisper.
A secret smile tugged at your lips. “I thought you’d like it.”
Bucky hesitated, before finally reaching for it with his human hand. He unwrapped it carefully, like whatever was inside might shatter if he wasn’t gentle.
A first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.
Bucky froze, fingers ghosting over the worn leather spine in disbelief.
Because he had mentioned this once. Months ago in a passing comment about an offhanded memory of reading it as a kid, curled up in the Brooklyn Public Library in the 40s. He told you he never owned a copy of it.
And you remembered.
Bucky swallowed hard, his throat suddenly too tight.
“Oh, I—” He stumbled over his words, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. For… everything. I… I didn’t get you anything.”
Your brow furrowed, confused. “Why would you?”
Bucky just stared at you, equally as confused.
Before he could even try to gather his thoughts, his accountant stepped into the doorway, clearing his throat and asking for you.
And just like that, you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Bucky alone in his office.
Then it hit him.
Fuck.
There was only one explanation.
You were going to resign.
You were just trying to be nice because… of course you were. Because you were thoughtful and kind and had never been the type to leave things unfinished.
Buck’s grip tightened around the book.
He should be happy for you, and he was, to an extent. But the thought of not seeing you everyday made him, for lack of a better word, really fucking sad.
—
That night, as Bucky packed up for the day, he let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand down his face.
“Long day, huh?” You asked
Your voice was sweet and comforting— like honey, like home. He looked up, and there you were, slipping into your coat and putting your laptop away.
Bucky offered a small, weary smile. “Aren’t they all?”
They were even longer now, knowing you might be handing in your resignation any day now.
You chuckled, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Well, at least you have that appointment.”
Bucky frowned. “What appointment?”
You gave him an amused look. “The one I scheduled for you.”
Right. That. The appointment that had appeared in his calendar last night.
Bucky didn’t even question it. You had taken over his schedule months ago, and he had just let you, because it meant he got to see you hover near his desk, flipping through both his physical planner and digital one, tapping a pen against your lip as you said something about his meetings. So if you said he had an appointment, then he had an appointment.
He held the door open for you and turned off the light.
“Goodnight, sir,” you said, stepping past him, tilting your head up just slightly as you smiled.
He locked the door.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way you looked at him. Maybe it was the everything about you— but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to say that last part. Hadn’t meant to let it slip.
But… he meant it. He meant the affection seeping from this voice. He spent months trying to ignore it.
You blinked, startled, lips parting just slightly. And Bucky—coward that he was—turned on his heel before he could see your reaction.
—
When Bucky arrived at the address of the appointment, he frowned.
A speakeasy?
What the hell kind of meeting was this? Had you seriously scheduled a meeting in a dimly lit bar? He was starting to question your judgment—until he stepped inside and—
“There he is,” Joaquin cheered from the bar. “Took you long enough.”
Sam raised his glass. “Happy birthday, tin can.”
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, brain scrambled, flipping through the dates in his head. “…It’s my birthday?”
Sam ran a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”
Joaquin just grinned. “Yeah, man. Your secretary planned all this. She wanted you to have a good one.”
Bucky’s heart plummeted.
You had done all this?
Oh shit, that's what it was.
The pastry. The wrist cuff. The book.
Oh, so you weren’t resigning.
You had just remembered his birthday when he hadn’t even remembered himself.
—
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the humming jazz and the clinking of glasses. It wasn’t the kind of place Bucky usually went to, but of course you had picked somewhere like this— quiet. Thoughtful.
Because that’s just how you were.
And fuck, he still couldn’t believe you’d done all this.
He looked at Sam and Joaquin, finally taking in what they were drinking.
“Wait.” He frowned. “Is that non-alc beer?”
Joaquin took a slow sip, unfazed. “Yep.”
Sam leaned back against the bar. “Thought we’d keep it light tonight.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Since when do you two pass up real drinks?”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Since we wanted to be present on your birthday.”
His grip tightened around his own glass.
Oh.
They knew he couldn’t get drunk. His metabolism burned through alcohol too quickly, making it impossible for him to feel anything from it.
But Sam and Joaquin could, and yet they chose not to. They chose to stay sober. To be here with him, to be with him.
For his birthday.
But Sam just patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, man. No brooding tonight. You’re not alone. We’re here. And she made sure of that.”
Bucky swallowed, glancing down at his drink. “She does nice things for me all the time,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Joaquin snorted. “This is different, man. You don’t pull strings with Homeland Security and expedite our travel just to be nice.”
Bucky stiffened. “She what?”
“You think we were supposed to be back this early?” Sam shrugged, “She made a few calls, got us cleared faster. Probably took her a couple of days just to get through to the right lines.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped. Oh, fuck.
Sam leaned in, smug as ever. “So. How long have you been in love with her?”
Bucky groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “I can’t do anything about it.”
Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Bucky exhaled sharply. “She’s my secretary. Besides, she doesn’t like me that way.”
Sam scoffed. “Bullshit.”
“She wouldn’t have done all this if she didn’t,” Joaquin pointed out.
Bucky fell silent before jokingly scowling and trying to change the subject.
And he was happy— spending time with friends, surrounded by laughter and stories. He felt loved. He felt wanted.
It was a good night, and when it ended, he knew exactly where he needed to go.
—
Bucky barely remembered getting to your door, barely registered the way his hands shook at his sides, or the fact that his tie was askew, his shirt wrinkled. All he knew was that the night had been good, but now, standing here, face-to-face with your door, he was trying his damn hardest not to cry.
He knocked.
It took a while, but you opened the door.
You looked sleepy, eyes half-lidded and hair messed up from bed, clad in loose cotton pajamas that draped over you.
“Sir?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“You remembered my birthday,” he rasped.
You frowned, tilting your head. “Of course I did.”
His throat tightened.
You said it like a fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You didn’t realise—
Oh, you thought to yourself, did he not remember his own birthday?
His shoulders tensed, his fingers twitched, and he sucked in a sharp breath, trying to push all the overwhelming emotions down, trying to breathe through it.
You offered a gentle smile and stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Do you… want to come in?”
Bucky nodded, stepping inside, but he didn’t make it more than two steps before his vision blurred.
He tried to swallow it down, tried to keep it together, but the tears came fast.
“You remembered,” he murmured, as you closed the door behind you. “You… I…” he shook his head. “You’re— You’re the reason I didn’t spend tonight alone. You…”
You could only reach over and offer a box of tissues into his hands.
And that was it.
Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he dropped the box and reached for you, pulling you in, wrapping himself around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
You felt so real. You felt like comfort personified, at least to him.
And you let him break. Let him cling to you, shaking, breath hitching as he buried his face in your shoulder.
You held him through every ragged sob, never pulling away, never letting go.
For five whole minutes, you let him cry into your shoulders.
And when he finally pulled back, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, he blinked at you in horror.
“Oh, shit—that’s unprofessional,” he blurted hoarsely.
But you just shook your head, smiling so softly it made his chest ache. “It’s okay, Bucky.” you whispered.
Not sir. Not Congressman. Not Mr. Barnes.
Just Bucky.
Hearing his name on your lips like that—sweet and gentle—sent him spiraling.
His hands still rested on your waist, his thumbs brushing over your cute cotton pajamas.
His stomach twisted, heat pooling in his stomach, and suddenly he couldn’t stop himself. Suddenly, he had no filter.
You were just so heartbreakingly beautiful, so thoughtful and kind and—god, he had wanted you for so long.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Fuck.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky—”
He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like you were the most precious thing in the world
Gently, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his vibranium lingering just a moment too long.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice cracked, desperate. “Can I—?”
You took a deep breath, struggling to process all this.
God, you wanted to. You wanted to so badly, but—
“It’s against House and Senate ethics rules,” you whispered. “I’m your subordinate.”
Bucky exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. His grip on your face tightened, just a little for the pressure to feel urgent.
“Resign,” he begged, his voice rough, frantic. Fuck— he had been so afraid of losing you earlier, but now, now he just wanted you to be anyone but his damn secretary. “Take one of those private offers. I know they pay better. I know the hours are easier.”
Your heart pounded. He knew about the offers? About the other jobs, the opportunities waiting for you beyond him?
“B-but I like working for you,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky shook his head, his breath warm against your skin. His lips grazed the bridge of your nose, so tender it sent a shiver down your spine.
“How would you like to be mine instead?”
Oh.
And that was it. That was all it took.
With a desperate whimper, you grabbed him by his loosened tie and yanked him in, crashing your lips against his.
Bucky groaned, a deep, guttural sound as his arms wrapped around you.
This was a long time coming, and you both knew it.
He pulled you against him like he needed you to breathe, like a man starved.
His lips moved with a hunger you’ve never known before, guiding you back, back, back until your spine met the wall. Until you had nowhere to go except into him.
And you weren’t complaining.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, tilting your chin up, giving himself more, more, more.
His hands were everywhere— skimming down your back, gripping your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you dizzy. He kissed you like he’d never get the chance again. And you felt his desperation in the way his hands trailed up your ribs, in the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, in the way he kissed you like he never wanted to forget the way you tasted.
You broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together as if neither of you could bear even an inch of distance.
“I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice,” you whispered sheepishly, cheeks flushed with something a little more than just embarrassment.
Bucky let out a soft laugh, part relief, part disbelief, his lips ghosting over yours, convincing himself that this was real. “Good,” he said.
You giggled quietly as you kissed him again— slower this time, sweeter, a lingering whisper of a touch. “Happy birthday, Bucky.”
If only you knew— you weren’t just his best birthday present. You were his every wish come true.
-end.
Extra notes : I've seen so many people not like Bucky being a congressman, and I get that, but I picture Bucky running for Congress being a lot like Stanley Tucci's character in Conclave lol—he runs not because he wants the job, but because the other candidate running for his district is such an unbearable asshole that he feels morally obligated to step in. Like, "fine, if no one else will do it, I guess it has to be me."
Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.
Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!
Word count : 3k
Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!
The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.
One: He was grumpy.
Two: He was a private person.
Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.
That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.
That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.
What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.
With the florist.
With you.
“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.
They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.
“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.
Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.
Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”
Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”
“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”
They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.
That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”
As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”
Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”
“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”
Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“She was literally wearing it—”
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.
Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.
Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.
What was the world coming to?
—
Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.
Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.
She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”
Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.
“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase
Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”
From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”
Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.
Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”
Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”
Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”
Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.
Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”
John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”
“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”
John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”
“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”
Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”
Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”
“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”
His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.
“You’re lying,” she snapped.
He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”
Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”
He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.
And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.
—
Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.
And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.
It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.
Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.
“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”
“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.
Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”
John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”
Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”
Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”
Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”
Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.
John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.
“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.
“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.
It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.
But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.
They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.
It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.
To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.
“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”
Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”
Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”
John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”
Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.
And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.
The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.
“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”
Yelena and John froze in their tracks.
James?
James?
No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.
Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”
Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Honey?
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”
Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.
You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”
Oh.
Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated
John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”
Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.
John let out a wheeze.
Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”
Bucky nodded. “Yup.”
“Like—actually married?”
“Mhm.”
Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”
Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”
“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.
Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”
“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”
“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”
“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”
Bucky could only nod again.
Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”
You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”
Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.
John looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”
John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.
“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”
Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”
Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.
John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.
But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”
You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.
You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.
Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.
You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.
“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”
John scoffed, “A while?”
You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped.
“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”
John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”
Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."
Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.
You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”
John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.
Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.
“How did you meet?”
“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”
“Does he ever actually smile?”
At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”
John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”
You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”
And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.
You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.
Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.
“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.
Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”
John choked.
Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”
Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.
For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.
And then, without thinking, you leaned in.
It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.
Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.
John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.
You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.
“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.
Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”
You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.
“Off,” you said simply.
Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.
Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.
John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.
You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.
“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.
Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”
And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.
The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.
A ring.
A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.
She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.
That’s why he always played with it.
Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.
Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.
-end.
Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.
a/n: i luv ignoring my wips and going feral and emerging from a doc 48 hours with this
word count: 6.3k
synopsis: Once upon a time, a high-society girl, you were to be wed. Two years on, you live a much different life alongside Arthur Morgan, an outlaw life, despite your squeamishness to blood, killing, and the like. But when the past won't stay buried, you learn just how far you'll go to protect the man you love.
hurt/comfort, mutual pining, friends to lovers, period-typical sexism & canon-typical violence
By all accounts, according to Arthur, the two of you should not be friends.
Not that you weren’t lovely company! And nor was it that you couldn’t stand his long, sullen silences, even if he had trouble believing you were enjoying yourself, just sitting by him.
But there was a clear difference between you — one that Arthur felt sorely.
He hadn’t wanted to call you innocent, ‘cos you weren’t the naive type and you weren't stupid neither. But for running with a gang of outlaws? Your hands were remarkably clean.
See, you hadn’t killed a thing, ever: man or beast.
You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.
Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.
You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.
Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.
But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.
It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.
Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.
Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.
He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.
Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.
At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.
That was something he had, that Micah did not.
It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.
But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.
It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.
The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.
You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”
Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.
He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.
You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, miss.”
“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.
For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.
However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.
Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.
He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.
It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.
You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.
He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.
You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips
And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.
Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.
—
You had been engaged once before.
Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.
There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.
Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.
You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.
How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.
You’d once been a fool.
The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.
Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.
Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.
When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.
No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.
Adoring at the time.
Stomach-churning in hindsight.
You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.
Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.
His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.
His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.
Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.
The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.
And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.
You ran.
With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.
Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.
No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.
You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.
Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.
Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.
It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.
The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.
—
Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.
There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.
But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.
You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.
Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.
It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.
It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.
An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.
You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.
It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.
You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.
Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.
Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.
Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.
It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?
Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.
You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.
But you’ve met worse men before.
Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.
“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”
Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.
It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.
“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”
You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.
“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.
“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.
The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.
Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.
These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.
It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)
You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.
“Treasure.”
Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.
A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.
It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.
No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.
The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.
The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.
“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”
Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.
“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.
You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.
"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"
The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.
Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.
"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."
A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.
It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.
Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.
Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?
Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.
If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—
A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.
"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"
His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.
A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.
When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.
There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.
You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.
You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.
The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.
A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.
The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.
The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.
There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.
"You don't want to do that."
The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.
"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.
Arthur freezes.
"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."
It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.
It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.
"Why are you doin' this?"
The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.
"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"
The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.
For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.
"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."
He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."
He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.
And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.
Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.
Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.
He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.
He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.
Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.
"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."
He'll kill him.
You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.
Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.
It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.
You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.
It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.
He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.
Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—
Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.
It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.
Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.
"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.
"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blues eyes locked on you. "You're okay."
There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.
"I—" The word coughs out of you.
Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.
"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."
"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.
"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."
"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.
You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.
But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."
Your staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?
Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.
There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.
Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.
"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."
He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.
"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.
"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"
You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.
Arthur makes the call for you.
Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.
Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.
It will be enough. It has to be enough.
It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.
He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.
With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.
There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.
With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.
Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.
The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.
Arthur rides.
The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.
He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.
Ruined yourself—for him.
A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.
Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.
Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.
He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.
The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.
“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”
The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.
Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.
Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.
It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.
You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.
But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.
The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.
You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.
Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.
For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.
But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."
Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.
"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”
You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.
A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.
His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.
Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.
Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.
Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.
Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.
The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.
Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.
Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.
It's a slow, dedicated process.
Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.
"Will I ever be clean again?"
A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.
"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."
The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.
"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.
"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."
Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."
The for you is unspoken.
But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.
It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.
Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.
The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.
"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.
His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.
A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.
You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.
What if he doesn't know?
His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.
A/N: Let me know if you want to see more of Aemond here. :)
Masterlist
The feeling of a spring air still lingered in the garden, even if it was already the beginning of fall. A few flowers still bloomed, the trees still had green leaves that danced slowly with the wind.
It was a peaceful place, removed from the weight that lingered inside the walls of The Red Keep. As Aemond lazily walked the overgrown stone path, he decided he quite enjoyed the quiet.
He rubbed at the skin of his palm with his other thumb, his eye scanning the surroundings, searching. He's not sure why he volunteered to come, if he was simply looking for an excuse to get away for a moment, or something else.
You usually liked to hide away in the gardens. "It's beautiful and calm there." Aemond heard you telling Helaena the other day, as he'd been selfishly taken a liking to observe you more lately.
It was your fault, really. For having a voice that wasn't sharp to his ears and for looking at him as if the painful reminder of his past hadn't been forever carved onto his skin, as if he was still worthy of a pretty lady's attention.
It was farfetched to think he could ever gain your affection, Aemond knew this. Yet it didn't stop his heart from wishing, and he also knew, that if anyone were to give him a sweet demise, it would be you.
He found you after rounding a corner hidden away by a big willow tree that had its trunk crooked and bent in a weird way, as it had made its way around other trees to reach sunlight. You sat on the grass, tucked away in a secluded nook, and weaving together small flowers until they haphazardly formed a crown. Flowers bloomed in the bushes around you and it was as if nature itself bent its rules to match your beauty. There was a delicacy about you that was foreign to Aemond's world and he worried he was becoming addicted to it.
The way the prince's heart leaped in his chest was instant, his hands grew clammy, and he felt a prickling need to turn around and rush back to the castle; for he was suddenly a thorn in your field of flowers. He hesitated, feet unmoving while he watched you from afar.
It couldn't be. Aemond's lips hung open, mouth dry. He was nervous.
He'd never been alone with you before.
The wind carried your perfume to him, and eventually, your gaze. Your eyebrows raised softly in surprise upon catching him just standing there, watching you, with arms limp beside his body and hands closed in loose fists.
Aemond felt his cheeks warming up, his heart now beating faster in a manner he was all too used to. His mind raced when thinking of how pathetic he must look, like a scared boy cowering from a pretty girl, what must you think of him-
"My prince," you spoke, bringing him away from the darkest places of his mind, voice as sweet as the small smile you had on your lips; for him. You lay the flower crown you held in your hands back in the grass where it came from. "You've found me."
Aemond had trouble shaking the feeling that you seemed pleased to see him. It was almost as if you'd hoped he'd come find you. He cleared his throat, avoiding his eye from yours with the guise of bowing his head in a cordial nod. "My lady," he began, internally wincing when his voice came out just a little too breathless, "I've come to escort you back inside, dinner should be ready shortly."
Your smile shifted into a smirk that Aemond had trouble reading, there was an alluring glint to your eyes that called him in. "Oh, how kind of you."
He took the final steps to close the distance between you, mindful to avoid stepping on the pale pink flowers you seemed to like so much. He offered you his hand, yet worried, even if in the back of his mind, whether you'd actually take it or not.
You didn't hesitate for a moment before placing your palm in his, allowing his fingers to close around yours and pull you up effortlessly. Your hand lingered in his for just a moment, before you let go to brush off any grass that had stuck to your clothes.
When you looked back up at Aemond again, your stomach filled with the familiar feeling of butterflies and your heart swelled with the hints of affection you'd inevitably developed for him; for the way his eye softened with only a small ring of color around his blown pupil, for the way his long hair fell over relaxed shoulders and framed his handsome face, for the way his lips tilted just a tad up into a smile, features soft and free of any burden. Whether he realized it or not, Aemond seemed to let down his armor around you, if even a little.
You both walked the stone path that led back to the castle at a slow pace, side by side with your shoulders occasionally brushing against each other. A mutual silent understanding between you that neither you nor him were particularly eager for the moment to end.
Despite the time of year, many flowers remained in the grass and in between shrubs. Some of them had a lovely perfume, some of them housed eager bees and butterflies. One in particular caught your eye, however, and you approached it with a spring in your step.
It was a small little thing, with white petals and a yellowish middle; it wouldn't be missed in the big expanse of the garden. With a deft grip, you plucked out the flower. There was a hint of a smile on your lips as you looked at it, twirling the tiny thing between your index finger and thumb.
Aemond had gone quiet but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. He did that a lot, you noticed; looked at you when you weren't looking at him.
With no words, you turned around and extended the small flower to him, the tilt of your head and the sway of your lips spoke enough, a silent; 'for you'.
Aemond concealed his surprise. Or he tried to. He had both hands clasped behind his back, but you could see his shoulders tensing as soon as your attention diverted back to him, as if waiting, expecting something unkind. His eyebrows furrowed softly, pinching together in curious confusion while his good eye drifted between you and the white flower held between your fingers.
He took his time. The soft breeze blowing through the garden made his hair flow, strands of it getting caught in his eyelashes and forcing him to push it behind his ear; you followed the motion with your gaze, wishing to be the one who brushed his hair and whispered comfort into his skin. You'd wait, for as long as he needed to understand you were not one of the unkind ones.
Delicate.
His touch was as delicate as the flower. With the same hand with which he wielded swords and commanded a dragon, he reached for yours. His fingers grazed yours when he took the flower from you, and he did so slowly, bordering on hesitant, as if the white petals would wither and die by his touch.
Part of you didn't expect his delicacy. Part of you has always known he was nothing but delicate. Not as fragile or weak as the white flower, no. But delicate, soft, something to be handled with care. Beneath the rough facade, hid a gentle heart after all.
Your smile widened when his own lips twitched upwards as he gazed down at the flower in his hand like it was the most precious gift he'd ever held. His other hand came up, fingertips grazing the white petals as if to confirm they were real. There was a soft pink hue to his cheeks, his eye shining with something foreign to you, yet that you already adored. You felt privileged. No one knew this Aemond but you.
When he finally looked up at you again, there was a newfound vulnerability to his gaze, his features, all of him. His lips hovered but no words came out, he blinked once, twice, and took a step toward you.
You understood the words stuck in his throat. Gratitude. Gratitude for loving him.
With more boldness than rational thought, you stood on your tip toes and lay a chaste yet lingering kiss on the corner of his lips. And Aemond leaned into you once you pulled away, chasing after your touch.
It was your turn to feel your cheeks heating up, as you raised an arm and hooked it around one of his own, tugging him along the overgrown path of the garden.
For a cherished moment, peace reigned. Aemond pulled you closer.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
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A/N: In Ewan's words; the only thing that can beat Aemond is love. If you like this story, you'll like my ongoing series too. ;)
Masterlist
Aemond loves you behind closed doors.
He loves you with the way his pinky hooks around yours under the tables, during supper and council meetings.
He loves you with subtle looks and barely there smiles across rooms filled with people where he can only see you.
He loves you when he comes back tasting of heartache and guilt, with raindrops or tears staining his cold skin and clothes clinging to his body. When he stumbles into your room whispering sins against your embrace only for you to kiss the words, kiss his cheeks, kiss his scar, kiss the tears away. He clings to your body, your nightgown nearly ripping with his desperation.
But it's alright, because there's only you and him and the soft light of the candles in your room. It's alright because you cradle his head, fingertips burying between wet silver locks. It's alright because you whisper forgiveness into his ears, even if he feels undeserving.
And maybe war is now inevitable, but for a fraction of a moment, Aemond feels entirely at peace.
He loves you when you watch him from afar and notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tapping of his fingers on the table. And then you'll find an excuse to call his name and get him away from the crowds, asking for some help with something mundane. You lace your fingers together, loose and yet so present. You take a familiar route through a lone hallway, you open the doors to the library hidden away in the confines of the Keep, pull him in, and close it again.
Aemond falls to you, his forehead is leaning against yours, his eye is closed, and he can breathe. You feel like fresh air. He nuzzles his nose to yours before asking for a kiss, it's all timid and bashful, he's not sure how to love yet, all he knows is that he feels it, insistent and warm; all-consuming.
But you hold his cheeks, you guide him, you teach him. Your fingers are in his hair and your soft lips touch the corner of his mouth; all delicate and devoted, Aemond doesn't know what to do with this much love, he might crumble.
His hands are around you, all over, and he's almost afraid to hurt you; even if you promise time and time again that he could never. Aemond sighs against your lips, and it sounds a lot like; "I am yours."
He loves you because there is no need for words with you. When he holds himself back from going to you all day—between planning for a war he's fighting alone and hearing his own mother talk of him as if he were a monster—the arrival of the night feels like a reprieve. It's the moment he waits for the most, for he can lay down his armor.
Aemond walks by the garden, picking up a single blue flower. He hides it away as he walks to your chambers, no one needs to know—even if everyone already knows anyway. He gives you the blue flower, with pink on his cheeks; he feels like a young boy in love—perhaps he is.
You kiss him, sweet and soft and tasting like the blueberries you stole from the kitchen earlier. And Aemond could cry, because if he has you, he's not alone.
You're the one who takes off his eyepatch, and then his coat, and his pants, and pulls loose his hair—you brush your lips over his shoulders when you do it, and he knows no one could love him the way you do. There's nothing sexual about it even if you're the muse of all his desires. He simply lays with you in bed, his head on your chest, and you trace the outlines of his body as you speak about your day. There are goosebumps on his skin, and he loves to hear you speak, about anything and everything, it soothes his troubled soul.
It's quiet, and Aemond falls asleep with the feeling of you braiding his hair. It'll be a little curly in parts when morning comes. He never minds it.
And he loves you with the way he won't be able to speak the three words. But he'll trace and kiss them on your skin every single night. And you understand, because you always say them back.
He loves you because of the way you sometimes hold the tip of his fingers with yours behind your backs.
He loves you with the way he'll threaten death to anyone who looks at you wrong.
He loves you with the way he could burn the whole world and yet not let a single flame touch your skin.
He loves you because you'll kiss his lips even if he tastes of blood and war.
He loves you because you'll hold his pieces together when everyone else is trying to tear him apart.
He loves you because even in the darkest of days, you're always there in the end.
He loves you because even if you exchange nothing but glances when amidst other people, you'll embrace his very soul in private.
He loves you because you wait with bathed breath when he takes Vhagar to the skies, and never think twice about mounting on a horse to gallop towards the woods outside of King's Landing when you spot the dragon's large silhouette bringing him back.
You jump from the white horse, Aemond jumps from Vhagar, and you meet each other in the middle. He holds you close in a needy embrace, as if each minute could be the last. And when you pull back, you don't ask questions or make demands, you simply run your thumbs over his cheekbones and breathe easiness into his skin. The feeling of you is always like coming home.
Amidst a world of war, you're a safe haven.
He loves you because you are the one who taught him what love feels like.
Aemond loves you behind closed doors. Wholly, truly, passionately. And with all of him that no one else is allowed to see.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
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Masterlist: The Hunt ; Night Off ; Neglectful Jealousy ; Devious Forgiveness ; Innocent Touch ; Awkward After ; Please ; Missing ; Pretense ; Leave ; Lonely ; Fallen ; Run ; Gloomy ; Questions ; Particular Risk
Related Blog: @eraenaa (longer fics and one shots)
Your knight, Aemond, who was always by your side, no matter how much you tried to bribe him, he will not fall for it. He was always trailing you, refusing you to be out of sight, not because of duty but because he simply needed to be around you.
You knight, Aemond, who will always savor your scent whenever you are near him. Who would always find an excuse to touch your skin, may it be him offering his hand as you walked down the stairs or him wrapping his arms around your frame whenever the measliest of threats arose, disguising his passion as protection.
Your knight, Aemond, who would always stare down and intimidate any suitor of yours. Trailing closely behind as you tried to get to know them, always quick to go in between and meddle when he felt you were warming up with any lord or prince. Unable to stomach seeing you grow agreeable with your courtships.
Your knight, Aemond, who was always there the second you called for him. It does not matter if he has barely rested or eaten; the moment you send for him, he will be rushing down the castle halls, tending to your needs, no matter how insignificant or even frivolous they are.
Your knight, Aemond, who would always listen intently to your babbling. Nodding along as you tell him your encounters for the day though he already knew because he was always by your side. Occasionally indulging you with his silver-tongued quips as he would sometimes be the one to share with you the latest gossip in court.
Your knight, Aemond, who had been growing quite obvious with his affection for you. Sending you small tokens and flowers. He would often utilize the lie that the gifts were sent by an unnamed lord when, in reality, they all came from him.
Your knight Aemond, who knew fully well that yearning for you would make no difference because whatever love you two would have for each other would be a love that would be denied and could not be, for how could a knight ever deserve a princess?
Your knight, Aemond, who would settle to just being your sworn protector just as long as he had you near. Because as dreadful it was to see you be bound to another, nothing would compare to not having you near him; at those moments when he stood by your side, he indulged himself with a fantasy and pretended that you were his.
Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking
Song: Poison - Erika Lundmoen
Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby
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Enjoy the read!
[gif @aemondstark ]
AEMOND
Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.
It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.
A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.
My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.
I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.
From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.
The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.
The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.
“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)
I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.
Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.
But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.
As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.
Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.
I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.
“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.
I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.
A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.
Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.
Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.
A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.
There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.
The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.
A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.
_
Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.
“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.
“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”
A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.
“Aegon has fallen,” I said.
The council erupted in uproar.
Cries of outrage and accusations.
Obscenities.
Scandal.
“How could this be allowed to happen?”
“What is the meaning of this?”
“We are doomed!”
The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.
“The King is dead!”
“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”
My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.
It was palpable.
It was mine for the taking.
I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.
“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”
A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.
“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.
I cast my gaze on her.
“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.
“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.
“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.
Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?
“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”
“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”
My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.
“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.
A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”
YOU
Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.
The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.
One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.
It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.
Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.
The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.
The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.
A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.
My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.
A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.
My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.
None of it mattered.
My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.
Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.
Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.
Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”
A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.
Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”
Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?
My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.
Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.
My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.
It wasn’t Alicent.
A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.
“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”
Aemond descended the steps.
“Slayer of the queen who never was.”
Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.
“And Protector of the Realm.”
He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.
“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”
There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.
“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”
Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.
Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?
My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.
As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.
“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”
Scattered heads nodded in agreement.
Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.
“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.
It felt like he was about to eat me alive.
A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.
_
Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.
Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.
My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.
The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.
Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.
My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.
An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.
Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.
“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.
Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.
“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.
He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.
“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.
Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.
“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”
Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.
A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.
“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”
“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.
“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”
“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”
Seven Hells.
Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.
Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?
The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.
I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.
And the crown needed heirs.
He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.
“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.
A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.
“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)
I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.
Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.
A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”
A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”
His reaction was swift and brutal.
One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.
“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”
“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.
A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.
My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.
“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.
The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.
“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”
“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)
“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.
A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.
“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.
Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.
Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.
My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.
The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.
Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.
“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”
I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.
A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”
He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.
I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.
“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”
A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.
Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”
Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”
I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”
He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.
“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”
A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.
“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.
I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.
“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.
A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.
Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.
“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.
It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.
“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.
The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.
“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.
“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.
My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.
His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.
But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.
Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.
A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.
His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.
Panic clawed at my throat.
Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.
AEMOND
The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.
Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.
A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.
A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.
“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)
I started into the storm-ridden castle.
YOU
Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.
To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.
My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.
None dared defy the one-eyed prince.
Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.
The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.
If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.
Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.
“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.
Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.
“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.
“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.
I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.
His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.
A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.
“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”
A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.
He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.
The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.
Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.
Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.
Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.
“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.
“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.
Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?
My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.
This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.
“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.
Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.
Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.
He hummed deeply. “Say it.”
Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.
“I haven't.”
“You haven't what?”
Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.
“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.
A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.
His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.
“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)
I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.
I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.
“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.
The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.
With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.
He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.
Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.
He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.
Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.
I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.
He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.
“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.
Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.
When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.
“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.
I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.
He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.
Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.
His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.
“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.
“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.
A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.
The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.
A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.
Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.
“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.
I knew that word.
Beautiful.
AEMOND
I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.
So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.
But this was not going to make an heir, after all.
She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.
She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.
This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.
Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.
Untamed, fierce, fuckable.
She was molded just for me.
Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.
“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.
“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.
“You have my word,” she said softly.
The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.
I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.
I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.
Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.
Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.
I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.
“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”
A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.
When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.
I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.
I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.
“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”
Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.
Seven Hells.
The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.
Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.
“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.
Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.
Thunder rolled overhead.
I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.
She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.
“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.
She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.
“Say my name.”
“Aemond.”
“And who is your King?”
“Aemond.”
My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.
“Say it.”
“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”
It set me on fire.
I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.
My muscles shook from the aftershock.
I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.
When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.
“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.
“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)
Synopsis: Aemond’s fury is a challenge to contain, but it withers beneath the touch of his wife.
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI), pov first person (reader), foul language, hotd s2 spoilers, s2x06 inspired, dark/soft Aemond, SMUT, titty sucking, angst, fingering, fluff, feet, p in v, bath sex, oral (fem receiving), orgasms, slight voyeurism
Song: Made of Gold - Ibeyi, Pa Salieu
a/n: Inspired by this. His expression in this scene is everythiiing
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Enjoy the read!
[gif @hoosbandewan]
[divider @targaryen-dynasty]
The chamber doors slammed shut, jarring me from my needlework.
Aemond erupted into the room, his voice a venomous hiss that chilled me to the bone.
“Cravens. Lickspittles.” The words ripped from his throat with a guttural growl, filling the apartment with lethal fury, instilling a deep sense of unease in my gut, as he paced the room like a caged beast, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “A nest of fucking vipers.” His features were warped with hatred, his eye sparking rage and his scar appeared to burn hot red in his skin.
I set my needlework aside, bracing myself for the inevitable storm.
My husband had grown increasingly volatile of late. Temperamental. Volcanic, ever at the brink of eruption. Long convinced that his knowledge of history, swordsmanship, and his ancestral ties to Valyria of old – that was his dragon – destined him for the crown, he chafed under the regency. Yet, with the weight of governance upon him, I’d realized these qualities hardly made for a wise ruler.
Aemond was tyrannical, impulsive, and possessed a relentless thirst for vengeance I’d thought long sated, but now burned fiercer than ever.
I’d learned to tread carefully, supporting him rather than opposing him. Questions were rare, acquiescence plentiful, regardless of my true feelings.
“The Lannisters,” he snarled, hurling a crumpled piece of parchment into the fire. “Balls deep in their lions and their gold that they believe they can command me.” His eye blazed with ire. “Me!” His voice was a startling growl, and I schooled my racing heart.
Adopting my role as the submissive, doting wife, I folded my hands in my lap and eased reverence into my gaze, “That was their first mistake,” I offered, feigning confidence, as though I had the briefest idea of what they had done.
Crossing Aemond was a path none would willingly tread, though the Lannisters were hardly known to be the brightest of the noble houses in the realm.
“They mock me,” he snapped. “My word is law.”
“And they’d be wise to abide by them,” I replied.
“I tire of being compared with my father,” he spat. “The man was weak. Pliable.”
“You are his opposite, Your Grace.”
“Mother believes she can mind me like a puppet, as she did Aegon. She clings to what little power remains to her.” He stilled, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. “I sense her heart still lies with Rhaenyra.” All of his thoughts materialized into words like a surging flood. “I can no longer trust her counsel,” he said. “So, I dismissed her.”
A mistake, I feared. “I’m sure it was a wise decision, Your Grace.”
“Cole addles me,” Aemond proceeded. “The man, once so commanding and fierce, now carved out into a pitiful husk.” He started through the room again. “Aegon was a fool to name him Hand.”
“You are the Prince Regent, Your Grace,” I voiced softly. “You may name a new one as you wish.”
With his rant, his tempest began to subside. The honeyed tone I knew so well sank back into his voice and replaced his rage. His pacing ceased, and his anxious fingers relaxed at his sides, before he sank into his chair beside me.
“The Lannister coward wish me to fly out to the Tooth to secure their safe passage to Harrenhal,” he spat, his fingers twisting together, venom seeping back into his voice, “’With haste’, he says!”
I stood, my voice steady. “Your regency is green, Your Grace, and your subjects forgetful of their places.”
Aemond’s hands gripped the arm rests, his whole body contracting beneath his leathers in readied ambush.
“It is your duty to remind them,” I continued, rounding his chair, my hands settling on his shoulders. He was rigid beneath my touch, his muscles bulging with tension.
He glanced over his shoulder, his eye a mix of softness and lethal intent. “You are correct,” he said, his fingers tightening around the hilt of Blackfyre. “A public execution would persuade them.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, and my grip on his shoulders tightened instinctively.
“Perhaps a less bloodied approach, my love,” I suggested, coating my words in honey. “Escalating the mislike of the smallfolk would be unwise,” I said, willing my touch to send a calming current into his bones. “We cannot risk provoking the hungry masses.”
“I do not wish to be liked,” he hissed, his voice laced with malice. “I wish to be feared.”
Yet, when I leaned down over him, wrapping my arms over his chest, nuzzling my face into his cheek, he unraveled in my embrace, melting like wax exposed to flame.
A deep exhale of relief escaped his lips, as though my touch pulled the string of tension from his muscles like cloth, a deep satisfied hum reverberating in his chest. All of his anger disintegrated into dust, and he leaned into me, closing his eye, his face pressing against mine, his delicious heat seeping into my skin.
I breathed in the scent of him.
Musk and leather.
I filled my senses with it, a heady intoxication.
“Husband…?” I whispered against his skin.
“Wife,” he sighed with rapture, his arm reaching up, his fingers tangling into my hair, pulling me closer. He buried his nose in my neck and inhaled. He sighed once more with entrance, his breath warm against my ear. “You smell divine,” he whispered.
His fury was a tempest, his tenderness a balm. Once crossed, he was a force to be reckoned with.
But when he was soft… he was so very soft.
“Thank you, husband,” I smiled. The matter of the Lannister’s defiance was as good as wind. “My maids put lavender and rose in my bath earlier.”
“Hmm,” he hummed appreciatively. “I commend them.”
My heart swelled in my chest. In these moments, I felt a love that transcended fear. I could endure his tirades for hours if they always ended like this, with him so vulnerable, and soft, his fury crumbling under my touch, like a fortress breached.
His complexity was a bottomless well, an endless enigma, each layer revealing a new facet of his being. A mystery I could not begin to fathom, only sit back and enjoy. I was utterly captivated, desperate to remain in his favor. His trust in me was profound, and I knew the weight of my words carried uncommon power. My devotion and loyalty were absolute. Anything he’d ask of me would be his, a fact he understood completely.
My hair cascaded down his chest, mingling with his silver, a cosmic tapestry against the leather. I burrowed deeper into his skin, making him softer, my kisses trailing across his cheek until they met his lips, to which he groaned softly, deepening the union, his grip tightening around the back of my neck.
The kiss was a consuming inferno, leaving me breathless and light-headed.
“Hmm,” he hummed with delight. “Your lips alone could end this war.”
He possessed my whole heart in the palm of his hand.
“They are your servants, Your Grace,” I whispered against his cheek.
He chuckled low, a comforting melody, the muscles in his face plumping, his lips pursing to his contented smile.
But the looming threat of Rhaenyra’s forces intruded on my thoughts. Despite my misgivings about the way the succession had been handled, my husband’s victory was paramount. Many believed him consumed by darkness, a prisoner of his own demons. His mother, among others, shared this bleak view. Yet, here in my arms, I held undeniable proof to the contrary. I knew in my heart that he did not need to be feared, when he was capable of such profound love. So much more than he probably knew himself.
“Aemond,” I began, feeling his attention shift to me. “These weeks past I’ve been witnessing the plight of the smallfolk from our window-”
“You should not submit your eyes to such vile scenes,” he interrupted, snarling.
“Nevertheless,” I countered gently. “It has been impossible to turn a blind eye. Famine stalks the city. Sickness is surging. Blame is placed on those who rule over them.” His head rested heavier against me as he listened, his gaze flickering with thought. “Do not underestimate the influence of the common people,” I said.
His jaw clenched.
“Their numbers far outstrip ours. Capable of turning the tide if discontented,” I pressed on.
A silence filled our chambers, and I sent a silent prayer to the Mother that he would be malleable enough to receive my words in the way they were intended.
“What do you suggest?” he said finally.
I exhaled a silent breath.
“Open the gates. Spare them imprisonment,” I replied.
“They will spread their slanders across the Crownlands,” he countered, his voice like liquid.
“But you cannot control them. A good King does not earn the love of his people through fear. Neither does he command loyalty. He must earn it. Fear breeds nothing but resentment.”
He seemed to consider my words, his expression unreadable.
Then, he inhaled deeply, and took my hand, guiding me around his chair, pulling me into his lap.
“My wise counsellor,” he purred, his arms tightening around my waist. “You would make a formidable queen.” His lips brushed against my ear as his fingers began to trail a path down my neck, hooking into the laces of my dress, which he undid with expert grace, his arm pulling with long strokes as the laces fell out, and opened my bosom. A shiver ran down my spine and desire ignited in my blood. My breasts fell heavy, and he caught them in his hands, humming with delight. I shuddered beneath his touch, a pulse starting between my thighs.
“Aemond,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
“Hm?” he murmured absently, his fingers already slipping beneath the delicate fabric.
“Did you hear what I said?” I uttered, trembling.
He leaned in, his eye dark with desire. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice husky, his tongue darting out to taste the peak of my breast, softly grazing across my nipple in a hot, wet motion.
Fog infiltrated my mind faster than I dared to acknowledge.
He retreated slightly, and watched as my peak hardened under his subtle provocation. With practiced ease, he repeated the torment on the other breast, his gaze appraising, his eye a dark blue.
“You suggest I please the smallfolk,” he said, his voice low and sultry, lifting my heavy breast in his hand. “Though I’d much rather please my wife,” he groaned, and a sharp intake of breath escaped my lips as he took my nipple into the delicious heat of his mouth, a fierce pleasure igniting within me. I gasped, my hands instinctively cradling his head as I arched into him, keeping him latched. He released me with a wet pop, his eye gleaming with satisfaction at the pink swelling. He captured the other nipple in his mouth. A feverish heat pulsed through me, an insatiable craving consuming me.
This nightly ritual was a torment and a salvation. He could have his hands and mouth on me for hours, days, until I was raw and throbbing, and I would still yearn for his touch, his taste, his complete possession.
He was a poison and a cure, a fire that consumed me entirely. An addictive draught, coursing through my veins, blurring my reason.
His hands, the weapons of a killer, ravaged my body and tore at my dress, twisting it down until my torso was exposed to his predatory gaze. They delved beneath the fabric, their touch a fiery brand igniting my skin. Hungry fingers tore at me, exploring up my thighs, setting my nerves ablaze. With a swift movement, he claimed me, switching me in his lap until my back pressed against his hard chest, my legs propped up on the edge of his seat, cradled on either side of him. His hands swept the inner curve of my thighs, a path of fire, a delicate torment reaching higher, until they found the tender juncture. His face pressed against mine, ragged breaths fanning my face. A shiver coursed through me, a strange blend of warmth and dread from the volatile energy emanating from him. His hands remained right where they were, squeezing softly, tickling gently. My gown bunched around my hips, my exposed core throbbing for his touch, pulsing with eager longing, my body yearning for the release his touch promised.
My mind was immersed in an impossible fog, and I clawed for clarity. “Will you do me this one favor?” I panted, my breath mingling with his.
“What is this favor?” His growl was a low rumble as his tongue wet his fingers, a slow, erotic swipe as he held my gaze, a prelude to torment, setting my blood aflame. They found my clit, dampening it in a circular dance of fire. I whined and shuddered beneath his touch, and his eye sparked with gratification. My body bucked, a helpless rhythm to his masterful control.
Senses blurred. Words tangled. Yet, I clung to the fading remnants of reason, forcing myself while he was still open to receive counsel.
“To open the gates,” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “If we cannot feed them, let them leave.”
“Hmm.” His throaty hum, a low, primal sound, vibrated through me, promising both ecstasy and torment. Goosebumps erupted down my skin. I gasped as his fingers slid downward, parting my slick lips, until they delved into me, the invasion equal agony and pleasure. I gasped, my head tilting back.
He wrapped an arm around my chest, steadying me. “I’ll think on it,” he growled into the flesh of my neck, his teeth a fleeting brushfire on my skin.
“Name a-,” my words dissolved as he curled his fingers up into my sweet spot. “-new Hand.” I gripped the armrests, desperately anchoring myself to reality amidst the tempest of his touch, his fingers pumping me slowly. “He was never suited,” I managed between ragged breaths.
“No more politics, my love,” he groaned, salacious noises of my pleasure filling the room. His focus, a burning intensity, was solely on me, on the spectacle of my pleasure.
And with a ragged, throaty breath, he uttered, “I want to watch you come.”
_
Water cascaded into the tub, steam licking across the water’s surface. The intoxicating blend of lavender and rose filled the apartment, a scent I’d commissioned for my husband’s return from the morning’s small council meeting. As I inhaled the sweet, warming air, my mind sought tranquility amidst the looming war. Yet, the illusion of peace shattered with the abrupt crash of heavy footsteps and a violent wrenching of the chamber door.
Aemond stormed in, a frenzied tempest.
“Fucking eunuch,” he hissed, raging past me, barely acknowledging my presence.
The allure of the bath, once a soothing sanctuary, evaporated.
Once more, his turmoil was a tempest I yearned to calm.
My mind raced as I strained to decipher the subject of his rage.
“That toad, Larys Strong,” he growled.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“Did he truly believe I would bestow the title of Hand upon a Strong cripple such as himself?” he spat, his eye ablaze with malice. “I didn’t like the way he fucking looked at me. I’ll have his eyes out.”
“Come, Your Grace, join me,” I invited softly, swishing my hand through the water.
Aemond snarled, as if the water was poison. “I have no time for such indulgences,” he said, and with a dismissive gesture, turned to his books, his one eye scanning the pages with fierce concentration.
“It’s still warm,” I coaxed, but he paid me no mind, his focus remaining on the text.
I was not foolish enough to press his boundaries. Even though he was susceptible to my words and counsel, I understood when his wall had grown impenetrable.
I left him to his studies, a certain comfort arising at the thought that perhaps this bath would be mine after all. I loosened my robe, letting it puddle at my feet before stepping into the inviting water. As I submerged myself, the heat seeped into my blood, tranquilizing my tense bones, and a soft sigh of pleasure escaped my lips. I tipped my head back and allowed the water to filter into my hair, prickling my scalp with its alluring fingers. As I straightened, coiling the water out of my hair, I stole a glance at Aemond, who devoured the pages with predatory intensity, my nakedness seeming to hold no allure at present.
I sat up, my breasts rising above the water’s surface. I grabbed the soapy sponge and began painting my body in foam. I moved slowly, the rich lather coating my arms, my collar bones, my neck, my chest, my breasts… They became slick with it, my nipples tightening under the stimulation.
Aemond’s gaze flickered.
As I cradled one breast, kneading and pinching the soft flesh, his nostrils flared and his eye narrowed, a predatory glint darkening its depths as if though I was his next kill, watching my cleansing ritual. Yet, he continued to feign indifference, his fingers turning the pages absently.
A surge of triumph coursed through me and nerves danced beneath my skin. I’d captured his attention, a prize hard won.
“Do you find something of interest?” I asked coyly, nodding towards his books.
His jaw ticked. “More than you can imagine,” he drawled, his gaze burning me, and I knew he was not referring to the histories.
I continued my provocative play, flicking my nipples, lathering them, until they ached with longing for his mouth.
His fingers twitched, a silent confession of his growing need. “Are you in need of assistance, my lady?” His voice, low and husky, was an enticing promise.
“I believe so,” I purred.
He shut the book and sauntered over, his approach slow and deliberate, sending the anticipation boiling within me. Kneeling behind me, he claimed the sponge, his touch a masterful blend of tenderness and command as he assumed his duties of cleansing me. Water beaded on the cloth before he inched it towards me, a cascade of soapy liquid descending upon my breasts at the clench of his delicate fingers. His hand followed, a caress that ignited a wildfire within.
A throaty sigh escaped him, which sent heat lower.
“What of your Hand?” I purred, my voice laced with invitation. “Who will assume the duties?”
“I need someone steadfast to advance my cause,” he murmured, his gaze dark and distant. “Someone unyielding in the face of dragonfire. Someone fiercely loyal,” he drawled, his voice drifting with shifted focus. His hand came up around my throat, squeezing gently, a playful threat that sent shivers prickling my spine. It descended then, down over my collarbones, tracing a fiery trail to my breasts, and a flick of his thumb over my hardened nipple sent me into orbit. A low whimper escaped my lips. His frame loomed over me, his scent, a heady mix of leather and desire, filled my senses, intoxicating me.
“Perhaps the candidate of choice is closer than we think,” he continued, his voice a low rumble.
I perked up through the fog. “Enlighten me,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. His lips came down to my ear, his hot breath setting my blood on fire. His hand slipped beneath the water until his leather sleeve was submerged above his elbow.
“You, wife,” he breathed, his voice a charged current that ignited my every nerve, further elevated by the caress of his fingers over my core.
I scoffed, the absurdity of the notion hitting me like a cold wave.
“Why do you laugh?” he asked, his voice velvet and steel.
“A woman as Hand?” I ridiculed. “Unheard of.”
“You are no ordinary woman,” he countered, his words a molten caress. “You are my wife. And you guide me better than anyone.”
His words washed over me, dissolving my resistance in a tide of desire.
“Perhaps in our chambers,” I said, a hint of amusement coloring my voice. “But around a council table? Holding the second most powerful position in the realm? It is laughable.”
A dangerous silence stretched between us as he considered my words. “Nothing about you is laughable,” he finally said, his voice low and intense.
I turned to face him, the water rippling around me. I stacked my arms on the edge of the tub, my head tilting as I studied his sharp features.
His fingers traced patterns along my jaw, his eye filling with shimmering emotion. I smiled, reveling in the raw intensity he displayed only around me.
“Won’t you join me, husband?” I invited.
A dangerous glint sparked in his eye, and without a word, he stood, unclasping his doublet from his center with slow, deliberate motions of his fingers. Heat rose within me with each layer that he shed. His body was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew.
He was all smooth lines and clean edges, that anything remotely carnal felt so much more unchaste with him.
His muscles rippled beneath taut skin, a living sculpture of power. Every part of him was so incredibly hard and defined, shadows playing around each tissue.
He sank into the water opposite me, his silver hair melting in the water like liquid moonlight.
I walked my feet up his taut stomach, up his chest, and wiggled my toes in his face playfully. He retaliated with mock ferocity, snapping at them with his teeth, his predatory gaze fixed on me, his eye alight with rare mischief. I giggled and retreated, but he captured one foot, his lips trailing soft kisses up my sole to my toes, sending a strangely pleasurable feeling through my core.
I scrunched my nose at him. “You’re filthy,” I complained with feigned revolt.
“Indeed,” he drawled, his fingers kneading tension from my foot. A wave of pleasure washed over me, and I leaned back, sighing in contentment. His gaze was intense, his eye a fathomless blue. He knew, as always, how to soothe my soul.
“If I asked it of you,” he began, and my breath grew shallow. “Would you take on the responsibility?”
The responsibility as Hand?
A wave of incredulity washed over me and I wanted to laugh again, though his features were etched with such seriousness that I felt as though I would be lynched if I as much as quirked the corners of my mouth.
Anything he’d ask of me, I would do with pleasure, though a sudden reservation coiled in my gut this time.
He had meant it in earnest. Dread sought its way around my throat.
I swallowed; my mind unable to even contemplate the weight of this looming task. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words formed.
He hummed with understanding, his eye softening and his mouth drawing up into a tender smile. “You needn’t give an answer now,” he said, placing a kiss to the bottom of my toe. “Consider it.”
Then, he tugged on me until I straddled his lap, the water splashing onto the floors from our shifting bodies. I steadied myself on his firm chest as his hand snaked around my back, the other around my neck, pulling me into him. His desire, already throbbing and insistent, was pressing eagerly against my opening.
“Imagining you,” he whispered against my lips. “Around the council table… At my side.” A shiver ran through me as I felt his dick pulse beneath me, and his breath shuddered on my skin. “It’s making me hard at the mere thought.” His grip tightened around the back of my neck, his fingers delving into my wet hair before he claimed my mouth, forcing my lips onto his in a clash of teeth and mess. I whimpered at the sudden collide, at the urgency of it, my body molding to his, while a heavy blend of lavender, rose, and dragon consumed my senses.
His hands came down and grabbed two handfuls of my ass and guided me onto his length. The water resisted our movements, making the intrusion slow and straining, and I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth. He filled me slowly, a throaty groan rumbling in his chest as I sank onto him, his eye locked onto the union, his lips parted in admiration.
He seized my hips, setting a relentless pace. His muscles rippled with exertion in the most attractive way imaginable, as he forced me to fuck him, the water spraying around us. The apartment echoed with the sounds of our passion, a lascivious ambiance of violent splashes, our breathless moans, and the primal growl in his throat.
_
The small council had convened hours hence when I was called upon from my chambers by the King’s Guard, my breakfast still steaming on the table.
“The Prince Regent requests an audience, my lady,” they announced.
The lords sat huddled around the council table upon my entry, engrossed in earnest discussion. My gaze flickered briefly over Alicent’s and Cole’s empty seats.
Aemond occupied the head of the table, his gaze distant and hostile, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“You called on me, Your Grace?” I inquired.
“Be seated,” he commanded, his voice carrying an unfamiliar chill that sent unease coursing through me.
I moved towards the table’s end with the intention to seat myself opposite him, but halted at his disapproving hum.
“Closer,” he insisted.
I hesitated, confusion washing through me and the rest of the council. A tense air descended, and I swallowed, before smoothing my dress and circumnavigated the table, the empty seats beside Aemond my only two options. His eye fixed me with a venomous intensity, as though I were a mere adversary, and not his good wife whom he was buried deep inside only last night.
Reluctantly, I claimed his mother’s old seat.
His displeasure was palpable, but unvoiced.
A tense silence filled the room before he broke it. “Lord Larys,” he began, with a challenging tilt to his head as his gaze ripped from me and pinned the crippled man at my side. “What has come of the summons of my grandsire back to court?”
Larys Strong shifted uneasily in his chair, the action of a man on the verge of delivering some bad tidings, and I noted that his eyes remained in their sockets.
“My messages have been to no avail, Your Grace,” he mumbled. “Ser Otto seems preoccupied in Old Town for the time being.”
A low, contemplative “hmm,” reverberated in Aemond’s chest. “Well then,” he mused. “It seems I must consider…” His visage softened into a strangely content expression, “…other candidates.” He leaned back, propping his foot up on the edge of his chair, idly turning the king’s marble between his fingers. His gaze flickered to me, carrying a weight of unspoken intent.
“Do you have someone in mind, Your Grace?” Jasper Wylde inquired, his voice laced with curiosity.
A slow, predatory smile crept across Aemond’s features. “As it happens, I do,” he lulled as he observed me.
Dread pulsed through me, and I shook my head at him; a silent plea for him to abandon this reckless idea died unspoken on my lips. Instead, a spark ignited in his eye, a dangerous glint promising a storm, his head nodding gently.
“There is only one here whose counsel I trust implicitly,” he declared, his voice carrying a conviction that both warmed and terrified me in equal measure.
Lord Larys, ever the opportunist, perked up beside me. “And who might that be, Your Grace?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Aemond’s face. He sat up straight in his chair and pinned Lord Larys with such venom that the cripple must have abandoned all hope before Aemond even spoke. “My wife,” he pronounced, his tone final.
A stunned silence descended upon the council as the weight of his words sunk in, and an ominous shudder coiled up my spine.
“Go on,” Aemond urged, ice in his voice. “Voice your disputes.” He dared them, his fingers resting adroitly atop the hilt of the catspaw dagger at his waist.
“Your Grace is free to choose his Hand as he sees fit,” Maester Orwyle offered, his voice carefully neutral.
“There has never been a female Hand,” Lord Larys ventured, his tone hesitant and laced with poison.
“Then it’s high time there was one,” Aemond countered, leaning closer, his voice a velvet threat.
“In these times of war and turmoil, you need a strong Hand at your side, Your Grace.”
A venomous glint sparked in Aemond’s eye. “Like you?” he sneered. “Lord Strong.”
Larys recoiled. “I would never presume, Your Grace,” he stammered. “But if duty called, I would serve you without question.”
“Lady Y/N,” Aemond’s voice, cold and deliberate, jolted me from my thoughts, sending a gnawing chill up my spine. “Should I make Lord Strong my Hand in your stead?”
The question was a seismic shift, leaving me teetering on the precipice of disaster.
To deny Larys was to accept the mantle of Hand myself, a role I was woefully unprepared for to be sure. To elevate Larys was to gamble the stability of the realm on a man whose loyalty was as fickle as the tide.
The latter choice was a chasm of peril.
I straightened in the chair, meeting my husband’s gaze. “Lord Larys is a man of expedient measures, his loyalty as fleeting as the wind,” I declared, my eyes locking with cripple’s next to me. “To name him Hand would be to plunge the realm deeper into chaos.”
Larys returned my gaze with a venomous glare, and I understood the depth of Aemond’s earlier words.
The way he looked upon you when crossed demanded his eyes out.
A pleased smile curved Aemond’s lips. “Then it is decided,” he said, rising from his seat. He crossed the chamber to a central plinth and selected one of the smooth marbles. Returning to me, he placed it reverently in the hollow before me, his air lingering briefly. When he sat back down, he fixed Lord Larys with an unwavering glare, his eye narrowing and his nostrils flaring with contempt.
“You heard her, Lord Strong,” he hissed. “Off you limp.”
The cripple offered no further protest, rising with evident reluctance despite the provocation. He leaned heavily on his cane and hobbled from the room, as commanded.
“Now,” said Aemond, splaying his hands on top of the table. “Where were we?”
Remaining to Aemond’s small council were now Jasper Wylde, Maester Orwyle, and myself. This apparent oversight did not seem to trouble my husband. If given the choice, he would likely rule alone, with me as his sole companion, a prospect I would swiftly dispute.
Lord Wylde reported that Ser Criston had finally departed for Harrenhal with the Hightower army. Intelligence suggested Daemon’s position at Harrenhal appeared weakened, presenting a prime opportunity to strike. Moreover, Daeron, along with his dragon, was expected to join the fighting soon, and the Lannister fleet was closing in.
“King Aegon makes slow but steady progress, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle reported. “He grows stronger each day. He even managed to stand up for a shirt time this morn’.”
Aemond hummed thoughtfully. “A long recovery lies ahead, Grand Maester.”
Maester Orwyle dipped his head in agreement.
“If there is nothing further, we will reconvene on the morrow, my Lords,” Aemond declared. “You are dismissed.”
We rose from our seats.
“Not you,” he said, halting me, knowing he was addressing me without having to look at him. Maester Orwyle and Lord Wylde placed their marbles back onto the platform before filing out, the heavy doors closing behind them.
I turned to him, his air exuding incontrovertible autocracy. There was something so unfamiliar about this man. He wasn’t my husband, but someone else entirely. A stranger inhabited his body, a man of iron will and cold fury. Someone that would let the world burn beneath the rage of his dragon and find it a triviality.
I wished to pacify him. To quell the fire and take my soft husband from the ashes. If this man in black leather and silver edges would deign to let me near him.
“I understand now the burdens you carry,” I said cautiously, making my careful approach. “Surrounded as you are by a council of deceitful lords with a reluctance to serve you fully.”
His jaw ticked, a tempest of emotions raging within his eye, fury and vulnerability warring with each other.
His father was dead, his mother ridden with guilt and misplaced allegiances, his brother burnt and broken, and his sister consumed by grief.
He was a Targaryen, left to face the horrors of this war alone. A most terrible fate. The weight of his house rested solely on his shoulders, and violence had become his banner.
“I have it under control,” he growled, though his dancing fingers upon the stone betrayed his words. The burden upon him was a festering wound, threatening to consume him.
“I’m sure you do,” I replied, looming over him. “But that does not mean you must stand alone.”
His eye pinned me with pure venom, sending a sharp chill coursing through my veins. But I willed myself to touch him, as I had so many times before to quiet his rage. My hand instinctively came up to his cheek, my thumb tracing the familiar scar on his cheek, and as I’d thought – this time were no different. He surrendered to my touch like a storm subsiding, his eye a deep pool, welling with the shimmer of unspoken emotion.
“I’m always at your side,” I promised, and his hand came up to cup mine, squeezing lightly with subtle desperation, a silent acceptance of my solace. “Whatever happens,” I assured him.
He averted his gaze, as if holding mine would cause the pool to flood.
“Sometimes,” he began, pursing his lips to the side, considering his next words for a moment. “It feels like you’re the only one who is.”
“I don’t believe that’s true,” I said.
“Even so,” he said. “It would be enough for me.”
A smile crept up the corners of my lips
My sweet Aemond.
I straddled him in his chair, and he took me into his arms, burying his chin in the crook of my neck. Once weapons of war, his hands now cradled me with a desperate tenderness. That’s how we remained for a while, his hands splaying across my back, gripping me with a possessive ferocity, as if he’d never known touch.
He yearned to be seen, accepted, loved, flaws and all.
I returned his embrace with equal fervor, our bodies igniting in a conflagration of warmth and desire. I held him so tightly that my arms began to ache, and the heat radiating from our fusion made me perspire.
But it was more than his body which heated me. A potent warmth radiated from him, igniting a fire deep within me. The desperation in his embrace had softened into something gentler. His hands rubbed me tenderly, his breath grew shallower, and his lips began to place soft kisses along my neck, which sent want pulsing through me.
He had solidified beneath me, his arousal pressing against my groin, demanding adjustment. Meeting his gaze, his features were no longer etched with heartbreaking peril, but had instead darkened with lust.
I pressed myself against his erection, and he let out a rough breath, watching me with languid appreciation as my hands roamed his chest, ran up his neck, into his thick hair, and then delved into the rich fabric of his doublet. I was infatuated with every inch of him. A heady warmth emanated from him, and I was utterly consumed.
A slick heat pooled between my thighs. The insistent pressure of his arousal against my dampened undergarment, a wave of lust blurring my vision. I couldn’t resist the urge to grind against him. Our eyes met, hazy, heavy-lidded, urgent. His thumb traced my lower lip, and I didn’t hesitate to press my mouth to his. I surrendered to him, his kiss, sweet and lazy at first, then deepened into a demanding exploration of my mouth. His hand searched beneath the pool of my dress. It fisted the fabric of my undergarment and I gasped as he tore it from my hip, revealing my wetness. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering my mouth.
My palm caressed his arousal, a reckless abandon consumed me as I stroked him. He drew in a sharp breath, his gaze fixed on my ministrations as I moved my hand up and down his length. His body throbbed beneath my hand, his breathing growing shallow and ragged.
“Perhaps we should retire to our chambers?” I whispered, a shiver of apprehension running through me as the precariousness of our position struck me with a chilling clarity.
I was sitting astride him in the council chambers where anyone could enter.
“What for?” he demanded, his voice a rough growl. His hands claimed my body, swiping up my abdomen, kneading and bruising with a primal force. They squeezed my breasts, his eye admiring them nearly bulging out of my dress. His mouth devoured the valley between them, his tongue and teeth an exhilarating assault.
My breath shuddered as I watched him devour my skin with hungry kisses. Words suddenly failed me, and I was unable to articulate a reason.
“I am the prince regent,” he growled, his words muffled against my skin. “I will fuck my wife wherever I please.” With that, he rose, sweeping his hands beneath my thighs to place me on top of the council table.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his tone icy and menacing.
Lust constricted my breath as I obeyed.
His palms caressed my legs upward, his thumbs pressing into my inner thighs with a brutal intensity that unraveled me. As my legs parted, a cold draft swept across my core, and I became acutely aware of my dampness. His gaze lingered there, a mix of heat and corruption that electrified me.
He yanked me closer, his grip on the back of my neck forcing my breasts against his chest as his lips grazed my ear.
“The Hand is dripping all over the council table,” he growled and nipped my neck.
The sharp pain lanced my neck as his teeth grazed it. I gasped, but the discomfort transformed into a moan when his thumb found my clit. His hold tightened in my hair, pulling my head back as he lowered my dress, exposing my breasts. His mouth closed over my nipple, sucking on it, igniting a wildfire of desire that consumed me.
His thumb traced delicate patterns over my clit, a cadent dance that sent shivers through me. His grip on my hair tightened. A deep groan reverberated in his chest and his attention shifted to my other breast, his tongue and teeth teasing and tormenting me.
I leaned back on my hands and arched into his touch, my hips involuntarily bucking under the dance of his fingers. His mouth was a fiery brand on my skin, and I felt as though I were drowning in sensation.
When his hands left me, I was left aching for their return.
His gaze, dark and intense, held me captive as he grabbed my hips and jerked me to the edge of the table. My legs parted instinctively, and I was lost in a world of heightened senses. His eye followed the curve of my body, falling between my thighs, my core completely exposed to him, and he shook his head in disbelief, running his hands down my calves.
“Fuck,” the single word, uttered with raw desire, escaped his lips. His strong arms cradled my thighs, before his mouth descended between them.
The first hot, wet swipe of his tongue sent a violent shiver through me. A storm of sensation erupted within me as his tongue explored every inch of my damp folds. I was consumed by a primal urge, a reckless abandon that clouded my judgement. A rush of pleasure flooded me, the waves rolling stronger and stronger at every slow lap of his tongue.
My fingers tangled in his thick hair as he licked me from entrance to clit. “Oh, Gods,” I moaned, digging my hands into his silver, my blunt nails tugging at his scalp.
My gaze skittered toward the chamber doors and my mind surged with anxiety at the prospect of someone coming through them, but I found the thought slipping from my mind when Aemond swirled his tongue over my clit before sucking gently. My eyes rolled back in my head and my hips wound beneath his mouth.
The introduction of his fingers was a spark that ignited a conflagration, a feeling of fullness descending a hazy veil over my mind and body, oil torching through my bloodstream.
A tremor convulsed and a shuddering gasp escaped me as his tongue flicked my clit, a cadenced dance foregrounded by the insistent thrust of his fingers. Each of his strokes were a calculated torment, deep, guttural noises of satisfaction escaping him as the sweet nectar of my pleasure ran down his chin. He teased the precipice, slowing when the pressure built, igniting a desperate plea within me.
“Please,” I breathed desperately. His fingers deepened their invasion, intensifying the fire within me. When he slowed again, panic seized me, and I clawed at his hair. Words failed me, reduced to a desperate repetition of a single syllable. “Please, please, please,” I begged.
Finally, he answered my silent demands. His digits quickened and curled, his laps ran steady and drenched my core, until a relentless, hot pressure built.
His gaze locked onto mine, his blue eye transformed into a storm-laden ocean. As the world narrowed to a blinding white, I cried out my final plea, his name, obscenities; before the tempest of release engulfed me, my whole body clenching and shuddering beneath him.
In its aftermath, a languorous warmth spread through me. I trembled against the table, a puppet on invisible strings as his fingers continued their soothing rhythm.
My body, spent and quivering, collapsed onto the cold table, my chest heaving, my eyes closing as the last waves of ecstasy rolled through me.
As the fog began to lift, I opened my eyes to find Aemond reclined in his chair, his face flushed, his lips parted from exertion, his chin glistening from my slick desire.
He was a sight, to be sure.
His gaze, dark and rapacious, held me captive. A flicker of hunger danced in his eye, as though he was ready to eat me whole.
“Welcome to the small council, my love,” he smirked.
Synopsis: Aemond has a fascination with you, his mother's pious ward from a vassal family of House Hightower, but he has a peculiar way of showing it.
A/N: Hi!! this is set in and around the last few episodes of season 1. Reader is unnamed but comes from a noble house from the reach. I made up a Tyrell lord because I just wanted a name to throw about, but it's not that serious :) I wanna do another part of this, so lmk if you're interested and would like to be tagged
Warnings: mentions of the war, burning, Aemond being a flip-floppy bitch to reader, Aegon being a bit of a creep, and pls lmk if I've missed anything
Word Count: 3900
The halls of the Keep were quiet, despite the impending ruling of Lord of the Tides and the huddles of highborn folk who were visiting for the occasion. You walked through the grand passageways, a shawl over your shoulders for your journey outside the castle walls.
"Where are you off to this afternoon, my lady?" You heard Aemond's smooth voice from an alcove you'd just passed. You took a step back towards the sound as he made himself known, his tall frame coming out into the corridor.
"To the Sept, Prince Aemond. I'm going to pray," you answered.
He gave a slight nod and echoed, "Going to pray."
"Yes."
His eye was so focused on you, so attuned to your face that you felt he was trying to read your mind.
"You're aware that your presence is required at dinner this evening?" He inquired, folding his hands behind his back. “Rhaenyra and her brood will be in attendance.”
"Yes, your highness. I'll be back before the festivities begin," you assured him. "I only wish to say a few prayers on holy ground, several of which will be for the royal family."
Aemond's lips twitched into the smallest smirk. "You would pray for us?"
"Of course," you nodded. "I pray for everyone in this house. I always begin with King Viserys and pray for his health, then I thank the gods for Queen Alicent and her kindness in making me her ward, Ser Otto for his unending wisdom, I pray for Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, and their children that all of them prosper, then I pray for you, my prince."
"And what do you ask for when you pray to the gods for me?" He raised a brow, complete curiosity on his pretty features.
"For the gods to protect you," you answered.
He let out a quiet laugh, one you almost mistook as a scoff. Perhaps it was a scoff.
"You think I need protection, my lady?" He smirked.
"Everyone needs protection."
"But I most of all?" He raised his brow again. "Do you think I'm not strong enough to protect myself?"
"I never said such a thing. I only said that I pray for your protection."
"Hm, well, how considerate of you, my lady," he appraised, a foreign glint in his eye. "Take a guard when you go out."
You nodded softly. "Yes, of course."
He looked at you for a moment longer, then he turned and walked away.
……….
The conversation before dinner was dull, even despite the tension among the family members. No one mentioned lord Vaemond, the dead man in the bowels of the Keep being cared for by the Silent Sisters. Though the lack of mention for his severed head was not the root of the ill mood this evening; you had only known this group to dislike each other.
You didn't fully understand why the family had splintered so, since you became Queen Alicent's ward only after Princess Rhaenyra and her family had moved to Dragonstone. You knew it happened after the funeral of Prince Daemon's second wife and had something to do with Aemond's missing eye, but you had never been given the full story from either side.
The tension in the family was only exacerbated by the king's poor health. King Viserys should have been resting, not hosting his entire family to dinner, but alas, you were all gathered at the table waiting for his guards to carry him in.
Across from you, Prince Aegon was expectedly fidgeting in his chair, prisoner to his boredom and wishing the night would end so he could sneak off and do something depraved. Beside you at the head of the table, Prince Aemond, ever the calm and dutiful brother, sat back in his seat, his lips pursed in that unknowable way he seemed fluent in, especially as he stared down the table at Lucerys.
You made polite conversation with Otto Hightower where he sat to your left. He had always liked you, seeing as he had been the coordinator of your guardianship under Queen Alicent. Ser Otto was even the one to bring you on the carriage journey from the western lands of the Reach to King's Landing when you were just fourteen. You had learned much at court since then, growing to be whispered about as a fine young lady.
"Lord Denton Tyrell sent his regards to you, my dear," Otto turned to you, ignoring the smalltalk between Rhaenyra's group.
Aegon scoffed into his wine across from you.
"Did he?" You smiled kindly, though you were not sure it reached your eyes. Lord Denton was fifteen years your senior, and quite a lumbering fool.
"Mentioned you in a letter I received from Highgarden. Seems you made quite the impression on him at the last hunt."
You reached for your wine. "I barely spoke to him during the hunt, I wasn't aware I made any sort of impression."
You felt a stare on you, and you didn't have to look to your right to know that Prince Aemond was watching you, as he often did. But another prince was watching you too.
“We know what he's interested in, don't we, my lady?” Aegon smirked at you.
“Not another word, grandson.” Otto leveled him with a look across the table.
“Marriage,” Aegon said in an innocent tone, holding his hands up. “He is sure to be interested in a union with our lovely, pious ward. A coupling, if you will.”
Otto gave him another look, and Aegon looked as though he wanted to continue his impish teasing, but just then King Viserys was being carried into the room. Everyone stood beside their chairs as he was brought to the empty spot at the middle of the table.
The family sat back down and dinner proceeded. After a moment of heavy air, King Viserys began to speak to his family, addressing them as equals and not as their king. Rhaenyra spoke, then Alicent, and it seemed any animosity had disappeared from their memories. Dinner progressed further, and you watched Rhaenyra's sons--mostly Jaecaerys–butt up against Aegon and Aemond as the three stood and seemed square for a fight. But then, finally, the three of them sat again, and a temporary peace was made. The musicians returned to playing, and Ser Otto began engaging you in casual conversation again, both of your stares straying to Jacaerys and Helaena as they danced.
You caught Aemond glaring across the long table at Lucerys, and your eyes flicked down to his hand in his lap, how it clenched into a fist. Without thinking, you lowered your hand beneath the table and reached for him. Your fingers settled over his knuckles, and he broke his glaring at Lucerys and instead looked over at you, his eye losing its hard edge. The bones of his knuckles rippled under your hand, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he flattened his fingers then folded them around yours. Aemond gave you a slight nod, then looked over to his sister and nephew dancing, his hand still in yours.
From the corner of your eye, you could vaguely see King Viserys being carried to his room again as dinner trays were being brought in. You let go of Aemond's hand as servants approached your end of the table with a suckling pig. Above the music, you could faintly make out laughter, and you looked all the way down to the other end of the table to see Lucerys smirking at Aemond and the pig.
Before you could take his hand again, before you could so much as look at him again, Aemond had slammed his fist on the table and rose to his feet.
“Final tribute,” he called, eye intent on Lucerys and Jacaerys. “To the health of my nephews Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… strong.”
You went rigid in your seat as the ensuing tussle broke out. There was nothing civil about how Aemond shoved Jace to the floor as soon as he stepped closer, and how Aegon pinned Luke to the table when he tried to join Jace. Ser Otto rose beside you, and you watched as guards tore the Velaryon boys away from Aemond and Aegon.
Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra seemed to admonish their respective children--though you weren't sure how effective the scoldings were considering the glares their children still sent one another–and then the Velaryons and Daemon's daughters were sent to bed. You watched as Aemond squared his shoulders, then stalked away.
“I shall also take my leave for the evening,” you said to the Hand. “Goodnight, Ser Otto.”
You kept your pace steady as you left the room, but once you were in the hall you were hurrying.
“You shouldn't have done that,” you said as you caught up to Aemond.
He didn't even look over at you. “I was complimenting them, my lady.”
“No one at that table took it for a compliment, your highness.”
“It is remarkable how when you speak, my mother's voice comes out.”
You frowned at him. “You know I'm right, you just won't admit it.”
“I know you believe yourself to be right.” He stopped in front of you, his eye narrowed to a knife's point. “Does your arrogance stretch so far as to think I should heed your wisdom?”
You buckled under his cold eye. “I only meant–”
“You meant to belittle me for my behaviour and tell me I am in the wrong for not taking the righteous path the gods would have me seek. If you didn't lack the worldly understanding of so much as a dormouse, I might be inclined to listen. But as it stands, I am not obliged to heed you."
You had no time to respond, as he turned on his heel and stalked down the royal family's wing. You stood in bitter silence, thoroughly lashed, as you watched him leave.
……….
The library was empty this morning. None of the maesters were hanging about as they often did, all busy after Aegon's crowning yesterday. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since you were informed that King Viserys was dead, yet the world felt upturned. Your warden, the now-Queen Mother Alicent, had brought you a dress to wear for the coronation, and you wore it again today, just without the ornamentations of jewelry. It was a deep green, a departure from the usual grays and blues you often wore, but you were grateful to her for it. It was difficult to not appreciate all she had done for you by bringing you to court, even if her son had scorned you.
You huffed and closed your book, setting it on the small stack you'd accumulated. You heard the far door open, but no footsteps. When you looked over your chair at the other patron of the Keep's library, you hurried to stand.
“Your highness,” you nodded at Aemond, watching him come further into the room. He seemed light on his feet today, not as angry as you had seen him as of late.
“Why the forlorn expression, my lady?”
“It is nothing, your highness.”
Your words lost their conviction the longer he stared at you, his eye seeming to peer into your soul. Aemond had stood beside you at Aegon's crowning, not looking at you the entire time. Whether that was due in part to his harsh words for you the night of the dinner, or more because his envy forbade him to look away from Aegon, you could not tell. But right now he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the room.
You let out a small breath and prepared yourself for a second round of insults today. “I was merely wondering how the Princess Rhaenyra must be feeling this morning.”
“Why?” His response was quick.
You struggled to keep your fingers still and indifferent to tension as you clasped them together in front of you. You glanced away from his hard stare.
“Why, my lady?”
You pursed your lips. “It just seems unfair, is all. It couldn't be easy for her, hearing what happened yesterday.”
“King Viserys changed his mind, my lady. Would you like to take it up with the queen mother?”
“No.” Your eyes snapped up to his face. “No, my prince, I would not dare.”
“And yet, I detect dissent."
"Not dissent, your highness," you shook your head lightly. "I have always known your mother to be the most trustworthy of figures. If she says King Viserys changed his mind, then I believe her. It's just that I feel some remorse for princess Rhaenyra; this has been her life's trajectory for some twenty-odd-years."
Aemond looked at you, his eye piercing. “My half-sister is not fit to be queen.”
“And his grace, King Aegon, is?” You said it quietly, but you knew after they had slipped out that your words could be interpreted as dangerous. “I only meant… King Viserys didn't ready his grace for the throne, not like he did with Princess Rhaenyra.”
Aemond looked at you with measurement in his brow. He leaned in slightly, looking at you with that veil in his eye, the one that hid him from any discernable emotion.
“Perhaps your thoughts are best kept to yourself, my lady. Do not speak to any other how you have spoken today.” You felt his breath on your face. “They may not be as forgiving as me.”
You nodded, closing your lips and taking a quiet inhale through your nose. He raised a brow, as though prompting you to respond, and you did, “I won't repeat myself to anyone, my prince. I'll stone the sentiment from my mind.”
He looked at you a moment longer, then pulled back. “Don't leave the Keep, my lady. Not even to visit the Sept. You must pray from inside these walls for the next few weeks.”
“Why?”
You could tell he didn't want to say at first, his shoulders tensing just a modicum. “It is for your protection, my lady. Who knows what Rhaenyra's side would do to you?”
“I have no part in this conflict among your family.”
“You do.”
“I don't, your highness,” you said more firmly. “I am a mere ward, there is no cause for any harm to befall me.”
“Rhaenyra's Council will see yesterday's events as an act of treason. Everyone who was on the dais yesterday, including you, my lady, will be treated as committing such treason.”
You closed your mouth.
“So,” he spoke with a slightly softer tone, “for the love of the Seven, stay inside.”
He once again prompted you with his brow, and you nodded, “I understand, my prince.”
……….
The evening had been strange for you.
After your library run-in with Prince Aemond that morning, you spent most of your day with Helaena, helping her care for the twins as she worriedly stitched. You had dinner in your chambers, feeling uncomfortable about being near most of the royal family right now. They were all busy, anyway; word had traveled yesterday with Rhaenys on the back of Meleys, informing Rhaenyra of Aegon's ascension, and your ward's family would undoubtedly be fortifying themselves, shoring up support for the crown in whatever way they could. An inkling whispered to you that they would surely marry you off to some lord to gain favour or loyalty, though you prayed that would not be the case. There was not a lord in the kingdom you'd met thus far whom you felt compelled to wed.
You did not prepare properly for bed that evening. All you did was take off your dress and collapse on top of your sheets, only your shift covering you as you quickly passed out. You had meant to just rest your body before you prepared a bath for yourself, but you did not rise again.
You dreamt of Aegon's coronation; all came to pass in the same way as reality, except as Ser Criston put the crown on his head, the people began to stir in outrage. Angered screams filled the dragon pit, and by the time Rhaenys and Meleys rose from the ground the crowd seemed to praise her for interrupting the ceremony.
Prince Aemond stepped in front of you again, as had happened in reality, except this time Meleys had opened her throat and fire had torched all in her path. You felt the heat of it, and as the line of fire came towards you and Aemond, your body jolted awake.
You gasped, moving to brace your hands over your face and save yourself from the flames. It was then you realized there was a warm weight on your stomach, something your hand had knocked against as you startled. Adrenaline returned to your veins and you pushed at the weight, but it pushed back, hands coming out to stop you at your wrists.
By the gods, it was a person.
You started to scream, terror taking reign as your mind raced with the possibility of who could be about to harm you. Was it an assassin sent by Rhaenyra to kill you in your bed, or a thief who had somehow crept into the Keep to defile you?
A hand quickly covered your mouth, and your jaw trembled so that you bit down, but there wasn't enough force to truly harm your assailant.
“Shh,” a voice came through to you in a quiet tone. “It is only me, my lady.”
Familiarity struck you, and you noticed the outline of long hair and the strap for a patch running over it. Your eyes caught on a lit carrying candle across the room, sitting on the dresser near your door, and you saw the way its light bounced softly off of white-blond hair. Your body stopped struggling.
“Aemond?” You murmured into his hand.
“Tis I.”
He removed his hand and you let out a breath with the realization it was just Aemond. But you weren't able to settle completely, especially not as he snaked down your body again, returning the weight of his head to your stomach.
“My prince, this is entirely inappropriate,” you muttered, your muscles freezing as he clung to you.
"I would never defile you, my lady," he whispered into your thin shift, his voice strained. "I only sought you for your familiarity."
Despite his arrogant behaviour towards you as of late, the weakness in his voice appealed to you, and you hesitantly set your hand on his head, your fingers lightly stroking along his scalp. You noticed then that his hair was damp. It was not raining outside the Keep, and Aemond looked too disheveled to have just cleaned in a bath. He must have been on dragonback this evening. Thinking this, you could smell traces of Vhagar on him. A sigh escaped you as you looked down at him.
"What is wrong, Aemond?" You asked lightly.
He would not say for a moment, then he pushed his face somehow closer to you, as though he wanted to burrow himself inside your body. “I have sinned.”
“What have you done?”
He shook his head slightly. “It is grave. Too grave for your ears.”
“Speak it.”
He shook his head again.
You sat up, trying to move out from under him as you huffed quietly. Aemond would not let you move more than this, his hands on your thighs and head having slipped down to your lap as you sat forward. You let out a soft scoff.
“Speak it, my prince, or I must ask you to leave.”
His fingers gripped your thighs, and you were reminded of how near he was to your skin despite your shift, his breath warm along the apex of your thighs. He loosened his hold again, and took in a deep breath.
“I was in Storm's End. Lucerys was there as well, and we quarreled in the sky. Vhagar… she… his dragon was so small in her jaw.”
You felt your heart drop in your chest.
“Aemond, tell me you didn't,” you whispered.
“I cannot lie to you.”
The resignation in his voice did you in, and you ran your palm along your face to stave your anxieties. You felt his nose pressing to your lower stomach but you weren't in a state to push him away, not when he'd all but admitted to slaying his nephew. You set your hand on his head, not stroking his hair but simply putting some weight on him in hopes it may provide comfort. When you next spoke, your throat was dry and you had to swallow your fear in order to make a sound.
"All you can do now is go to the Sept and pray to the gods for forgiveness."
His head shook on your lap. "There is no penance or prayer for what I have done."
You huffed, running your fingers through his hair. Aemond shifted, his hand on your thigh flexing as he tilted his head to the side to look up at you.
"Forgive me," he said. "Absolve me of my sins so that I may continue my life and end this conflict for my family."
"I'm not the one you need absolution from," you shook your head.
"It wasn't a request, my lady."
His lips were pursed and his eye was trained on you, assessing your face with scrutiny. You felt his hand on your thigh gripping just slightly too tight.
"Aemond, I…" you started, feeling your throat dry again. "Your highness, I am not comfortable with you here any more."
"It is not my wish to impose." He spoke as though he didn't see anything wrong with his actions. He made no move to get up.
"It is late, your highness. You must go."
He reached up, palming your cheek with a gentle but assertive touch. "You're warm."
"Prince Aemond, please," you muttered as you tried to shift him off of you. "You mustn't be here any longer."
"Just say it. And I know I will have the strength I need to end the rest of them."
"The rest of who?"
He shook his head yet again, pressing his face into your stomach once more. "I need you to say it. Tell me you forgive me."
"Aemond, you must leave."
As you moved to lean back against your headboard, trying to shake his weight, he sat up and braced his hands on either side of your lap. His slender, callused fingers dug into your bed sheets with a tense ruffle. His face was so close to yours, his breath warm on your cheeks. The look in his eye was impassioned, wide, and with a blown out pupil. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy motion. Warm air puffed in and out on your face. You couldn't escape the feeling of his breath, or him for that matter.
The next breath you drew bordered on a gasp, however hard you tried to contain it. His eye dropped down to your lips, and you saw his mouth twitch before he could steel his expression and slip back into that impassive Aemond you knew best. You felt another breath on your skin, warm from his parted lips.
He pulled back, his eye losing that feral quality as he steadied himself before standing.
"I am sorry," he murmured, "for disturbing your evening."
His head dipped almost indistinguishably in a soft nod, then he left without a word.
You were still on your bed, crowded against the headboard despite being alone now. You blinked, looking at the candle on your dresser. It was the only evidence that Aemond had been in your room. You watched as the wax dripped in the dish, the wick burning nearly to the bottom. It was hard to say how long you watched the flame burn, but by the time the wick ran out, you had tucked your knees up to your chest, holding yourself as securely as you had Aemond.
……….
A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment--I really appreciate the feedback! I'm gonna do more parts of this dynamic so please lmk if you wanna be tagged in them. Also if you want to request a fic for hotd, I will write for Aegon, Aemond, and Jacaerys, so please feel free to send in an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)
I'm A Fire And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm [One Shot]
Text Divider by @saradika-graphics
SUMMARY | Flowers come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage.
WARNINGS | 18+; Mild Smut.
WORD COUNT | 9.6k
A/N | Yet another repost, yay! This one was written based off an ask sent to me by @wonderbias and beta read by the loml @humanpurposes
Their union began as a fragile, delicate one.
By all accounts, Aemond Targaryen was a fine man that any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms would be proud to be with, should he– a skilled dragonrider, a scholar, a respectful man of honor, a prince worthy of his name and blood– choose to take her to wife.
If only he was not so stoic and dull, they said. The very jovial little lady of Highgarden will be bored of him in moments!
‘Twas the first of many whispers he heard of his apparent inadequacy with regards to his impending nuptials and marriage, and even though it killed him, he could not bring himself to disagree. The woman that he was to marry – the beautiful, kind, ladylike wisp of a girl that was to be entrusted to him– was a fair maiden who lit up any chamber she graced with her presence, a stark contrast to how he seemed to darken those that he stalked into.
Charming girl like that, she will hate him, they said. The poor thing is probably scared.
Every lady dreamed of chivalrous knights and charming princes, and Aemond knew very well that he was far from being either. They dreamed of charming men who would immortalize them in song, whose looks could thaw the hearts of the coldest women in an instant. Aemond knew very well that the Gods had refused him the chance to even try with her– what with their allowance of his mutilation at a tender, young age.
Even with just one eye, he saw many possibilities but to his dismay, he did not imagine any outcome would be favorable to him. With the scar he carried on his face and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Aemond was never meant to be the man that his intended deserved.
And so, he decided that he would keep her at arm's length and in consequence, save his pride. He'd reject her before she rejected him. He may not know it now, but matters of the heart are fickle– and to the utter disappointment of his pride, his little lady rose was very easy to love.
He would not be caught dead pathetically pining after a woman who would soon be his. He would not.
And so, their courtship remained devoid of romance and scandal. His family was made privy to each of their highly appropriate conversations, with them taking turns in chaperoning their walks through the gardens.
There was nothing that he wished to share, for he did not want to lose too much. He did what was expected of him, and she did the very same. Soon, there was respect, admiration, and a whole host of burgeoning feelings that Aemond tried hard to suppress - feelings that he clearly did not see in her eyes as she dared to look into his.
How could she feel anything for a stoic, dull, one-eyed man like him?
As he draped the red and black cloak over her shoulder and pledged to be her man of liege and limb, he told himself that he would not try. He would not give into fantasies, only to be met with rejection from a woman who was too good for him; one that may realize it soon enough as well.
After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. He would feed himself to the dragons before admitting to someone else being better than him, let alone be rejected by that same person. He was certainly not going to woo her, not when he knew that he would only be met with contempt and disgust.
It did not matter how badly he wanted to. He would not allow himself to succumb to such idyllic daydreams. He would not.
When night fell and the wedding feast was in full swing, his new good-father was the only one who could give his brother a run for his money with how deep he was in his cups. It was obvious how the wine-induced stupor affected the fat lord Tyrell as he bellowed for his daughter and his new good son to take the lead and join in the dancing and merriment.
Aemond was ready to retch at the thought, but what stopped him from making his irritation clear was the possibility that she may want to dance. His wife. He had seen her dance before– as graceful as an otherworldly swan. She had a better grasp at frivolous courtly affairs than he did.
His wife may want to dance. His wife, his wife, his wife. A little rose, his.
He shuffled his feet under the cloth-covered long table and allowed his one eye to train over his clothed boots. In spite of all the dancing lessons he had taken with Helaena, Aemond had never indulged before– and now, he was expected to entertain his bride each time a song played. The thought made him want to press his feet into the ground further than he already has, in hopes that perhaps the ground would swallow him whole.
His view of the dancing crowd had been taken from him by half along with his eye. Without the luxury of complete vision, he could not dance without bumping into everyone that was on his blind side. Now, he would have to– if she wanted to.
He thought he could say no, but he feared that if he were to look her in the eyes, he'd never be able to. Perhaps that was why he had refused to even look at her throughout the ceremony, despite her many admirable– yet failed– attempts to catch his line of sight and share a smile.
It was her meek, mouse-like voice that brought him out of his nervous trance. “We do not have to," she said, the words falling out of her lips like a song.
“You like to dance, my lady,” he said.
“But you do not, my prince. It takes two.” Her surprisingly understanding words were followed by a timid smile, one that threatened to rip through his defenses and get to him.
In the crowded throne room, as his new bride sets aside her happiness to accommodate his preferences, Aemond worried that his self-imposed distance from her may not last too long if she kept offering him kind glances and sweet smiles– no matter how forced and dutiful he knew them to be.
He had much to lose; his pride, his heart. He would not risk it, even if she was seemingly easy to love. He would not. He would not. He would not.
After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride.
Soon after, her drunk nuisance of a father had called for the bedding. Aemond did nothing as his trembling bride was ushered away by the handmaidens and ladies, each of them wriggling her jewelry off as she stumbled in her steps before they carried her off.
Should he have asked for a private bedding? In hindsight, he believed he wronged her by throwing her to the mercies of the court in her vulnerability. Equally, he did not want to attempt a show of compassion– not when she may not even welcome it from the one-eyed fiend of a husband that she was stuck with.
When he walked into the chambers in his loose linen shirt and breeches, his breath hitched in his throat. Helaena had once told him that the Septas refer to women’s maidenheads as flowers. “Beautiful, ripe and ready for the plucking,” she had said, keeping her nose pointed upward in her imitations. He'd never given the words much thought.
Until now.
There she was. His wife, his flower, his rose, ready for plucking, in her translucent white shift and now untamed hair, like a fae in a dream. How could she possibly be his? How could she possibly be happy with a man as monstrous as him for a husband?
Her eyes, wide and fearful, flittered about his face, in his mind an expression of her repulsion. It pained him to think she did not even give him a chance.
But she was accommodating about my not wanting to dance…
Perhaps she did like to dance; just not with him.
These unsaid words and subsequent misunderstandings plagued their wedding night. Both believed the other did not desire them.
That night, she offered her flower to him– as is her duty– and he took great care in taking it from her. He made sure she was pliant, so that when he took it, she would be as glad and thrilled as he was, regardless of how well-hidden his happiness was.
He may have grimaced in disgust at Aegon's vulgar demonstrations and lessons about the pleasures of the marital bed, but he was thankful as he heard her moan out his name in a silent scream while she convulsed around his fingers. The silent sounds of her choked out moans and the heat engulfing his fingers may have very well been enough for Aemond to find release, and he reminded himself quickly that she will not want him when they're done. How could she, deformed as he was?
And so, he stopped wanting to be good for her, and simply endeavored to get it done with.
She was only more than willing to allow him to take her flower. If he was not so preoccupied with his own insecurities, he may have seen that it had gone past duty for her. Her loud moans proved the fact, and left little room for dispute (or doubt, in the minds of the prying ears that stayed close to the doors of their chambers, and the sharp eyes of the council who were now shuffling out of their seats).
He inched into her, and her tears and turned face only seemed to make it harder for him. Was he so beyond hope that she could not even look? What was it? Had he hurt her? He did not ask, lest he risk finding out that he was a disappointment. So he lost himself, drowned in his own head as he mechanically moved in and out, in and out, in and out.
Duty. Duty. Duty.
If he had not been so preoccupied with tearing his own being to shreds in his mind, he may have heard her moans as the bright pink tip of his cock hit a rough spot in her, allowing her pleasures and experiences she did not believe she would ever know. He may have known that she desired him, just as he did her.
His self-deprecating thoughts couldn't have been farther from the truth– he may not have realized it that night, but he would soon enough.
Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the first ever flower she gave him– whether she chose to see it that way or not– came to him on their wedding night, in the form of her maidenhead.
Tourneys were a time of celebration for her.
There was something to be said about the romance of watching men ask women for favors and fight with all the might and grace that they possess. She had often dreamed that a dashing knight or a courteous prince would perhaps approach her for her favor, and then perhaps crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. If she was lucky, the man would court her too.
The man she married was the antithesis of all that she hoped a tourney would bring.
Her husband was not a bad man by any means– no. He was a good and respectful husband, slightly removed and isolated for her outward nature, but she did not mind. There were worse men to be married to, and even if he never went out of his way to be there for her, he certainly treated her well when they were in each other’s presence.
She tried with him, Gods bless her.
She would try to catch his eye at the supper table, or watch him train in hopes that he would meet her watchful gaze once or twice. She would watch in a sleepy haze as he woke early in the morn, long before she had the strength or consciousness to wish him a good day, hoping he would turn to do the same. He never did.
More often than not, a curt nod and a wavering glance was all she’d get. Still there were brief, hopeful moments that kept her active in her pursuit to build a friendship with her husband.
She would have done something absolutely obnoxious— acts that would have him sneering if it was someone else– and she’d see it. That little hint of a smile, waiting to bubble through the surface, just by the corner of his pink lips, that she would have missed if she blinked. Each time there was a tenuous beginning of a hesitant smile, she felt a tiny sliver of hope.
He was not so intimidating to her now as he was in the initial days of their union– no. In a little corner of her mind, she acknowledged that fact– that is what helped her find his hand and hold it tight in nervousness, before she could even comprehend the intimacy of the act.
The knight who had just taken a harsh tumble from his horse was carried away by servants, with his head beaten bloody and hands hanging limp by his side. If she did not know better, she would have thought him dead.
The champion then raised his hands up in victory. Thunderous clapping sounds overshadowed all else around her, but she could not bring herself to join. She was still stunned by how the other knight had fallen, and was yet to let go of Aemond’s hand.
She felt the bile rise in her throat, so she brought her other hand to her chest and bowed her head down, a feeble attempt at keeping the vomit at bay. It was awhile until she managed to catch her breath again, and by then the celebrations had moved on from celebrating the champion to the crowning of his Queen of Love and Beauty.
The eldest Lady Baratheon smiled coyly as she received the wreath of winter roses, followed by a chaste kiss to her cheek. The crowd gasped at how brazen the act was, with neither of them being married, but the high of winning makes men do the most peculiar things, she supposed. In the back of her mind, regardless of how uneasy she felt, she wished– desperately.
How she wished it was her.
A childish fantasy really. What was a publicly gifted crown of flowers worth in the face of what she had? She was a Princess of the realm now, married to a skilled dragonrider from a family of illustrious history and blood. Any children they may have will be immortalized in the annals. Nothing. A crown of flowers was worth nothing when compared to what she had– or at least, that is what she would tell herself.
And yet, she craved the romance. She had always enjoyed the idea of being loved and cherished. Her husband respected her, and if she was feeling bold, she’d say he liked her– but he certainly did not love her. That much she was certain of. When she naively wished that he’d crown her, she asked if he was going to enter the lists. He had sharply turned so quickly that she feared she had angered him.
“I don’t give a sh…” He had sighed before speaking again, as though he felt tested. “I do not care for tourneys.” The sharpness in his voice had hurt her, and she did not speak of it again.
Their marriage was a decent one– but it held none of the love she hoped to have, despite all her attempts.
Did he find her so disagreeable?
All of a sudden, his hand felt cold to the touch and she let go of him like he burned her. The heat came back to her hand just as it showed on her cheeks, and his had turned cold from having lost her touch so abruptly.
“I’d like to get some fresh air, husband,” she said, and rose before he could even ask if she needed him to accompany her.
Her quick walk took her to the tent where the court ladies had been sitting, and she had stepped in right in time to hear them gossip– about her husband.
“Well he must keep it on while they… you know! It can be jarring to look at, I’m sure it is!”
“It must be terrible to see it up close all the time. I can hardly look at him from across the chamber!”
He is certainly unnerving. It does make you wonder though, do you think they actually…” the woman lowered her voice to match the vulgarity that was to follow. “Do you think they actually fuck? She cannot possibly want to, and she is not with child either…”
“Well, does it really matter if she wants to? He’s a Prince, and her husband. He’ll take his pleasure regardless.”
Regardless of where she and her husband stood, she would not stand for their marriage to become fodder for court gossip. If she stayed quiet for any longer while these empty-headed women berated her husband, she would be insulting him herself.
“Might I ask what is so amusing?” she said with sharp eyes and a tilted head. The sweat on their faces upon her arrival was apparent, and so was their nervousness.
“My Lady, we were just–”
“Princess,” she corrected.
“Yes of course, Princess. We were just–”
“Making presumptions about my marriage?”
“No… we just…”
“Don’t deny it,” she seethed, anger looking completely foreign on a soft, comely face like hers. Her nostrils flared and her nose went red in her current state, but there was no way she could stop now.
“The next time you feel the need to comment on such matters , perhaps you will all learn to remind yourself that he is a Prince of the realm and I am his wife! There will be suitable punishment, and you will all be dismissed from court at my pleasure, disgraced and husbandless. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Her words were cutting and sharp, and they had the younger ladies bowing their heads in fear almost immediately.
“I’ll have you all know that unlike the other men of the court, Prince Aemond’s scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. His bravery only makes him more handsome to me.”
She then fixed her attention onto the married lady of the bunch and delivered a questionable blow that she would certainly feel bad about later. “If you’ve been led to believe that the man takes his pleasure from his wife even if she does not want to, then perhaps your marriage is a lot worse than I thought. Your husband must have no regard for your wants, unlike mine. And for that, I am truly sorry.”
She did not wait for them to respond as she gathered her skirts and walked out of the tent, feeling largely annoyed and satisfied to an extent. But as she began her walk back, the fear of news of her anger reaching her husband hit her like a harsh and heavy wave.
Would he call her insolent and disgraceful? Has she damaged her marriage more than it already has been?
She did not have to wait long for her answer, for Aemond had been just a few steps behind her, watching the entire scene unfold. The angry flush on her face left her as quickly as it had come, replaced by a skittish nervousness that led to her shuffling her feet as she stood before him, at a complete loss for words.
She swallowed the spit gathering in her mouth, throat bobbing as her head remained facing down to the floor, awaiting a scolding from him for her absolutely inexcusable behavior; her husband was a man who knew his courtesies, after all. He could not possibly be happy with how she carried herself and disappointed him.
“You do not look well. Let me walk you to our chambers,” was all he said before he led her away with a hand on the small of her back.
She remained worried that he was perhaps leading them to privacy and silence so he could punish her while being undisturbed. She could not have been farther from the truth.
She expected him to scream at her, forget all the courtesy that he had shown her and throw his words at her without care. What she was not prepared for, was for him to hold her chin between his thumb and index fingers, pulling her face up to meet his.
He curiously inspected her, almost as though her little show of anger thoroughly amused him. She would not be surprised if it did– she had never been so outward in her anger in the two months that they had been married; this was a completely new side to her that he was now privy to.
“What was that, wife?” His words were measured and cut.
“They…” She was stunned to find that, despite her tongue becoming loose in moments of anger, it was hard for her to speak right now. So, she chose to gulp once more and tried to look someplace else. The uncertainty in his sharp, one-eyed violet gaze was becoming too much for her to bear– but Aemond did not give up easily. He kept her head held in place as she desperately waited for the words to come to her.
“They were being crude, and insulting you.”
He looked at her for a moment, his sharp gaze refusing to waver as the sunlight pierced through the glass windows of their chamber. He then let go of her, and handed her a goblet of wine to calm her clearly unsteady senses. He watched as she took little sips from the chalice, the restless turning of the wheels in his mind apparent on his face.
Soon after, he made up a sham of a reason about having to leave when the cheering crowds became louder and louder. She nodded and continued to sip, completely oblivious to the change of heart that her husband was having as she wondered why he brought her back to their bed.
She did not know the thoughts that now ran fast and surely in his mind. She did not know that he thought his eye had cost him a chance at a happy marriage with her. She had no idea of knowing how conflicted he felt at the new realization, for his sculpted face gave nothing away.
He turned to face her with a hand on the door. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
She nodded and smiled meekly while he stalked back to the festivities.
He held his hands tightly behind him as he tried to make sense of how light his heart felt in comparison to the rest of him.
Back in the chamber, she blushed. For all her worry that he may have been disappointed, she had been completely floored by how he had responded– he was thankful. She berated herself for not considering the possibility– and smiled at the realization that for all her husband’s prowess as a warrior, in times like these, he needed a champion too.
That night, Aemond burned the midnight oil while reading in the library, trying to still his racing heart and make sense of how it leapt at newfound thoughts of his little wife.
Across the Holdfast, in the soft candlelight of their shared chambers, she sat on her husband’s dear chair, looking at her handiwork– an embroidered silk tourney favor, with a little rose.
Her husband may not care for tourneys, but making the favor allowed her the luxury of thinking that should the possibility of him willingly entering the lists come around, he would do so with her gift on his lance. Mayhaps he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty too– the thought makes her blush.
She would give it to him should he ever choose to partake someday. Until then, it would be safely hidden away in her shelves, amidst her gowns and other possessions.
Flowers have came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the second flower that was intended for him– despite the fact that she was yet to give it to him– came to him on the day of the the twins’ name day tourney, in the form of a rose, embroidered onto a tourney favor.
They have come to enjoy each other's company.
Her coming to his defense while expecting nothing in return had lit a fire in Aemond that he could not seem to quell. What he believed she had rejected him over, she had actually taken to being proud of. What he had believed was his one big, obvious and visible fatal flaw, was something that she had taken to holding in high regard.
I’ll have you lot know that unlike the other men of the court, his scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. And his bravery only makes him more handsome to me.
Her words rang in his mind like the definite tolling of the Great Bell at the Royal Sept. With each chime, her assertiveness on the matter came back to linger in his thoughts, he had fallen for her – bit by bit.
Feelings had always been a conundrum to Aemond, one that he did not entirely understand or even want to. But now, with a wife who warmed him and his heart slowly but surely, with her lovely smiles and nervous face, he found that he would like some certainty in the face of all that was uncertain in his heart.
He did not know if he loved her just yet. But what he did know was that, at the pace that she had set for them, it may be a very short while before he does. His wife. His wife, his wife, his wife.
His, his, his.
Coming to terms with having a wife that actually desired his company– and him, surprisingly enough– had spurned his attempts to bring some sort of intimacy to their marriage. Gods knew that she had tried, only to be rebuffed rudely by him in the initial days of their marriage. It was a time that he now felt deep regret and shame for, one that he would not rest until he had made right.
He needed her to see that he wanted to try.
He did not know how to be the charming prince from a bard’s songs. He did not know how to make women laugh like Aegon; be as sweet and kind as Helaena; or as chivalrous and perfect as Daeron.
But what he did know was respect. Aemond understood respect as something that was earned by everyone around him, but to his wife, it should have been unconditional. It should have come to her the day he had cloaked her and made her his– but it did not. Now, he intended to make it right.
He needed her to see that he wanted to try– which is how he found himself with her on his arm, as they walked hand in hand through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards their chambers. Ah yes, hand in hand. Another one of the little joys that he savored like it was his last day alive.
Their initially cold marriage had also been fueled by his blatant refusal to simply be near her, much less touch her. Why would she have wanted to be touched by a one-eyed monster, such as the likes of him?
But the moment he realized that she did not consider him so– not in the least– led to a warmth seeping through his blood, making him crave her so much that his heart hurt. If she did not mind it, why must he not exercise his liberties? And if there was some joy to be derived from it, why would they not want to indulge?
And so he had begun. A stolen touch here, a featherlight graze there.
His huge, calloused hand, seemed to be always holding her dainty one as he accompanied her throughout their time in the castle; on the small of her back as they maneuvered through feasts and dances; around her waist as they closed the distance between each other in their sleep, with her back to his chest; clutching onto her thigh to keep her in place for when she turned around and draped her tiny leg upon his waist.
His hands, all over her.
It was not just these fleeting, quick touches that Aemond had grown to enjoy. With their bond growing stronger with each passing moment, he had realized that their marital duties were simply not duties anymore. They had gone from believing that the other had tolerated their presence, to trying their level best so that the other would know how much they desired them. The growth of their marriage was evident in how their carnal indulgences had evolved.
Where he had held himself to hover over her so as to not facilitate any unnecessary touches, he had now taken to covering her entire being with his own. His hands around her hip as he pounded into her; her hands on his chest as the tip of her fingers grazed and pinched at his nipples. His hands in her hair as he mouthed at her heaving breast; her hands around him as she held onto him as tightly as she could, never wanting to let him go. His hands on her cunt as he drew peak after peak from her before thrusting himself into her; her hands around his cock as she pumped him before impaling herself by straddling him, just the way he liked.
Their sounds of pleasure had been held back and muffled in the beginning, but now they were uninhibited sounds taken by the wind, made with the intent of being heard and making desires known.
Oh yes, their marriage had grown.
This is what Aemond had been pondering as he led her through, with servants making their way for the young prince and princess as she held onto her husband with one hand, and a piece of rolled parchment and some charcoal on the other. He enjoyed their touches now, and it made his heart soar that he did not have to doubt her want for him either.
Yes, they could make something out of this.
“How was your time in the gardens, wife?” It made him happy that with the growth of their marriage, she had taken to exercising her liberties. So, when she had come to him requesting charcoal and bound parchment so she could begin drawing again, he was only happy to oblige.
“Good. I managed to sit and watch the flowers flit about in the wind for a time, and I drew a bit as well. Then the court ladies came to join me as they…”
Aemond listened to his wife as he sat himself on his chair by the hearth, most intently, and with the utmost concentration that he could muster. He could not bring himself to make selfless romantic declarations of love, or speak to her more than he was able. But he could listen, and that is what he would do.
Not a word unheard, not a moment missed. He needed her to see that he wanted to try.
She prattled on and on about her day, and how the court ladies had gossiped about each other when they thought the other wasn’t listening. He listened to the way her voice heightened when her recollections were happy, and he noted the way she frowned when she was in disapproval. He observed how her eyes widened at shocking narrations, and how her hands seemed to move like they had a life of their own.
He kept observing, losing himself in his newfound knowledge of her, her, her… and it was not until she stood close to him, her body slotted between his legs as she held her hands behind her back that he realized she had stopped speaking.
“Go on.”
He did not expect to be given something, not when his name day had just passed. But that is exactly what happened.
“For you,” she said. With her raised eyebrows and coy smile, she managed to place a parchment roll into his hand. Aemond made note of how her head faced down and her feet shuffled as she stood in wait for his approval.
He unrolled the parchment, careful to not cause even a stray tear at the edges. His eyes raked over the drawing, one of clear skill and years of training of the highest level– one befitting a lady.
“I shall treasure it, thank you.”
She smiled at his acceptance, and he nodded. He was not a smiling man, but he hoped that she knew how much he appreciated these gestures. He hoped that their marriage had grown enough for her to notice his quirks, just as he had made note of hers.
Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the third flower that she had given him was a charcoal sketch of a rose, into which she had poured her heart and soul.
As the days passed, their mornings became brighter.
While she had hoped that the initial days of their marriage would have some semblance of love, and if not, at least affection to some extent, her hopes had been quickly dashed with the closed off and curt behavior that her husband seemed to have made his own. Neither did he ever wish her a good morrow upon sunrise, nor did he kiss her goodnight like in the songs.
But now, there was more.
Where there was coldness, there was now warmth. It was not heat, not like wildfire, no– it was warmth, like from the calm blaze of their hearth. She might not have awoken to a smile, no– her husband was not a smiling man– but she always woke to an arm snaked over her breasts, pressing into her. Where there was distance, oceans between them, there was now a shared intimacy, one that they had both been quietly happy about. She was not put to sleep with a kiss, but whenever she slept on the chaise waiting for him to arrive, he now ensured that she was put into comfortable clothes and carried to their bed with care.
He may not have cared for her in the beginning, but she knew he did now. Her husband was not a romantic man, but his small gestures were enough to make her feel happy and content.
The shift in their dynamic was not just visible in their daytime activities, but in the passions of their marriage bed as well. On the first night that they had coupled, he had been careful, experimental, doubtful. But as the days went by, he had become surer, rougher… insatiable.
She enjoyed this new side to him. She enjoyed being the woman that belonged to a fierce prince, the one that he so clearly desired. She enjoyed being held by him as he moved her up and down his cock, his head buried in her breasts as he breathed in the heady smell of sweat and sex. She enjoyed being impaled by him, her small body being split into two, all while having him whisper words of appreciation in her ears.
My little wife, my little flower. Made for me… only for me, he would say. Tell me who this cunt belongs to, he would growl, hands slapping her little nub over and over until she caught her breath, found her voice again and appeased him.
You! Gods… to you, my prince, she would whine, holding his hand in place, hoping he would fuck her with his fingers once more, just the way she liked.
It came as no surprise to her that ever since they had become welcome to each other’s affections, they had been a lot more active in their marriage bed– so much so that the lewd moans and loud curses had become court gossip.
When she had addressed the matter with him once soon after they had fucked, Aemond had smiled, albeit darkly– the only kind of smile that suited him. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, he had said. His insinuation that she was now a dragon too, all while his warm breath fanned her neck and his large hands squeezed her backside, was all she needed to quell her worries.
And of course, as was the natural order of these things, she was now with child.
She had been overjoyed when she had found out, and a tad relieved too. The court ladies whispering about her womb was not something she appreciated– their assumptions about her being barren, even less. So when she found out, she insisted that she be the one to break the news to her husband– her time as an expectant mother would never completely be her own, given the station she had now married into.
But this, this moment could be hers and his. It would be theirs alone.
And so, she sat in wait at the training grounds, watching him as he expertly maneuvered his sword and slashed at his mentor, Ser Cole. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge–
Ser Cole had bested him, having noticed the predictability in his movements. Aemond of course, being the headstrong man that he was, refused to give up. The anger in his face at being won over in a fight did not escape her, and she would be lying if she said it did not awaken desire in her once more. Before she could think further however, one of the lords in the audience had piped up.
“Perhaps the Prince would benefit from a token of luck from his dear lady wife!” He said, and the watching crowd around them seemed to agree as they cheered and whistled. Aemond was flummoxed, not knowing how to cope with being faced with the topic of his wife while in the middle of a fight. It was only then that he noticed her, red-faced and smiling as she was– before he could say anything, she had taken the lead.
“I’m afraid I’ve come empty handed, my lord. I’ve nothing to offer him right now!” She quipped with a smile. It had warmed him to know that she was jovial enough for the two of them, allowing him the luxury of staying quiet as she became his champion during situations like these.
“Ah well, he knows you’re here now, Princess! If that does not add to his fire, I do not know what will!”
Perhaps it was her presence, or it was his own prowess as a swordsman. But Aemond was quick to come through this time around. The crowds cheered for their Prince, and so did the man who had taught him to be all that he was.
“Well met, my prince,” Ser Cole said. He patted her dragon prince on his shoulder and walked over to where the swords were arranged. Aemond quickly followed in reverence to his teacher, one that he did not freely give to most. Soon after, the crowds had dispersed, and she watched as his slender, tall form stalk towards her.
“Since when do you frequent the training grounds, wife?”
“Can a wife not seek her husband out when she wants to?”
She could not have imagined rhetorics like these tumbling out of her mouth in the initial days of their union. But they were now closer than they had ever been, and she had discovered that it would not hurt to take initiative, especially given how quiet of a man her husband could be.
He was not the charming prince from the books or the songs, but she certainly loved who he was– inquisitive, considerate and respectful.
“Hm. Perhaps.”
Their walk back to their apartments was a slow and quiet one, with her knowing that he preferred his moments of quiet soon after his training. They soon settled into the solar, with the food spread out for them to break their fast.
As was his habit, Aemond stripped himself of his clothes as she checked the water in the tub with the tips of her fingers, water rippling as her hands moved. He was quick to step in and let his hands rest on either side of the tub, his legs ramrod straight but slowly loosening up as she ran a washcloth over him with a gentle softness that is most unlike him.
Her hands glided over his chest, arms and he caught hold of her when her hands moved to clean his neck, beckoning her to come closer. “My dutiful little flower, hm? Come to assist her husband and answer his every beck and call.”
“I am nothing, if not dutiful.” She said, playful smile teasing him as her breasts threatened to spill out of the neckline of her dress– causing his cock to half-harden at the sight. She kissed his cheek and set the washcloth down, hands traveling to his alabaster hair as she ran her fingers through it, allowing her wet hands to trudge through. When she was done, he was quick to pull at her hand from his side, causing her to bend to meet him, eyes to eye.
“You have a council meeting to get to, husband. Now is not the time.”
She knew very well what he wanted. It was what she wanted too– which is precisely why her own protests meant absolutely nothing to her as she gave in, dress riding up to her thighs and billowing wet in the water as she straddled him. Her cunt was already soaked for him, and he was hot and ready from all the energies that training seemed to have put into him. She rocked her hips forward and backward, adjusting to his girth, while sighing and breathing at the feeling of having him in her. It did not matter how many times he’d taken her, she would never get used to feeling so full.
Soon enough, he had her held harshly by her waist in a bruising grip, his teeth nibbling at her sensitive nipples as he moved her up and down, up and down, up and down. The water crashed out of the tub like waves crashing onto shore and she was quick to fall apart in a mix of pain and pleasure, moaning his name in her broken voice, followed by a silent scream. His release followed soon after, cock twitching in her as he drew her closer, closer and closer still. When she felt his cock soften after a time, she got up and he let her, following close behind.
“You fought well today, husband.” She said, in a feeble attempt to coerce a conversation from him as they sat at the table. He was a man of silence, and she was not. He did not prefer it, but she would try anyway - because there were times when he indulged her.
“Hm. Thank you.”
The smell of cut fruit was intoxicating to her, more so than usual. She had heard of women craving peculiar kinds of food during their time as expectant mothers, so she supposed that this may have to do with the little dragon that she now grew in her belly. The rest of their time eating moved in a swift silence– a comfortable one. The only sounds they heard were of the servants in the corridors and the birds chirping from out the window.
When they finished, the trays were taken away and he got up, ready to leave to sit in on the council meeting that his grandfather had called him for. He was halfway out the door after nodding to her when she took his hand, and he stopped.
Her hands held onto his as tightly as they could, and she was skittish as she continued to look down at the floor. By now, he knew her quirks well enough to know that she did that only when she wanted to say something.
“Go on.” He urged her as his other hand reached for her too.
She drew in a sharp breath as she bit her lip. “I… I am with child, husband.”
She did not know what to expect from him of her news– but his silent sigh and slight smile as his hands reached down to cover her belly in his hold is enough of a reaction. “Thank you,” he said, his gratitude and happiness made obvious– to her, even if not to anyone else. She did nothing but smile as his forehead met hers in a soft touch– their touches were always passionate and rough while in the privacy of their chambers, so it was peculiar for her to be treated this way. She found that she enjoyed it, just as much as she enjoyed being roughly handled by him.
She then stretched the fingers of one hand, revealing a little silk patch, a little tourney favor with a rose stitched on it. A flower, from his little flower.
“I know you do not prefer tourneys, but… it is my hope that you would at least keep it with you while you train.”
His hands ran over the soft silk, fingers tracing the intricate patterns that she had clearly taken her time with. He was quick to smoothen it out and pocket it, following it with a kiss to her lips.
“Thank you, for everything.”
The favor was only meant for the training grounds. But a week later, when she found it peeking out of his pocket while they walked around the gardens, she smiled. Soon, she found out that he kept it with him all day.
Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fourth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of a favor with an embroidered rose, one that he kept on his person at all times.
There was something to be said about the comforts of silence.
Her husband was not a smiling man, nor was he an ardent conversationalist. Being a woman who leaned towards being both, she had begun their marriage with the intent of treading lightly, lest she annoy him or risk having him dismiss her halfway through. And she did try; Gods knew that she did.
Royal marriages were a sacred duty– those held in its sanctity would have to hold themselves to a higher standard, no matter how much it hurt them. With that being said, she was eternally thankful for Aemond understanding her preferences and trying to meet her halfway. She had been prepared for a man who would coldly dismiss her and her wants, but she had not been prepared for one that would actually want her.
One of the greatest pains of being born a noblewoman, she supposed, was that happiness in itself, was a privilege– one that she wished was not as such. She wished for it to be an easy thing to have, and as such, understood that she had been blessed with a quiet and peaceful marriage - one that did not take from her more than she was willing to give. It did not matter how many times she thought it over– she never failed to be as grateful as she was at the first realization, many moons ago.
These were her thoughts as she accompanied her husband in the library. Aemond sat opposite her, on the other side of the table with his finger running over the texts of the Summer and Winter Annals, deeply engaged in the knowledge that the book had to offer on the now lost Kingdom of Sarnor, once a famed trade partner of Valyria.
The fresh assortment of flowers lay haphazardly on her side of the bench, while she worked towards entwining them all onto the coir to make a crown. She often stole a glance at her husband as she repeatedly adjusted herself on her seat, one that was bigger than her usual one - to accommodate her, and the babe that she now carries.
An heir, a royal heir. There is dragon blood in you now, he had said.
She felt it, what with her babe’s constant reminders - boy or girl, the kicks were hard and swift, and it never failed to take her by surprise.
Aemond was a very fast reader, she gathered. His pages turned a lot faster than hers did, and his eyes never stuck to one part of the parchment for long - they flitted about and were restless, aiding him in his desire to learn as much as he can in the least amount of time. They have been married for half a year by now, and yet she manages to learn something new about him every day.
Her deft fingers worked through the stems of the flowers, piercing the sharp ends of the coir through them. In and out, in and out, in and out, she went - establishing a pattern that she ended up memorizing, whether she was cognizant of it or not.
Aemond stood up as he noticed a guard waiting near the doors, summoning him on behalf of the King. Her crown was now completely done, and she admired her handiwork as she twirled it in her finger and smiled. Aemond was now speaking to the guard as she ran the tip of her fingers over the petals. She brought it closer to her nose to smell them - the flowers were not as fragrant as they were once before, but there was a faint scent that she adored.
He nodded, and she could not help but smile again as he approached her. It struck her harder with each moment, how the Gods had blessed her with him - him with his infinite knowledge, calm disposition and otherworldly beauty. She wondered if the babe she carried would look like him - she hopes, hopes and hopes that they would.
He took the crown of flowers in his hands and handled it with the same care that she put into making it. It looked thoroughly out of place, yet so at home in his hands - much like herself.
A mildly happy lift at the edge of his lips caused a sharp dimple - one that made him look harsh, content and menacing at the same time. She may have wished for a Prince from the songs all the moons ago - but right now, she could not help but think that she had been blessed with someone greater, even if she knew that he did not believe it himself.
He placed the crown atop her head, crowning her. She remembered wishing he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty at the twins’ name day tourney - but at this moment, as his fingers glided over her smooth hair to set the crown of white roses into place, she was happier than she could have ever been at any tourney.
“Escort the Princess safely to our chambers,” he ordered, after rubbing her growing stomach and giving her a kiss on her temple before going to meet the King. She stood slowly, and noticed that one unused and withering flower had been left behind. The air from outside the castle gushed through the windows, and it was purely by instinct that she grabbed it by the stem and placed it inside the pages of Aemond’s book before the pages flew - so it would be marked and he could begin where he left off if he so wished.
Long after her exit, Aemond came back to his bench after finishing his meeting with the King. He noticed the protruding stem, and he could not help but feel the warmth coarse through his chest as he opened the tome and found the withering flower pressed inside.
Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fifth flower that she gave to him came to him in the form of a dried rose, one that he kept tucked safely inside his favorite book.
It was moments like these that made Aemond believe in anyone but himself.
Being able to love someone blindly was not a gift that Aemond ever found himself capable of giving. Ever since the loss of his eye, he had grown to be full of spite and resentment, believing that having his dragon was enough to make the loss of company around him worthwhile. Nobody knew how to speak to him anymore– how does one comfort a boy who could only see half the world around him?
And then, she came to him. His wife.
With her free smiles and open heart, she had made her way through into the center of his. He found that he preferred her there, where she belonged. She had made her home in his heart, and he marveled at how despite not matching up to her in any way that mattered, she had found it in herself to allow him to take shelter in hers.
It brought him shame to think of how they could have fallen in love much sooner if he had been open to her affections and not been so wrapped up in his own presumed fallacies. But with time, he learned that in a world where marriages remained cold until the bitter end, a late bloom of happiness was a gift that he should learn to treasure.
It is a girl. Do not ask me why I believe so, husband. I simply do, she had said.
The tomes say a bigger belly is indicative of a boy. I read it, he had countered then.
He stood corrected. Aemond would tell the entire realm that his worldly knowledge did not stand a chance against his wife’s intuition– the little girl he held in his arms was enough support for his claim.
She slept soundly in his arms as he sat in his chair by the hearth. His wife, tired from her taxing labors, had taken to sleeping through most of the last three days, and he had not left his daughter’s side, not once.
He held her head as his mother carried her for the very first time, eyes shining in joy as she thanked them both for making her a grandmother once more. There were very few things that gave Alicent Hightower joy, and watching her children have babes of their own was one of them.
He rested the tip of his fingers over her smooth and frail silver hair as his grandfather took a good look at her, allowing himself a moment with his guard down. Aemond had not seen his grandfather look at anyone with such reverence, not unless it was Helaena, Jaehaera or his own mother. And now, Aemond suspected that his grandfather, for all his cold demeanor, did have a soft corner in his heart for the women of his life.
He had towered over the crib as the twins took turns gawking at her, after spending hours begging to see their new cousin. Aemond brought them after they promised to not make too much noise– both mother and daughter were fast asleep. Jaehaera had asked him if she could braid her hair when she grew some, and Jaehaerys poked at the new babe's nose (her mother's nose) with his thumb in curiosity. Aemond laughed, for he was intrigued by her too– only, it was better contained.
He held her tightly to his chest with his hand over her head as Aegon came to meet his newborn niece– completely sober and bathed, upon Aemond’s threats of murder if he came anywhere near his babe with his foulness. He smiled as he dropped the little dragon toy in her crib, looking over at the exhausted mother who could barely keep her eyes open. Aemond’s one eye followed his brother’s then, and visibly softened at the sight of his wife. Aegon laughed and quipped, “I never thought I’d say this brother, but I suppose you do wear the lovestruck look well.”
He had rocked her in silence as Helaena cooed at her, elated at the thought of becoming an aunt to a niece. This family is in dire need of more women, she had mumbled absentmindedly once. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered and Aemond enthusiastically agreed.
She is beautiful, and she is his. His own daughter, given to him by his own wife.
In the nights, when he was left alone with the women around whom his entire world now revolved, Aemond let tranquility take him. And it was in moments like these, that he learned to love them both with all that he had– blindly, and unconditionally.
It was in moments like these, that he learned to believe.
Flowers have come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the sixth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of his little daughter. A little flower, from his flower.
The flowers kept coming to him throughout the many years that followed, and he valued every one of them– for they had all come from her, and they were all a part of her.
His flower. His wife. His very own.
NO TAG LIST. Please follow @randomdragonfics and turn on post notifications for all my fic updates!
WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint
WORD COUNT: 8.9k
Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)
MASTERLIST
taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee
"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."
Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.
Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.
"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”
The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.
The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.
You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.
Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."
Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"
The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.
Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.
"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."
"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."
Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”
"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"
He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.
You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.
“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.
“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”
“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?
It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.
“Lay on the bed.”
With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?
“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.
Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.
As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”
Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”
Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.
Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.
Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.
“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.
You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”
He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.
One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”
It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.
“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.
“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.
Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.
He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.
Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.
The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.
"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"
"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.
"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."
"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."
"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."
At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.
The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.
The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.
The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.
The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.
It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.
That was indeed the good part.
“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.
It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.
“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”
His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.
“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”
The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.
“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”
“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”
"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."
"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."
His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.
He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.
And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.
He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.
It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.
She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.
You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”
You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”
Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”
You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.
“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.
He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.
“Aemond, I don’t think—”
“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.
Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.
Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.
He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.
“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”
She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.
She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”
There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.
“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”
You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.
“Above them. Above the Gods.”
“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”
He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”
“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”
He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”
“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”
You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”
The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.
A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.
Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.
“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”
Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.
He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.
Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.
You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.
It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.
And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.
And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.
“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.
You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.
You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."
Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.
But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.
You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.
“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“
But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.
Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”
“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.
“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”
He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.
Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."
“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.
“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.
“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”
You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”
Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.
He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.
He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.
And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.
“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”
Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.
“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.
It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.
"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.
Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.
You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."
"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.
You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"
He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."
"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."
He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.
You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.
“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.
“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.
But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”
You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.
When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.
"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"
You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."
"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"
You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."
"Neither does you."
"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."
"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.
You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.
You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.
"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."
You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.
Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."
"What?"
She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."
"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.
"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."
You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.
"It is too soon to talk about love."
"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."
You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.
But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.
"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."
"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."
You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."
Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."
"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."
Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"
A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"
"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.
"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."
That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.
You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.
"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"
"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.
You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."
He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.
"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.
"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"
"I was in the library."
"For four hours?"
"It was a tough read—"
He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos."
Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.
"Aemond, what's going on?"
"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."
You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."
You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."
"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.
He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."
There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."
He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.
The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.
“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”
“Yes.”
"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"
"I wish to conquer, not claim."
He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.
"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."
He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.
You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.
You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...
"Can I take it off?"
There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.
"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."
"It is not pleasant."
"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."
He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.
A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.
You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."
His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.
And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.
"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.
"Lykirī."
His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."
He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."
“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.
“You don’t have to—“
“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”
He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.
But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.
He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.
He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.
He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.
“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”
But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.
“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.
“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.
“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.
You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.
Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”
You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.
“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.
Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.
Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.
His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.
You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.
He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”
It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.
You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.
He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.
“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.
“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”
“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.
“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”
“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.
“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”
You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."
Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.
You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.
“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”
But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.
“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"
You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.
"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.
He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.
And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror.
Zuko has been with the gang for a while now and you've been able to teach him how to do most any chore. He can set up tents, bathe Appa and even dry clothes off without lighting them on fire (it happened a couple times tho). But the one thing he just can't get is cooking.
He stands beside you as you lower a pot over the fire gently, his eyebrows knitted. He watches as you angle it so there's no chance of it falling as it small bubbles appear; signaling its commence of boiling. You sit down on a flat stone and take out a small knife, gesturing a c'mere motion with the blade.
"Can you hand me the tomatoes?" He grabs them and passes them over, ears flushing when your hand brushes his.
"You're going to boil them?" You giggle and shake your head.
"No, this is for the broth and the beef. Everybody has been craving it but Aang is a vegetarian, remember?"
He nods and pops a squat next to you on a large rock. Your ankles touch and his toes flex. "You're making him something separate." You agreed with a hum and begin to slice the fruit over a bowl in your lap.
"That's nice of you." You glance up briefly and give him a sheepish grin. He finds it endearing.
As you focus your attention back to the task at hand, Zuko wonders what he should say next. Before he can really consider it, you toss a piece of tomato at Momo and ask, "Your uncle makes tea right?"
"Uh, yeah. Uncle loves tea."
"How come you haven't learned how to?"
He doesn't want to admit that he didn't pay attention when he should've, when he had time to notice how Iroh did it. "I wasn't taught."
"Do you want me to teach you?" You look up and pause your slicing. The bowl has a small stack of tomato piled inside that tumbles when you shake it.
"I'm not very good at uh.. making things." You snicker, remembering when he burned lettuce a couple weeks ago.
"Yeah, I noticed," You smile to let him know you're teasing and he returns it a little shyer. "I could, though. Teach you. You don't have to be good at it."
"What's the point of teaching me if I'm not good at it?"
"I like spending time with you." You shrug and reach for an avocado across him. Your arm is just too short and he takes the opportunity to grab it for you, turning his head so you don't see his blush. "And you'd get the hang of it, tea is like.. your birthright."
Zuko chuckles. He always thought his birthright was violence. He wonders if it still is. He doesn't say that. "Because Uncle owned a tea shop?"
"Yeah," You laugh, "And you can use your fire bending, yunno? But I'm not sure if you have the patience for it."
"Why's that?" Suddenly Sokka is next to him, holding a pile of sticks and asking you where you want them. You point next to the fire and notice the water jumping in the pot. Standing up, you motion for the broth ingredients and Zuko hands you the pre-mixed bowl. Sokka is quickly distracted by Toph demanding to know where Aang went and Zuko turns back to you.
The crackle of the fire comforts the atmosphere as the sun sets, giving your face an orange hue that dances dramatically from your chin to your nose. You tuck a piece of hair away and Zuko can see the way your eyes glitter in the soft glow, your pupils swallowing the color of their rims.
It's silent for a bit, Zuko simply watching as you stir the pot and occasionally call out for Sokka and Toph to stop arguing. You set down the ladle and pick up a bowl of assorted vegetables and fruits, passing it to Zuko.
"Can you find that bread from the village? I think it's in Katara's bag?" He disappears to rummage and returns holding a half-eaten loaf.
"Okay, that should be enough," You remark as you turn away from cooking and towards his returning figure. You make eye contact with him and your nose wrinkles in the moonlight as you smile, "Can you cut that in half and make a sandwich?"
He sits down and follows your instructions, first wiping the knife you'd used earlier before slipping it in the loaf and beginning to separate it. His dominant hand slices down as he keeps it steady in the other and as he gets to the end, he takes his chance to look at you.
Your feet are bare on the ground, a little dirty and as you shift from side to side, your heels lift enough he can see your bridges. A daffodil is stuck to the bottom of your left foot, staring at him before being engulfed in a step again. You move around the pot, pushing the ingredients stuck to the side back in the middle and the flower is left upside down on a rock.
His finger burns in pain and he notices a small cut. He had finished slicing the bread and had dug into his hand. Cursing, he sets aside your assignment and stands up holding his hand as blood flows slowly. You notice immediately and rush over. You bend down and rip a bit of your skirt, wrapping it around his hand and shushing him back down onto the rock again.
"It's not too deep, you should be okay." He nods, hissing as the fabric rubs the sensitive flesh. "It hurts?"
"Yeah." You press his hand towards you, checking it again and clutching it from the palm.
"You can go back to cooking." You look up at him confused and he continues, "It might burn."
"It's fine, it needs to marinate. You need my attention more."
The firelight covers the furious burning of his face, "Are you sure? It's a small cut."
Your expression is hard to see in the dark but the coy fluttering of your features is obvious enough. You're nervous, and a shade darker on your cheeks and oh, you're blushing too.
"I care about you." You murmur and it's a blessing he hears it.
"I- I care about you too," He offers, the urge to look away would be worse if you weren't already doing that. He watches the twitch of your nose as your smile takes your lips again. You meet his gaze and he realizes how close you are. He feels your hot breath on his face and leans in just a bit more. "You look really... really pretty."
Your eyes crinkle in the corners as your mouth spreads wider and reveals your teeth, dimples making his heart flutter as he confesses, "You're glowing. The- the fire makes you glow."
You digest his words with a gentle laugh covered by your hand. "Yeah," You pause and quirk your head to the side, "You do."
He wants to faint and of course he doesn't know what to say. You help him out again and suddenly your nose is brushing his. "You like me?"
He nods because he's not sure he can speak without squeaking.
"I like you too.." Your words are felt on his lips as you get even closer. Your eyes dart across his face, seemingly checking for affirmation before your mouth is on his and all the blood rushes to his head. His hand comes up to hold your head as he kisses you back. For a second, it's so amazing as you lick across his bottom lip until pain is shooting up his hand and he has to pull away.
Your hair had brushed his still open cut and he cradled his hand a little closer to himself as you re-examine it. "Sorry.."
Zuko looks at you like you're crazy, "Don't be sorry."
You glance up and away, still flustered.
"I've liked you for so long," His admission fills the night wind and you prompt him to continue with wide eyes. He's a little quieter as he finishes with, "Since Ba Sing Se."
He misses your voice dearly as he waits for your answer. He gets it in the form of giggles ticklish as butterflies. He watches you with curiosity until you say, "I was wrong, you are patient."
He laughs too now and you both shake beside the fire with hands holding bellies. The spurt of broth leaping out of the pot brings you back and you scramble up to stir it. Zuko watches as you step over the daffodil again and it flips upright, showing him that it was two, smushed so closely it looked like one. He looks up at you in admiration as you taste the stew and feels a surge of affection for whatever luck landed him at your side tonight.
"You were wrong too," His face contorts in confusion and you elaborate, "You're good at making things... you made me like you."
He's the luckiest guy in the fire nation. He goes to tell you but you speak first. "And I want to teach you how to make tea, but I think I should let Iroh. When we find him."
Zuko's left with a mouth hanging open and a heart stuck between missing his Uncle and loving you for all your kindness and thoughtful nature. He settles on both. "I don't know if he'll forgive me."
You make a strange face as you gaze at him over the open flame, it looks intense in the orange heat. "You don't give his love for you enough credit."
Then you're coming over and pecking him on the cheek, making him dizzy again. You bring your lips to his ear and whisper "I think he'll do anything if you let him teach you to make tea."
His smile is warm and flustered when you teasingly add, "I would, and I like you a little bit less than he does."
