➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 6k
➴ WARNINGS: friends to lovers, reader is 18, bucky is 20, college!bucky, romanogers, SMUT (p in v, protected sex for once, fingering, dry humping, car sex, virginity/virginity loss, BCB (big cock bucky), pussyjob if you squint really hard) yearning, j*hn w*lker is a dick, miscommunication, YEARNING, slow burn but not but super slow burn?, excessive use of eye rolls, he's down bad, tooth rotting fluff, open ending.
➴ SUMMARY: Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though he's your brother's best friend and your crush for the past decade.
+fran: I wrote this with greasy hair, after work, before a shower. apparently I reach a flow state when I'm feral. this is my baby and I love this fic so much please for the love of all that is holy, tell me what you think. can be read alone, it will have sequels tho.
⤷ songs/playlist for this: there she goes - the la's, always everywhere - charli xcx, ruin the friendship - taylor swift, back to friends - sombr
more
The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town.
At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true.
The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing.
Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it.
You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly.
"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."
"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.
One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out.
"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."
"You said you'd play too!" you accused.
Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"
Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."
You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."
"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."
Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"
"But they're the best ones!" You whined.
Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"
That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you.
The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.
Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."
Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"
He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."
He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.
"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.
Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."
Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."
Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it.
"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate.
Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."
"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.
TEN YEARS LATER
As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.
It's kind of uncool.
The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house.
Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too.
The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games.
Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.
“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.
“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.
He always is.
Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days.
They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup.
It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.
Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.
And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.
Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.
And you—
You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.
“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”
Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”
You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”
“It is completely true,” Kate insists.
“You’re just saying that.”
“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.
Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject.
He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—
“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”
You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face.
"Perfect!"
Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"
"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.
Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"
"Oh my God." You snorted.
Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"
You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."
He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."
Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."
As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.
Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead.
“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”
“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”
“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”
Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”
“That’s not what I said.”
You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.
“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.
“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”
“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”
“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”
“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.
That’s what does it.
Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”
He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.
“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”
“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”
There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”
“Have fun at prom, John.”
And before he can say anything else, you hang up.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.
For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them.
Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds.
You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway.
And of course it was Bucky.
"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"
His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate.
"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue.
His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"
Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"
He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."
"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted.
Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John.
"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.
You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."
Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."
"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.
You sniffled. "What?"
"I think he's an idiot."
You snort. "Very eloquent."
"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"
His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss."
Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."
His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"
"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."
Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."
You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."
"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face.
You were confused. "Okay?"
"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."
"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips.
He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."
You smiled widened. "Likely."
"Or a secret, better option three—"
You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"
Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."
You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."
"What?"
"You are not asking me to prom."
"Why not?"
"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"
"Seems pretty straightforward to me."
You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."
"Correct."
"You haven't slept." Another excuse.
"Also correct."
Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.
It flipped.
"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."
Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."
You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."
Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."
You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."
After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went.
Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate.
Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"
She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."
"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.
She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."
"You've got the face."
Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"
Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."
Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside.
The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.
String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.
Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else.
No.
You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.
When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"
You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."
"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw.
"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."
"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"
"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."
You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."
"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly.
You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."
"I appreciate that."
A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."
"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."
Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor.
The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again.
"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"
Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."
"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away.
"I'm not your baby."
He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again.
This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."
Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."
Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks.
Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.
Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.
It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again.
You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat.
Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.
Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "'M not using it."
"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries.
"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."
Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"
"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."
Bucky nodded. "I had fun."
You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well.
"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."
Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes.
Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.
God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.
Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"
"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of.
"The meteor shower."
Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."
You grinned. "You remember?"
"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."
It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."
Your brow furrowed. "I did?"
He nodded. "You drew stars around it."
"Oh my God."
Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."
You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."
"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.
Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."
Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long.
For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed.
Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves.
His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.
"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.
His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"
And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.
Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.
For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.
The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.
One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor.
You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants.
Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.
That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"
You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.
Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck.
The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.
He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties.
You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.
"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"
You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.
He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."
His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.
Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.
"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.
He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."
The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.
Condom.
He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—
"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."
His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head.
Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space.
You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.
Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.
As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—
"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."
His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.
"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed.
"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."
You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base.
Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."
"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."
"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."
You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.
He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.
Bolder.
He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"
It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.
"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"
He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."
Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath.
It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom.
For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds.
It was quiet after.
Just… quiet.
The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.
For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.
Which was concerning.
You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"
He glanced over. "Hm?"
"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."
A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."
Your smile faltered slightly.
Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—
"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."
A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"
"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."
His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.
You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."
"Traumatic." He chuckled.
"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued.
He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."
You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."
The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.
Forever.
Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."
Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?
Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?
a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee [i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, light angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.
⭐︎ wordcount: 14.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.
synopsis:
Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?
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It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.
They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.
It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.
How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?
You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.
Bucky.
He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.
Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.
“What are you doing—”
“What are you doing—”
You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.
Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.
When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.
While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.
Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.
To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.
You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.
Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.
Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”
He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.
The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.
“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”
You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“Look, I—”
“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”
Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.
Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.
“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.
Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”
AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.
Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.
“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.
Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.
AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.
“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.
You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”
AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.
“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”
The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.
“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”
Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”
Big enough to fit the both of you?
“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.
Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”
The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.
Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”
You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.
“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.
“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.
“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”
“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”
Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”
“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”
Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.
This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.
“I don’t know about this, Sam—”
“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”
You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.
Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.
“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”
Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.
“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”
Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”
“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.
He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.
“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”
“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”
Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”
You felt your eyebrow twitch.
“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”
“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”
“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.
Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.
“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.
You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.
“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.
“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”
He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”
You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.
“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.
It looked incredibly small.
It looked too intimate.
It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”
“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.
You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.
You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.
Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.
Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.
“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”
You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.
“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.
You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.
Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.
“Let go,” you said.
Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.
He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.
“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.
He didn’t.
He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.
You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”
You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.
The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.
Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.
His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.
“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.
You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”
Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.
“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”
You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.
“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.
You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.
A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.
“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”
Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”
He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.
“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”
“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.
You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.
The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.
An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”
“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”
“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”
Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.
You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.
But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.
“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.
Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.
“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”
“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”
The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.
“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.
The paddles lurched toward you.
“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”
Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.
“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.
His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.
“Now give me these damn paddles—”
But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.
With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.
Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”
“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”
Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.
With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.
One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.
Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.
You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.
“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.
When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.
You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”
Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.
You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.
You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.
Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.
“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”
As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.
You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.
Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.
“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.
Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.
“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”
Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.
Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.
“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”
“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.
“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.
“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”
“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”
You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.
Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.
“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”
Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.
“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.
After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.
“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”
You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.
Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.
Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.
“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”
“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”
Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.
The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.
The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.
Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.
Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.
You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.
Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.
Bucky was shirtless.
You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.
His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.
You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?
Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.
Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.
Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.
“Bucky… can you keep it down?”
But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.
Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.
“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”
“Bucky, listen to me!”
“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.
You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.
“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”
When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.
He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.
“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.
“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”
You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?
Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.
You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.
Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.
In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.
“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”
You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”
Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”
A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.
He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.
Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.
“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”
As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.
Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.
“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”
Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.
“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”
You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.
“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”
Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”
You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.
“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”
Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.
With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.
You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.
“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.
Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”
There was another pause.
This time, Bucky broke it.
“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”
The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.
There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.
Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.
He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.
You had already fallen asleep.
The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.
From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.
You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”
A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.
“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”
You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.
“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”
You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”
“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”
“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”
“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.
“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.
Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”
Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.
Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”
“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”
You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.
“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”
Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”
You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.
When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”
Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.
He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.
The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.
“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.
The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.
“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”
“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”
Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”
“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”
Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”
Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”
The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.
“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”
While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.
You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.
For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.
For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.
Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.
The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.
Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.
Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.
Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.
Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.
“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.
The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.
“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.
Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”
As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.
He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”
Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.
“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.
“Here, let me help you.”
To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.
Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.
With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.
You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.
Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”
Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.
“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.
You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”
The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.
Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.
As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.
You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.
The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.
Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”
He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?
Were you trying to pull his leg?
Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”
Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.
“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”
More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.
You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Do you want to leave—”
“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”
Bucky looked like he wanted to die.
His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.
You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”
“What? Hey—wait—!”
Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.
He couldn’t believe this was happening.
Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.
This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.
“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”
The Forties.
“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.
You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”
You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.
At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.
Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.
The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.
“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.
As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.
In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.
He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.
It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.
After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.
As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.
But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.
“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.
For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.
“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”
This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”
With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.
“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”
You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”
Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.
“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”
You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”
The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.
“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”
Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”
“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.
“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”
“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”
“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.
He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.
“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.
He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.
“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.
“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”
“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.
You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.
“You broke Sarah’s truck.”
Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”
You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”
He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.
Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.
“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.
“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.
He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.
“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”
“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.
He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.
“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.
“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”
Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.
“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.
“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.
“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”
You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.
You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.
“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”
“300 East,” you answered quickly.
“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”
Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.
“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”
“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.
“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”
“I don’t know.”
Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.
“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”
Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”
“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”
Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.
“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”
Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”
“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.
He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.
“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.
“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”
You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.
You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.
Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.
“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.
“Look at me—”
You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.
“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”
Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.
“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”
You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.
“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”
Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.
Was this what you had thought of him all this time?
That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?
“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.
You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.
“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.
Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.
Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”
“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.
“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.
But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.
He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”
“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.
“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”
Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.
“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”
“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”
“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”
With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.
He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.
“I want more.”
A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?
“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”
“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”
Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.
He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.
“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.
He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.
You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.
The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.
Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.
You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.
“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”
A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.
It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.
Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.
He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.
He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.
But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.
“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”
His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.
“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”
He was always looking for you?
Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.
“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”
His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.
You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.
“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”
With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.
The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.
You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.
Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.
A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”
Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.
“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.
You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.
From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.
“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”
Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.
The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.
“God—eager, are you?” you teased.
“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.
His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.
With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”
Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.
The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.
Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.
Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.
Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”
“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”
Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.
It was enough to drive you insane.
Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.
You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.
“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”
A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.
“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.
Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.
Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.
“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”
“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”
Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.
Please?
Did you just say ‘please’?
He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”
Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.
You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.
“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”
When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.
You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.
“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”
Just once.
All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.
He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.
“P-please…”
The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.
“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”
Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.
“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”
Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.
“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”
Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.
“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.
The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.
He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.
“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.
You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.
All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.
“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”
“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”
Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.
“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.
“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.
“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”
A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.
Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.
But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.
It was too good not to.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”
Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.
You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.
He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.
His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.
“Come here, baby,” he cooed.
Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.
“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.
You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.
You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.
He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.
As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”
But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.
It was Sam.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.
“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”
Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.
“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”
He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.
He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.
“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”
Fighting was one way to put it.
“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”
He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.
“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”
You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.
“Bet I can do it in two.”
“Oh, here you go again.”
i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). semi-public sex (we fuckin' on a private beach yo), fingering, fairytale accurate depictions of clothing and kingdoms, use of a fictional kingdom name and a fuck ton of new york neighborhoods as other kingdoms, death of a parent, daddy issues. reader has hair that can be wrapped around a hand. probably some spelling and grammar issues but we die like men. vaguely little mermaid inspired.
word count: 14.5k
summary: you are the youngest daughter of seven sisters and a single brother with an affinity for exploring and a love for prince bucky of brooklynn, a kingdom your father inexplicably hates. after saving bucky's life, you can't help but want to find him again.
cate talks: massive thank you to @blowingbarnes for the inspiration and being one of the sweetest people on this website. part two will be up asap! enjoy :)
part two
The coronation of Prince Peter of Queens might be the most fun you’ve had in your life until this very moment. King Stark had truly spared no expense for his adopted son’s rise to the throne. Wine flowed freely, jovial music sounded through the elaborately decorated ballroom, and everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood.
Well, everyone except for your father and sisters. The former remained alongside the wall, speaking exclusively to Lord Walker of Washington and offering only a few curt words to whomever summoned the courage to approach them. Three of your older sisters had attended alongside you and your brother, but they all sat rigidly at their table conversing lowly among themselves. Lillian, Andromeda, and Fawn had all chosen steel blue dresses, representative of your Kingdom’s color. One the other hand, you stuck out magnificently in a dress of deep cerulean. You felt rather like a butterfly flitting around the ballroom with a new friend, a young woman from Sokovia, Lady Wanda, who was easily able to point out everyone in the room and provide little anecdotes.
It was when the two of you huddled behind the champagne tower, giggling as you watched Prince Peter fumble over his words with a lady from Midtown that a new man caught your eye.
He was older than you, perhaps around the age of your eldest sister, Lillian, but he wore it well. His face was clean shaven with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, dark brown hair perfectly styled away from his face, but oh, his eyes.
Blue, bright blue and captivating, inviting you to drown in them even from your distance. They were as close to the ocean as you remembered from your childhood. “Who’s that?” You breathed, grabbing Wanda’s arm with your free hand. Champagne spilled over the edge of your coupe at the jerking movement, but you didn’t notice, utterly enamored by the handsome stranger. She follows your gaze, smiling knowingly when she realizes who you’re referring to. “That is Prince Barnes of Brooklynn. Bucky to his friends. Heir to the throne. The man next to him-” She gestured to the blonde man standing next to Bucky, “is his best friend, Sir Steven Rogers.”
“Brooklynn,” you repeat, heart sinking only slightly, “too bad my father hates them.”
“He’s quite popular,” Wanda comments, “I’m beginning my training as a lady-in-waiting to his mother next month. I hear he’s constantly fending off eligible young women.”
“I can see why,” you observe, stepping back into view of the crowd with Wanda. Two young children have begun to circle his and Sir Rogers’ legs in a game of hide and seek. Laughing, Bucky leans down to catch the girl by her waist and tickle her sides. She screams in laughter, pushing him away to dart back into the crowd. The little boy follows her, but not before Bucky reaches down to ruffle his hair.
Your heart betrays your mind, putting aside all ideas of the chasm between the two of you created by your father’s pride. Prince Bucky is perfect.
“And now,” King Stark announces, quieting the ballroom without much effort, “a traditional waltz.” The ballroom erupts with hums of excitement, women and men scrambling for partners, You bounce on your toes. While your sisters had declined to learn the dance, you had begged your governess to teach you privately once lessons were done for the day. After years and years, you would finally be able to show off and prove you didn’t belong in your sister’s shadows.
All you needed was the perfect someone to ask you.
As if out of a dream, Prince Bucky and Sir Rogers were approaching you and Wanda, seemingly unnoticing of the many women trying to catch their eyes.
“Wanda,” a smiling Sir Rogers greeted first. He bowed at the two of you, Bucky dipping his head as the two of you curtsied. “It’s good to see you again.”
“The two of you as well,” Wanda turns, presenting you and saying your name. “Princess of Clare-Auberge.”
Both men bow at you, Steve’s smiling never wavering as he directs the question to you. “Pardon me, Princess, might I request the honor of escorting Lady Wanda to the dance floor?”
Nodding eagerly at Wanda, you motion for her to take his outstretched hand. Steve leads Wanda away, leaving you and Bucky alone, much to your delight. He clears his throat, smiling kindly at you and offering his own hand. “Since my friend has disposed of your company, I feel if would be rude of me not to ask the beautiful princess to accompany me for the waltz.”
A pity dance from the man you’d suddenly developed a crush on wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but since it was Bucky and your window was closing, you nod and accept his hand. There are hundreds of eyes on the two of you as you take your place on the dancefloor. Your gloved hand is held delicately in his, the other settling on your waist. You can feel the heat of his skin through the smooth fabric. When the music begins its bright start, Bucky leads you around the room effortlessly, your skirts swirling and creating an intimate bubble around the two of you. Step for step, you match his movements, eyes locked on his.
“You dance wonderfully,” Bucky says, voice low enough so that only you can catch it.
“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing in his hold and closing your eyes for a moment to let the music wash over you. His eyes roam over your face, catching the glint of the ballroom lights in your hair. “This is perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“My sisters don’t dance,” you explain, eyes opening again. “We don’t have many balls at home, especially not like this. Tonight is perfectly wonderful. A fairytale.”
Bucky spins you, surprising you at how much you disliked momentarily having his hand off of your body. When it returns to its spot, his thumb brushes the lowest button of your dress. He doesn’t respond to you, only smiling politely as he begins another sequence of turns. You’re content to revel in the magic of the moment, unaware of the world around you. As the music comes to a slow stop, Bucky’s grip loosens on you, his hands dropping back to his sides as he bows deeply. Your low curtsey is just as formal, blood thrumming against your skin with anticipation that he might ask for another song in your company.
“Thank you for the dance, Princess.” Is all he says before walking away.
The fantasy ends like a popped bubble, your heart sinking as you’re left standing alone. Resuming your position along the wall, you can’t bring yourself to care too much. You got your dance with a handsome prince. A prince you can only hope to see again.
That’s more than most get. More than you had ever gotten.
Wanda doesn’t return to join you again, her red hair standing out on the dance floor as she’s claimed for another song. It ends and another begins, still she does not return. An hour passes; the glass of bubbles in your hand grows warm. You’re afforded a few spare glances and polite nods from passing guests, but no more invitations to dance.
You may as well be invisible.
Fed up and with sore feet, you discard your glass on an empty table and head for the now deserted Grand Hall. The guards pay you no mind as you collapse on the stairs, dress fanning around you like a flower. You draw your knees up to your chest, resting your chin in your hands as you pout.
“...can’t imagine why they would come.” A chirping voice echoes from a next to the staircase, just out of your sightline. A door closes loudly, a step of footsteps following. “Of course, the King and his heir must come, but his daughters-”
“The eldest is just so plain!” Another voice exclaims, shiny black hair coming slightly into view. Duchess Daphne, you deduce from her accent. “Rather boring dresses too. They all are, really. Seven daughters and not one bit of style.”
The first voice snickers meanly, an ice blonde bun appearing over the railing. Another Duchess, this one being Marina of Coney. “Can you imagine marrying into that family? It’s a shame too, that heir isn’t all terrible looking.”
Hot shame douses your body as you dig your nails into your palm. A rebuttal sits heavy on your tongue, threatening to escape into the open.
“At least the youngest got to have her fun dancing with Prince Barnes. She’s got some taste, I suppose, and dances quite well. It’s a shame no one else will bother with her.”
The muffled giggles grow into a raucous fit of laughter as the doors to the ballroom open and close again, entirely unnoticing of your presence. The footman who closes the door behind them offers you a sympathetic look, one you desperately ignore.
Tomorrow you will go back to Clare-Auberge with one golden memory.
Bucky was kind to you. Bucky danced with you. That was perfect.
And your father’s wrath be damned, you would see him again.
Your room was quiet: the perfect escape from the Lady’s Room where your sisters would be catching up on their studies, instrumental practice, and whatever else they pleased.
Grinning to yourself, you flipping through the journal where you had carefully documented pathways to Brooklynn, Queens, and visits to the little villages throughout the kingdoms. Nothing more than a day’s travel, which you had carefully primed your father to allow with permission to stay at Willowstream as needed, the old country estate that was rarely used.
Today would be your furthest and most daring adventure yet, a trip to the Brooklynn village nearest your border and their capital. A book waited for you in the village bookshop, supposedly one of the most well stocked in the world.
The library in your castle was plenty beautiful, but not as thorough as you would have liked; you had finished every book by your fourteenth birthday, and repeated requests for more books went ignored. Being the youngest of eight with a widower for a father meant that your birthdays didn’t go beyond a few odds and ends.
Which, to be entirely honest, you didn’t entirely mind. It afforded you less attention than your sisters and could slip beyond the castle walls without much fanfare. It left you the opportunity to see the world around you, especially Brooklynn, a the neighboring kingdom your father held an irrational hatred for and preferred to ignore the existence of. You, on the other hand, enjoyed your travels to their villages, daydreaming on your walks that Prince Bucky would come along and declare his love for you, sweeping you atop his horse and bringing you to his palace.
The glint of an old invitation caught your eye, tucked carefully in your wooden box of treasures and trinkets. Prince Peter’s coronation, now two years ago, echoed like it was only yesterday. The waltz. Bucky. The Duchesses laughing at you and your sisters. You couldn’t remember the last serious suitor that had visited for any one of you. You shook your head at the bittersweet memory. Your dance with Bucky would always be a treasured moment. No one could take that away from you.
Selfishly, you kept your ear out for news about him in the villages. He was still single, that much you knew. Well liked, too, a rarity for entire villages to have positive opinions about a royal family.
Further into the box was your collection of odds and ends collected from years of exploring. A ribbon from a shop by Willowstream, a small hand-painted vase from the frist time you ventured into Brooklynn, a vibrant red pressed wildflower from a small farm that hosted you for lunch when you found yourself lost. Pebbles smooth as glass that sparkled in the light, painted postcards, a wooden pen carved of walnut. Seashells from your mother, the last remainder of your childhood trips to the ocean.
Your collection wasn’t flashy, but it meant everything to you. It was a reminder of your freedom. The things other princesses weren’t allowed to do. If your father truly knew what you were doing and had a say, you wouldn’t for much longer.
A call of your name from the hallway sent you shoving the box back into your closet before Ariadne, your sister closest in age, walked in without knocking.
“Are you seriously studying those maps again?” She scoffs, crossing her arms and leaning against your desk. “Father won’t be pleased if he discovers you’ve been out exploring again.”
Mentally noting not to confide in Ariadne about exactly what you were doing when disappearing for hours again, you grab your walking boots to tug them on your feet.
“I’m not exactly exploring,” you countered, “I’m going to Greenwich for a book.”
Ariadne picks up a china statue of a dancing couple, lazily studying it with the air of someone who could not bring herself to care.
“We have a library here.”
Standing up and brushing invisible dirt from your skirt, you swerve past her. “And I’ve already finished those books.”
Ariadne follows you into the hallway, unwilling to let you go without a fight. “There’s a storm coming tonight!” She calls after you.
You wave her off dismissively, rounding a corner away from her.
“I’ll be back before it comes.”
Ariadne calls your name one more time, stubborn exasperation leaking into her tone. She knows she can’t stop you.
But truly, no one could.
“There’s no chance in hell I make it back home.” You said aloud to nobody, lifting your skirt and picking over an exposed tree root. The sky glowered in response, thunder rumbling ominously from the dark gray clouds just visible through the tree tops. “I suppose I should stop at Willowstream.” You muse, referring to the royal cottage at the edge of the woods. It was a two hour walk from the palace and was typically only used for a few weekends throughout the year, too early at present for the late summer soirees. Though, the caretakers should be there, ready to greet you as they prepared the home. You pick up your pace as the sun fully disappears, a few drops of rain cooling your warm skin. Reaching the beginnings of the proper pathway, a cheerful mew greets you. Carrot trots up cheerfully alongside you, seemingly unbothered by the incoming tempest. Carrot lived in the meadow behind Willowstream, a common fixture in the gardens and around the house. He began to trot slightly ahead of you, leading the way to the magnificent front doors. You knocked on the heavy door, receiving no answer, and dug in the small planter beside the door to retrieve the spare key.
No sooner had you opened the heavy wooden doors did the heavens open up. Rain battered the roof relentlessly, sheeting so heavily that you couldn’t see more than a few feet outside the window. Carrot seemed to pay no mind to the noise, simply hopping atop the sitting room windowsill (an action that never would have passed if your family had been there) and watched the pathway, tail flicking mindlessly.
Looking around, you found the furniture uncovered and freshly cleaned, wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. At least you had dry wood, you supposed, smugly stacking wood in the hearth and striking a match. This was one of those “useless servant-skills” your father had stuck his nose up at and here you were, fending for yourself.
The rain kept coming, hours passing with hardly a reprieve from the crashing thunder, lightning flickering through the curtains every few minutes. You had pulled a book from the library, some romance novel, and read by the fire as the sun set. Carrot now laid contentedly on his back in front of the fire, purring away.
A movement through the window caught your attention.
A shadowy figure was making their way up your pathway.
You gasped, dropping your book and darting behind the curtain. Carrot startled, opening one eye before settling down again.
“Some guard cat.” You scoffed to yourself, twisting your skirt around your hand and looking back through the rain soaked window.
Heart racing, you squinted into the darkness, watching the figure stagger two more steps before stumbling and collapsing. Before you could truly grasp what you were doing or the consequences of you actions, you had pulled your cloak back over your shoulders and taken the candle out into the inky night.
Mud squished under your shoes, barely audible through the rain as you fell to your knees. The candle sputtered in protest, hardly withstanding the raindrops and wind but stubbornly refused to go out. You brought your candle to the face of the figure and nearly dropped it in your surprise.
It was the Prince of Brooklynn. Prince Bucky. The prince you had been hopelessly in love with for two years now, and here he was, collapsed in your front yard.
His breaths came shallowly, cheek pressed to the grass. Reaching down, you touched his shoulder, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest as he strained to lift his head. You jerked your hand back as though burned. He pressed his hand to the ground, trying to push himself up. Carefully, you touched his shoulder again, lowering your lips to his ear.
“Let me help you.” You murmured, hoping he could hear you. “You have to stand.”
Stumbling under his weight, you heft him up, his arm slung over your shoulders. His head hangs listlessly, eyes heavy lidded as he limps alongside you as you bring him towards the dry cottage.
When you finally get him inside, you lay him down on the sofa. Collapsing on the floor next to him, you let the crackling fire warm you from the outside in, heaving from the walk. Bucky’s breathing has evened out in the warmth, his chest rising and falling slowly. His eyes are still closed, skin ghastly pale and sickly.
You look around, taking stock of the situation and realizing three very important things.
You’re alone.
WIth a man.
A man who is the Prince of Brooklynn and looks to be knocking on death’s door.
Bucky groans again, writhing against the soaked sleeves of his heavy coat. You carefully stand, reaching for his arms.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, peeling the soaked fabric from his skin, “but you need to get warm.”
You hang his coat by the fire, looking back at him. His boots are soaked too, taking much more effort to wrestle off. His socks quickly follow, joining the coat by the fire. You capture your lower lip in between you teeth.
It’s not as though Willowstream is well-equipped at the moment, even for you but especially not for someone this ill. Especially not the Prince of Brooklyn.
At least you’ve got food; some bread, eggs, and berries you picked up in the village, and the wine cellar is sure to be stocked with leftover whiskey from last summer. If you go to the kitchen, you should be able to cook up some food for the two of you, and a little bit of hot whiskey might help Bucky.
You let your gaze fall back to him, passed out on the couch. He’s even more handsome than you remember, even covered in mud and sopping wet. Your heart thuds in your chest, the fluttering sensation in your stomach returning full force as you brushed some of his dripping hair from his face.
You’re hesitant to leave him in this condition, but it’s necessary to get water, food, a rag, and dry clothes.
You move as quickly as you can, turning on the stove and heating the food while you run to get some of your brother’s old clothes. Tearing a strip of fabric from one of the shirts, your heart sinks a little before you find your voice again.
“I’m going to clean you up now.” You tell Bucky, pressing the wet fabric to his dirty forehead, cleaning his skin. His eyelids flutter, revealing his familiar blue eyes, foggy with sickness. You curl a hand around his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. “How do you feel?” You ask tentatively.
Bucky leans into your hand, nuzzling towards you like a kitten. “Like death incarnated,” he rasps. “Where are we? Who are you?”
The urge to tell him everything claws up your spine, bubbling through your throat. It settles on the tip of your tongue, a fantasy settling in your head, the way you’ve always dreamed of.
Your father would never allow it. You would be ruined from simply being alone with him.
He probably doesn’t even remember.
So you settle for a simplified answer.
“You’re in Willowstream- a house owned by the Royal Family of of Clare-Auberge.”
His head is still hazy, but he follows your every word. “And who does that make you?’
You take your hand back, instead offering a plate of eggs and bread. “You need to eat.” You respond, ignoring his question.
Bucky levers himself into a sitting position, the blanket you'd placed on top of him falling from his chest and pooling at his waist. You try to ignore the way the thin white linen of his shirt clings obscenely to his chest, still wet from the rain.
He takes the plate slowly, and you swallow as you avert your eyes from his built figure. “It’s not poisoned,” you supply helpfully, sitting back down on the floor. Bucky lets out a quiet noise sounding something like a laugh before taking a bite.
The two of you eat in silence, the fire crackling behind you. Once he’s finished, Bucky sags back against the cushions, a new sheen of sweat settling on his forehead. He shudders, tugging the blanket higher on his torso.
“Are you alright?” You ask, voice rising slightly. You stand, leaning over him and placing a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up. You must have a fever.”
“Not that shocking.” Bucky coughs, a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice. “I did get caught in the storm.”
“Hold on,” you turn abruptly, dashing back to the hallway where you’d stashed the whiskey. When you come back, Bucky’s gone paler, eyes drooping again. You pour some into a glass, holding it out to him.
“My father always said a bit of whiskey helps his throat.” You offer, holding it out.
“Thank you.”
“What were you doing out here anyways?” You ask him tentatively, sitting back down and wrapping your arms around your knees.
Bucky sips slowly, throat bobbing with the action. A drop slips from the corner of his lips, your eyes following it as it makes a path down his neck and disappears into the collar of his shirt.
“Separated from my hunting party.” Bucky says simply. “Was trying to follow the path back to the main road to Brooklynn, but once the storm hit, I was hopelessly lost.” He looks you over, and perhaps its your imagination, but his blue eyes soften. ”And you? Do you live here?”
“Couldn’t make it home before the rain started.” You say simply.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t your house?”
You realize your mistake quickly, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re implying.” You say defensively, “I simply live elsewhere. The owners are kind enough to let me visit when I’d like.”
“The Royal Family of Clare-Auberge, you mean?”
Fuck. Fuck. You did say that, didn’t you?
It’s dangerous enough that Bucky is here, considering your father’s hatred for the Kingdom of Brooklynn, more so if he were to find him here, alone, with his youngest daughter.
Bucky wouldn’t make it out alive.
“They’re a very generous family.” You stammer, “I’ve known the princesses since I was young.” Not a lie, technically.
To your relief, Bucky smiles teasingly, “I won’t tell them even if you’re lying.”
“No?”
“The King of Clare-Auberge isn’t exactly fond of the people of Brooklynn.” He looks back down at his glass, taking another long sip. “Though I don’t know why.”
You trace your nail along the seam of your skirt. “I don’t either. I’ve always wanted to visit Brooklynn.”
Bucky watches you intently, waiting for you to go on.
“I once read in a book that Brooklynn’s waters are the clearest blue in the world. That the palace puts most cathedrals and castles to shame. The people are the kindest of all. I’ve only been fortunate enough to visit one of the small villages on the outskirts and oh,” You sigh dreamily, remembering fondly, “I got the most beautiful vase from a potter. I’ve collected so many little things from my explorations.” You pause, looking over at Bucky, expecting him to interrupt you or change the subject, but he looks at you as though you’re the most interesting person in the world.
Your cheeks warm, hoping if he notices, he blames it on the roaring fire. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
He shakes his head, that small smile curling on his lips. “I like listening to you.”
You laugh, “Then you’d be the first. My sisters say no one wants to hear me ramble and my father-” You stop, heart sinking, “he doesn’t understand my interests.”
“I understand.” Bucky says, to your surprise. “I don’t think I talk very much, but I when I do, no one ever hears me.”
“I hear you.” You murmur, not realizing that you had moved to sit next to him on the sofa, and worse, that he’d moved closer to listen to you. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Is the water that blue?”
Bucky smiles, leaning closer to you conspiratorily. “More so. I think the townspeople seem to overlook it because they see it everyday. I once read in a book: it’s the simple things in life that are the most-”
“extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them.” You finish, “I love that book.”
“Exactly.” Bucky says. His face is separated from yours by mere inches, sharing each other’s breaths. You should pull away. Should let him rest. Pretend like this hasn’t happened because how will you ever be able to forget him now?
Bucky’s hungry gaze rakes over your face, dropping unashamedly to your lips. You hear him set down the cup of liquor and his fingers intertwine with yours. He looks at you like you’re water and he’s been drowning in the desert. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” He rasps, rasing his other hand to trace down your cheek. Your foreheads press together, now sharing shallow breaths.
“I-”
You don’t finish before he’s kissing you softly, just a brush of his lips along yours. You don’t hesitate, heart kickstarting as you move your lips against his. It’s simple. It’s heavenly. It’s as though this is what you’ve been meant for your entire life. Kissing Prince Bucky. You let out a soft sound into his mouth, a noise he swallows greedily. It seems to embolden him to tilt your head, gently biting your lower lip. The action goes straight to your core, your dress suddenly feeling far too hot and constricting.
“Bucky.” You sigh dreamily as you separate for air. Your chests heave.
He presses a kiss to your cheekbone, then again to your jaw. “What is your name?”
Your blood runs cold, snapping you back to reality reminding you that you really should pull away from him. “It’s best you don’t know.”
The words don’t stop him from making a trail down your neck and back up to the corner of your mouth. “And if I wanted to see you again? How am I to find you?”
A lump rises in your throat. “You don’t.”
Bucky pulls back from you, concern coloring his face. “Of course I do. I want to know everything about you. I want to meet your family, speak to your sisters, pet your damned cat. I want to show you the ocean-”
“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” You say weakly, tears welling in your eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I-” Bucky’s voice rises, dissolving into a fit of coughs before he can finish his sentence. He falls back against the pillow, body shaking with fever.
You’re leaning over him again in an instant, hair surrounding the two of you like a curtain. Concern creases your forehead, which he must be able to discern considering he doesn’t push the subject again despite looking like he very much wants to.
“You need rest.” You whisper, tears stinging. “Please.”
“But where will you-”
“I’ll be here.” You fake a reassuring smile, hoping he doesn’t see through it. “On the chair.”
“You should take the couch, it’s more comfortable and I-”
“I will do no such thing.” Your voice is firm, willing it not to waver. “You are ill. Rest now, as your body is begging you to do.”
Bucky looks as though he wants to argue more but instead reaches into his pocket. He pulls a gold locket out, the firelight catching the glint of Brooklynn’s coat of arms. “Take this,” he gasps, “as my thanks. You can add it to your collection.”
“Bucky, I can’t-”
“You will,” he insists firmly, taking your wrist and pressing the locket into your palm. “A part of me should stay with you until I can see you again.” His gaze is serious, creases in his forehead indicating he does not want to argue, but will if you press the subject. Your fingers close tentatively around it. “Promise me you’ll see me again.”
“Okay.” You whisper, watching his eyes close again. “I will.”
It doesn’t take much longer for him to drift off, sinking into a much-needed slumber. The fire is grows quieter but still burns with the intensity needed to heat the room as you curl up on the floor by sofa. The chair was never going to be comfortable. At least here you can stretch out.
And, you think grimly, it will allow you to leave tomorrow before he wakes.
At half past four, the rain finally stops. Bucky’s fever looks to be gone, and you’re wide awake, gathering your belongings to return to your palace.
With one last look around the room, your eyes fall on the locket, still sitting on the side table where you had discarded it, fully intending to leave it with Bucky.
You flip it open, faced with a small portrait of a younger Bucky, likely painted when he came of age. The back is engraved with his initials. J.B.B.
Traitorous heart thudding, you look back to Bucky, still fast asleep.
Before you can change your mind, you shove the locket into your pocket and duck out into the morning light.
Deliver to the Brooklyn Hunting Lodge:
To those concerned:
Prince Bucky is resting at Willowstream in Clare-Auberge. His fever broke at approximately 4:30 this morning. The main doors are unlocked. Please use the utmost discretion in his retrieval, as the Royal Family is unaware of his presence.
Delivered to Sir Steven Rogers at 7:00.
“You’re late.” Andromeda called, catching you sneaking by the open door of the Lady’s Room. She hardly looked up from her star chart, plotting another point on a constellation.
“You’re annoying.” You shot back, stepping backwards into the doorway and leaning against the frame. “How do you know I didn’t return late and leave early.”
“Becuase your skirts are six inches deep in mud.” Lillian sighs, setting down her embroidery and fixing you with her best eldest sister stare. “Go change before Father sees.” You grunt in response, resigned to your fate and walking to your room.
“I told her it would storm.” Ariadne says pointedly to your sisters, loudly enough that she knows you can hear it from down the hallway. “But she just had to have that book.”
Angry tears prick your eyes as they laugh at you; their silly baby sister too lost in her own world to ever pay attention to reality.
“Good to see you all too,” you mutter petulantly, “what did you bring back? We were all so worried!”
Kicking the door shut behind you only creates a mud stain on the wood and an unsatisfying slam. You shed your boots first, then the damp dress. Dry clothes, you realized, were a luxury you missed. It was a miracle you hadn’t caught a cold either.
You didn’t bother to put on an elaborate new dress, moving with haste to put away the few items from your journey before your father or siblings could see. The book went atop your desk, wrapped in a dust jacket from an old book on ancient history, the two small paint pots from town in your box, and a silver fork wrapped in a ribbon into your vanity. Relaxing your shoulders, you surveyed your room, content at the state of things as you prepared your soiled dress for the laundry.
A soft thunk echoed on the hardwood floor as you picked up your skirt, Bucky’s locket thudding to the floor. Scooping it up quickly, you dart your eyes around the room as though someone was hiding and ready to scream at your betrayal.
Bucky’s smiling face peered up at you as you opened the locket, the very lips you’d kissed not sixteen hours ago calling you back to him like a siren song. You shut the locket with a soft click, heart fluttering at the memory as you tucked it into your pocket.
You lasted a week before your father discovered you had not made it home on the night of the storm.
Belle had made an off-handed comment about your trip, sending your father into a rage. He screamed, ranting and raving and sending a servant to search your room. You sat, frozen and exposed in the throne room as your treasure box was brought before you in the throne room. His face grew redder as he picked through item after item, shattering your pebbles, ripping the ribbon and snapping the walnut pen in two.
You stood still, tears streaming down your face as you watched him pick apart your prized possessions and destroy them.
“Daughter you have become far too difficult to control!”
“It’s just a few things I’ve collected! Please-”
“You could get killed, wandering about! You can’t keep doing as you please, not returning and acting foolishly!”
“But Daddy, the storm! How could I have-”
“If you hadn’t left the palace walls, you wouldn’t have gotten caught in the storm at all!”
“I just wanted to visit the library and greet the people! The woods-”
“-are far too close to the barbarian people of Brooklynn!”
You jutted your jaw out, snapping before you could contain yourself. “They aren’t barbarians!”
It was as though you had threatened his life. The guards shifted uncomfortably by the door and averting their eyes, pretending as through they weren’t listening. The air grew thinner and colder as your father’s disposition hardened into something you had never seen before. His face went red with anger. “And how,” He gritted through clenched teeth, “would you know such a thing, dear daughter?”
Unwilling to back down, you squared your shoulders, tears still hot on your cheeks as your collection laid in tatters around you. “I’ve visited their villages nearest our borders and spoken to others at balls.”
It seemed wisest to omit your saving of Prince Bucky, you internally decided. Deep down, you wanted to keep that precious memory to yourself; all your own.
“No more balls!” Your father declared, “no more leaving and this foolish ‘exploring’ nonsense!”
“You can’t keep me trapped here!” You cried, waving your arms around wildly.
“The hell I can’t! I am your King!”
The world tilted, your father heaving in the center of the now frozen room surrounded by his youngest daughter’s prized possessions, destroyed at his own hand. Rain pattered quietly against the window. No one breathed. Fresh tears welled in your eyes as you looked at your brother and sisters, who jerked their heads back behind the corner from which they had been eavesdropping.
You opened your mouth. Then closed it, swallowing your hurt. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” A sob caught in your throat, “I thought you were my father.” You sink into a deep curtsy, keeping your eyes on the floor. “Am I excused?”
You don’t wait for an answer, pressing your hand to your mouth as you exit. Passing your siblings, you refuse to look as any of them, quickening your steps to get back to your room.
Tatiana says your name, Belle tries to apologize, and Lillian tries to catch your arm saying something about it all being for the best.
“Just leave me alone!” You cried, snatching your arm away and dashing down the long hallway, skirt swishing angrily at your ankles. When you finally make it inside the privacy of your own room, the dam breaks, sobs wracking your body as you collapse atop your bed.
It just wasn’t fair. Whatever ridiculous grudge your father held, it could no longer be valid. You couldn’t be a nun, living in Clare-Auberge forever. Raising your head from your crossed arms, you dig the small locket from your pocket and gaze at the Brooklynn coat of arms. You run your finger over the small initials, thinking of your promise to Bucky. You clench your fist around it, knuckles turning white.
A knock sounds at your door, startling you. You shove the locket under your pillow, willing the door not to open.
Fawn, your middle sister, said your name. “I know you’re hurt.” She says, voice soothing in that annoying older sister way that implies you’re being dramatic, “but… this will pass. It’s for the best.” You don’t respond, staring at the doorknob and silently willing it to burst into flames. She inhales shakily. “We convinced father to let you skip dinner tonight. One of your lady’s maids will bring you a plate.”
Fawn tries your doorknob, sighing when she realized it was locked. “Just… send for me if you need anything. I won’t judge you.”
You scoff under your breath as her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
She didn’t understand you.
None of them did.
Except Bucky.
The way he looked at you, spoke to you, even in his fever addled brain.
It was all you had ever wanted.
If only you could…
Maybe he would.
How would you know if you didn’t try?
You looked around your lonely, empty room, suddenly faced with the bitter reality that your father truly wanted to keep you here until he found someone to marry you off to.
Someone to quiet his tempest of a daughter.
What was here for you anymore?
Nothing. Your family, but what did they know about you?
You watched the candle on your nightstand flicker as the room grew darker and the wax ran down. It sputtered helplessly, reaching the end of its life as dinner was brought to you. The candle was promptly replaced as your maid as if you wanted assistance for bed.
You shook your head as you bit into a roll, the bread tasting like ash in your mouth, sending her home early.
It was midnight when you began to move, knowing most servants would be gone and the night guards would be in the middle of a rotation.
No one used the servants corridors this late at night. It was even easier to blend in with your hair in a tight, simple bun, wrapped in a simple, inside-out cloak you had been given from your aunt.
No one would look at you and think “princess.” Not with the ripped bag and simple stained dress you wore when gardening.
Luckily, you didn’t pass anyone as you snuck to the basement, heart pounding at every scuff of your shoes or drop of a rock. You crept out the door of the laundry room into the inky night, knowing not a single soul would be watching the back gate for a woman leaving the palace, least of all one of the princesses.
When you finally got to the worn wooden trail you knew best, you lit your lantern, confident that no one would see the light. With every step towards Brooklyn, you felt lighter. Freeer. By the time the sun rose and your departure had been discovered, you would be long gone.
Dawn was starting to rise when you crossed the river into Brooklynn, walking for another hour before the sun began to creep over the horizon. Coming across a clearing, you allowed yourself to collapse on the mossy ground. Exhaustion permeated your bones. By your own estimate, you were only a few hours walk from Brooklynn’s capital, where the palace was. You felt perfectly safe - and hidden - from the main trail to sleep.
Using your cloak as a blanket and resting your arms under your head, you let your eyes close and sleep overtake you.
“It’s a girl.”
“A girl? Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, why would a- Oh.”
Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of voices, jerking up into a sitting position as the memory of the day before flooded your mind. You met the wide eyes of two men, feeling your heart drop through your stomach.
The sky blue eyes of Prince Bucky stared right back at you.
Bucky, who was looking at you, awestruck. You waited for him to fall to his knees, declare that he knew you, remembered you, and thank you for saving his life.
He did not.
“Are you alright, miss-?” The blonde one asks. Steve, you recall, the one who danced with Wanda at the coronation ball. His brows are knit together in concern as he studies you.
“Yes!” You blurt, adjusting your dress and looking around for your small bag. You hoped you didn’t have a crease on your face from the sleeve of your dress and that your hair didn’t look exactly like you’d slept on the forest floor.
Bucky held out his hand, which you gladly took, stumbling to your feet.
“What’s your name?”
No sense in lying, you supposed. Especially since you had seemingly tripped right where you wanted to be. So you told them, carefully meeting Bucky’s eyes as if he would declare that you were a princess of Clare-Auberge and march you right back into your father’s arms. He didn’t say anything, eyes narrowed quizzically as though you were a rather difficult puzzle.
“Pleased to meet you.” Steve nods, bowing. You curtsy lightly in response. “Steve Rogers. This is Prince James-”
“Bucky.” Bucky interrupted, “have we met before?”
Half-heartedly, you raise one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sure you meet lots of young maidens.” You counter. Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn’t challenge you on the subject.
“What are you doing, sleeping in the woods?” Steve asks, leaning against his rifle. His eyes scutanize you. You’re clearly not a commoner, based on your dress, but a member of the nobility would never find themselves in such a situation.
“I… I was travelling. To Brooklynn. I’ve gotten lost, I suppose.” It’s not technically a lie, but it isn’t the truth either.
“She must be part of the group that returns north each May.” Steve muses.
“We can’t leave her here.” Bucky responds, speaking to Steve, rather than you. “She’ll have nowhere to go.”
Steve nods, “We can send word that we’ve found one of their own. And until arrangements can be made for her to return home-”
“She can stay at the palace.” Bucky decides firmly, taking Steve by surprise.
Part of you wants to protest; to declare that you couldn’t possibly impose on their hospitality. On the other hand, you don’t have anywhere to go. You’d left without a plan, all hope that you’d even be able to see Bucky again. Here he is, presenting his company to you on a silver platter.
You’d be a fool not to accept it.
“I-”
“We assure you, nothing improper will occur.” Steve promises, “Our Lady Justice, Natasha, is most protective.”
“Thank you.” Is all you can manage, “really, I did not expect this sort of kindless towards a traveler.”
Bucky's eyes remain fixed on you. "It is an honor to serve my people." Still, the words sound rehearsed, as if he is in a trance. His gaze remains on you as you're lead towards the road, two horses waiting patiently for their riders.
"Are you alright on horseback?" Steve asks, "we did not expect a passenger or we'd have used a different mode transportation." He sounds sheepish, as though one could have predicted a damsel in distress.
You nod, looking over the two horses. One, a small palomino and the other, a sturdy black mare.
"You'll have to ride with me. Steve's is much smaller.”A flush rises up his neck. "Steve's horse." Bucky emphasizes.
You hide your smile behind your hand, following Bucky to the black horse. He helps you atop the animal, then follows. He sits behind you, chest pressed to your back as he grabs the reins. Bucky's beefy arms encircle you, ensuring you couldn’t fall, even if you tried. You’re very aware of your skirts riding above your shin, suddenly very glad you chose your taller boots, lest you expose yourself to all of Boooklynn.
"Alright?" Bucky husks into your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
"Fine," you manage, trying to hold yourself away from the addicting warmth of his body. He smells like he did at Willowstream- pine and sandalwood. "Thank you.”
The ride is silent until you approach the more populated parts of town. It’s not freezing by any means, but between the wind and cloudy skies, you begin to shiver. Bucky remains solid and warm at your back, but your cheeks are wind bitten and sting.
“Are you cold?” Bucky murmurs, sending another non-cold related shiver through your body.
“A bit,” you manage, tucking your chin into your chest. “But I’ll be alright.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, tightening his grip on the reins, an action that brings his thick arms tighter around you and urges his horse faster.
The village outside of the palace is beautiful, passing comforting homes lining the street and a market with brightly colored flowers and fruit for sale. People wave and bow as Bucky and Steve ride through, as though the sight is as comforting as it is normal.
“Beautiful.” You murmur, awed. “They love you.”
His gruff response is oddly bashful. “I do my best.” The pathway goes by a large garden, filled with an amalgamation of flowers of nearly every color you could imagine.
“The Centennial Garden.” Bucky supplies. “A gift from my parents when Brooklyn had its hundredth anniversary.”
“It’s wonderful. I heard it overlooks the ocean with cliffs lined in roses. I’ve always wanted to see—”
Bucky’s laugh is warm against your back. A glimmer of hope lights in your heart. “You can see it.”
You feel yourself perk up at the promise of exploration. “Really? Oh, that would be so lovely.”
“Of course,” Bucky says, smile evident in his voice as he slows his horse to a walk, approaching the palace gates.
Brooklynn’s palace is as imposing as the kingdom, with tall white marble walls and a dark terracotta roof. It glimmers in the noon sun, allowing you to imagine the gold glow it must be cast in at sunset.
Bucky dismounts his horse first, helping you down with one hand on your waist and another enclosing your own. Once on steady ground again, he studies your face, his gaze boring into you.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Heavy boots come down the courtyard stairs, a sharp feminine voice saving you from answering.
“Barnes! Rogers! You’re late. What did I tell you about—” A woman with short red hair stops in front of you, arms crossed over her chest. “Who is this?”
You swallow, clasping your hands behind your back and averting your eyes.
“Don’t tell me you-”
“No.” Bucky says firmly, defensively. “She’s from the group heading north. They must have gotten separated. She’s going to stay here until we can reunite them.” He introduces you, “This is Natasha.”
Natasha scrutinizes you. “Clearly, she needs a bath.” You flush at her loud proclamation of your hygiene, despite knowing it is likely more than true. “And a change of clothes. I’ll have Wanda look after her.” She takes your arm, leading you inside. Both of you look back at Bucky and Steve as Natasha gets in one more scold for them. “And you two need to actually look over those proposals! I’m not fending Stark off again for you.”
Wanda sent everyone out of the room for your bath, helping you undress and get into the hot water before pointing an accusatory finger at you.
“Explain.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.” You beg after recounting your story, and omitting your saving of him at Willowstream. “I want to tell him, I do. I wish I could.” You sigh, leaning backwards into the tub. Soapy warm water splashed carelessly, waving over the sides and wetting the floor.
“Tell me why you can’t again?” Wanda asked, sitting by the edge and pouring a tad more soap into the water.
“If my father finds out I’m here, he’ll kill me. Then Bucky. Then declare war.” You shudder, “No, it’s much safer for me to pretend like we’ve never met. If he likes me, then maybe with time my father won’t-”
“Perhaps he won’t take exhaustive revenge measures?”
You nod, exhaling so aggressively it sends a waft of bubbles flying from its mountainous pile.
“Well, you’ll have to move quickly.” Wanda stands to exit, calling over her shoulder from the doorframe, “he’s been pining after a girl who saved him. One with an “angelic look” in her eyes.”
The door closes loudly behind her, another sigh escaping your lips. Quite a hole, you’d dug yourself, by not telling anyone about your saving of Bucky. You couldn’t tell anyone, you decided. He could know when the time was right. When he truly wanted you, not the vision who had saved his life. You didn’t want to be his obligation; you wanted to be his desire.
However long it would take.
Stepping into their dining room, you feel incredibly out of place. Brooklyn’s dining room was far brighter than yours at home, full of light, color, and laughter. A place where people are actually meant to be with each other and know each other. “Go on, dear.” An older maid encourages as she walks by, “you look lovely.”
At once, four pairs of eyes snap to you. A flush settles across your chest as the men are seemingly dumbstruck by your appearance. You manage a smile, eyes falling to Bucky as he looks awestruck simply from your entrance.
“Wow.” He gapes. “You look… you are beautiful.”
You duck your head in an effort to hide your blush, taking miserably, hair falling over your cheeks. Wanda had picked you a pink gown, one with an off-the-shoulder neckline, long sleeves, and a voluminous skirt you’d normally declare too fancy for dinner. Natasha’s lips tug into a smug smile, giving an approving nod. Sam and Steve exchange a knowing look before turning back to Bucky, who has still not moved. Steve snorts, “Y’wanna get her chair, Buck?”
It’s as though someone kicked behind his knees, the speed with which he steps towards you, motioning towards what is presumably your seat. It’s an oddly informal act, for a crown prince to pull out your chair, but based on the reaction of his friends, such an action is not only normal, but expected.
Dinner is served with little aplomb, conversation lively and flowing, much more different than your own home. The boys bicker, Natasha cuts in drily, and you watch in awe.
“Where are you from?” Steve asks, turning the conversation to you. “You only said you were with the northbound group.”
You swallow, silently thankful you spent your time preparing a story.
“Clare-Auberge.” There’s no point in lying, “In the capital, not far from the castle.”
“Your kingdom is rather elusive.” Sam comments, “I’m not sure we’ve ever hosted the king. He has many daughters, if I recall.”
“Seven.” You nod, “and a single son.”
Steve turns to Bucky. “They were at Peter’s coronation, in Queens. King John stood sullenly, only speaking to Lord Walker.”
You shift uncomfortably. You have fond memories from that night, if only from your single dance with Bucky. He clearly doesn’t even remember that dance. You would never forget Duchess Marina and Delphine whispering about how plain and boring your sisters were.
“And your father? What does he do for work?”
Your soup is rapidly going cold from how long you’ve been ignoring it. “Good God, Wilson, will you let the girl eat? And stop quizzing her about her family and kingdom.” You duck your head, silently making a note to thank Natasha later.
Bucky clears his throat after a moment. “And have you been to Brooklynn before?”
You shake your head. “Only to the villages along the border, when we pass through. But I’ve heard wonderful things… about the garden and the glass blowers in town.”
“And the ocean? Our artists are simply unable to do it justice. I’ve been told that it is impossible to accurately depict it; only those who recognise the beauty in the simplicity of life are able to truly appreciate it.”
Silence falls over the table, Sam suddenly looking very interested in his dinner and Steve exhaling sharply through his nose at his friend. A soft thud echoes under the table, Natasha kicking his shin as she hisses “Bucky.”
A shiver runs down your spine. He’s quoting you. Dejection settles in your stomach as you resist the urge to burst into tears. Bucky holds your gaze, unspeaking and unaffected by his friends clear disdain for his behavior.
“I am quite fond of the ocean,” you admit, “I have wanted to see Brooklynn’s waters for some time. I did not think anyone else much shared the same desire.”
That was the largest truth you had dared to share with the group. Bucky still held your gaze as his eyes softened ever so slightly.
“Sounds like you should give her a tour of the kingdom tomorrow.” Steve proposed, mischief glinting in his eyes.
Bucky shrugged, still not looking away from you, studying you as though seeing you in a new light. “If she would like to-”
You resisted the urge to squirm or flush under his stare. “I don’t wish to impose any more than-”
“Please.” Bucky interrupts, a hint of a plead entering his tone. His cheeks tinge pink at his outburst, evening out his tone. “It would be my pleasure.”
A glimmer of hope flickers in your chest, holding his gaze as a tiny smile graces your lips. “Then yes. I would like that very much.”
It was much too dark to see the waves from your balcony, to your utter disappointment. There was a new moon, meaning the only light came from what spilled from the castle and the gas lamps in the garden. Your balcony overlooked a small courtyard in the garden, likely where parties would be held. It was all so lovely and full of life. So different than your home in a wonderful inexplicable way.
“-just don’t understand it, Steve.” Bucky’s voice drifted through the balcony’s open french doors. “How could a woman have access to a home like that and disappear before sunrise?”
“I’m not entirely sure you weren’t hallucinating your ‘angel.’” Steve voice counters, the two men coming into your view. Heart pounding, you turned to press your back to the door and duck down like a child despite the fact that neither had seen you.
Bucky’s laugh came clear and good natured. “Trust me, Steve. She’s real. And I’m going to find her.”
The two are quiet for a moment before Bucky speaks again. “But that girl…”
Steve says your name, clarifying exactly who Bucky is referring to.
“Yeah,” Bucky hums, sitting down on a stone bench and gazing up at the sky. The gas lamps from the garden cast shadows onto his face eerily similar to that of the fire at Willowstream. “She’s beautiful. Educated. She seems familiar, somehow. Like I’ve met her before.”
“You don’t meet many girls from Clare-Auberge. Minus the angel.” Steve laughs, “Still, I don’t think she’s her.”
“It feels like…” Bucky sighs, dropping his head down, a stand of his hair falling out of the neat hairstyle and onto his forehead. “It feels like I’m betraying her, by trying with someone else. God forbid, what if I do fall in love with someone else, marry them, and she shows up the very next day?”
Steve sits next to his friend, clapping him on the back. “You deal with that if it happens. Because, Buck, much better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood. Warm, bright, and real.” Steve gestures up towards your room. Bucky follows his hand, watching your silhouette move about behind the sheer curtains, a feeling of hope warming his heart.
The Kingdom of Brooklyn is a kaleidoscope of color, even more so than you saw yesterday now that the sun has come out. Bucky follows you as you delightedly dart from stall to stall, pointing out statues and buildings on the street. His subjects greet him with a bow or curtsey, making polite conversation until you look like you want to say something, at which point he turns his focus to you.
“What is this?!” You exclaim, holding up a dark purple fruit, “it’s so pretty!”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, picking one up himself. “You’ve never had a plum before?” You shake your head, mumbling the word under your breath in awe, turning the fruit in your hand to examine the violet color. “They’re good. Really good. Sweet.”
You grin, looking up at him to find him already watching you in wonder. The icy blue of his eyes has melted into something warmer, like the color of the sky after a storm. Bucky looks to the merchant who has been watching the two of you amusedly the entire time and holds out a couple of silver coins. “Four plums, please. For the lady.”
You grin, grabbing another fruit and placing it into a basket.
“Not that one,” Bucky interjects, “it’s not ripe yet. Here-” He picks up another one, slightly darker in color. “You want it to be a little soft when you press on it.” Bucky takes your hands, placing them over the plum underneath his. His palms are calloused as he squeezes the fruit, the slightest bit of give under the fruit’s skin. Your eyes meet his, caught in the moment as the world fades around you. “And,” He continues, voice low, “it should smell sweet.” He raises the fruit to your nose, allowing you to inhale the sweet scent without looking away. “So when you bite it,” He lets go of the fruit, motioning for you to taste it, “it will be sweet. Juicy.”
Teeth breaking the plum’s skin, you let out a soft moan as the sweet juice flows over your tongue. “My God,” you hum, taking another bite. “this is heavenly.”
Bucky doesn’t respond, transfixed by your reaction. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at your lips, transfixed by the shiny juice coating them. Knees weak, you exhale shakily, fruit suddenly hanging forgotten by your side. Carefully, like you’re made of glass, he raises his hand, carefully wiping the juice away from your chin. His touch is sure, eyebrows knit together in concentration. You don’t move away from him, breaths coming in shallow puffs as your eyelashes flutter. For one microscopic second, his gaze drops to your lips.
A loud clatter from the street has the two of you startling apart like children. Bucky scratches the back of his neck as you raise the fruit to your lips to try to hide the flush spreading across your skin. “I’m glad you like it.”
Dancing, you would quickly learn, was very popular in Brooklynn. What was reserved exclusively for balls in Clare-Auberge was commonplace here. A band played in the square, upbeat music that beckoned people of all ages and from all walks of life to gather in the street and move to the music. Hands clasped at your waist, you watched in awe of the couples whirling by you. Men were eyeing you, silently working up the courage to ask you to dance. You remained blissfully unaware as a burning feeling of jealousy came over Bucky, who found himself sending sharp glares to anyone who started towards you. They all averted their eyes, slinking away from the future monarch.
“Would you-” Bucky clears his throat, figuring he couldn’t scare off everyone who wanted to dance with you if he didn’t have the courage to do something about it. You turn to him, hope crossing your face. “Will you dance with me?”
The beam that settles on your face could power Brooklyn for a year, Bucky thinks. The entirety of his world seems brighter, as though he’s been living in the shade for years. When he takes your hand in his, encasing yours in his much larger one, it feels natural, like you were made to fit against him. Bucky leads you through mid-tempo dance, whirling you around the square in time with the tune. You stumble once, subtly enough that only he notices you watching your feet warily before he murmurs “eyes on me,” and holds your waist tighter.
“The people in Clare-Auberge don’t dance like this,” You sigh happily, shoulders relaxing, “everyone is so happy here!”
Bucky hums in agreement, but truthfully, he hadn’t noticed his people at all today. He was entirely focused on you and your disposition. The kingdom was happy, that he knew, but he only cared for yours in that moment. He spun you again, reveling in the way the sun caught the strands of your hair. Pulling you back towards him, he was perhaps too distracted, because your heel caught the toe of his boot. You would have fallen on your rear if not for his quick reflexes, wrapping his arm back around your waist and pulling you up into his broad chest. His reassuring smile made your breath catch, clutching the fabric of his shirt as your faces paused mere inches from each other. A devilish look overtook his face, bringing both hands to your hips and lifting you off the ground. Your own hands dropped to his shoulders as he whirled you in a circle, laughing as he spun you. When your feet hit the ground again, he didn’t change your position, admiring your breathless giggles. Bucky relishes the feeling of your fingers grasping the back of his neck in a way that was far too intimate for two people of your rank. But to either of you, the eyes of anyone watching didn’t matter; encased in your own bubble, the world couldn’t touch you.
Bucky decided to take the long way to the gardens. If anyone asked, he would claim that it was because he remembered you saying you wanted to see the cliffs and show you the wildflowers. In truth, it was because he wanted to savor every possible second with you. Angel be damned, this was a warm-blooded real woman who seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. A beautiful woman, at that. How could that possibly compare to a fever addled memory?
He wasn’t sure what came over him when he caught you watching him drive the team with burning curiosity, but if there was one thing his mother had always called him, it was impulsive.
So he did what any young man would do in the presence of a woman he liked; he offered you the reins. Bucky barely had time to react before you shoved your armful of purchases into his as you grabbed the reins and flicked them.
The horses took off into a brisk run, carriage bouncing along the road.
“Whoa!” Bucky yelled, nearly falling forward into the footwell. You only laughed, the sound music to his ears as you remained steady in your seat. “You tryin’ to get us killed, doll?”
“Of course not!” You call back, voice carrying jovially over the rush of the wind. Your face goes slightly warm, registering his term of endearment. “I just like to go fast.” A gentle tug of the reins has the horses slowing to their trot. Bucky’s laugh is warm and clear, tucking his hands behind his head.
“I do too.”
He finds himself watching you drive the rest of the way, enjoying the way you focus on the task. You seem delighted to do it, as though it isn’t a chore most dread. There’s a tiny crease between your eyebrows. He longs to press his thumb there, just to see it even out. He would top it with a kiss too, tasting your skin. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, unconsciously his tongue darts to wet his lips. Your action sends nearly all of his blood south to his groin, refusing to let himself linger on your chest. Subtly, he shifts in his seat, adjusting the now pulsing erection.
The gates to the gardens are closed when you approach, but open after one look front he guard there, who offers the two of you a smile and a wave as you pass.
“The gardens close to the public at four everyday,” Bucky explains, guiding the carriage to a stop in front of a small pond. Colorful blooms surround you, lining the pathway and small gazebo. “But I get 24-hour access.”
You nod knowingly as he steps down, offering his hand to you. “Royalty privileges.”
The dirt crunches under your feet as you step down, letting go of his hand to shield your eyes and look up at him.
“A rough deal,” Bucky hums faceiously, “a hard life I lead, between the large castle and extravagant dinners.”
“However do you manage?” You smile teasingly, hand brushing his as you look around. “The entire kingdom must hang onto your every word.”
Heart pounding, Bucky takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as though its normal. “Who knows? I do what I must.”
He leads you towards a weeping willow tree, its leaving swaying gently in the soft breeze. You sit down rather unceremoniously, leaning against the trunk and inhaling the scent of greenery and fresh air. Bucky stays standing, watching you relax.
“You would have to tear me from here,” You hum with your eyes closed, “none of my family likes to be outside like I do. If only I had a book, this would be perfect.” You open your eyes, looking up at Bucky. “You’re so lucky to have Steve and Sam. Natasha too. It’s so evident they care about you.”
Bucky frowns, sinking down next to you, shoulder brushing yours. “What about your sisters? Surely they care for you.”
You pick a pale blue wildflower by your knee, tracing your finger over the delicate petals. “I’m sure they do. Somehow.” You bring the bloom to your nose, drinking in its sweet scent. “My eldest sister’s favorite thing to do is embroider. Inside. Another studies arithmetic as though it’s going to disappear from the world tomorrow. The middle sister plays the flute- well, we all play instruments, but she excessively plays the flute. Truthfully,” you look at Bucky, “I don’t think any of my sisters know what I like, and if they do, they don’t understand. They don’t understand me.”
Bucky plucks the flower from your lap, twirling it between his fingers. “What do you like?” He asks, not out of a necessity, but from a genuine interest in knowing. He quite likes it when you talk, he’s discovered, content to listen and absorb your voice like the sun.
“Reading,” You say definitively, “Exploring. People. Being outdoors. I love the ocean; when I was a child-” You shift, turning to face Bucky, finding him watching you intently. “When I was a child, we would come to Brooklynn every summer for two weeks. I looked forward to it all year. My mother loved the ocean too. We would hunt for seashells for hours and hours, until our skin was burned and my father begged us to come inside. When I was four-” You trail, exhaling sharply as a shadow crosses your face. “My mother fell ill on our travels. The doctors couldn’t make it in time; I think there was a storm. She died three days later.”
The memory sits in your chest, clear as day. Tatiana singing softly in your ear as you cried, rocking you in time to Fawn playing the flute comfortingly outside the door to your mother’s sick room. Ariadne standing over you and your sisters, whispering with Belle about how unfair it was that you all weren’t allowed to see your mother, reduced to waiting outside her room. Will, sitting on the opposite side of the hallway, stacking wooden blocks as tall as he could before they toppled over, eyes glazed over. Lillian came out of the room, silently saying something to Andromeda and shaking her head, joining the seven of you on the floor. “I haven’t been to Brooklynn since. Haven’t seen the ocean. But I know in my soul, it will be as though I never left.” You look back down. “I don’t know how much I remember anymore.”
Bucky takes your hand and squeezes, “then let’s go.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Go?”
“To the ocean.”
Bucky thinks he’d trade his entire kingdom away just to see your face light up like this once more.
“Really? You mean it?” Your voice is daring, hopeful, as though he would take it away at any moment and announce he was playing a cruel joke on you.
Bucky helps you to your feet, brushing some hair from your face and and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Entirely.”
Bucky picks one of his private beaches that’s only a few minutes drive from the gardens. It has soft waves and a rocky cove that shields it from view of the public. Dolphins can be seen around sunset and colorful fish circle jovially in some tide pools.
Your eyes are wide with excitement from the second he stops the carriage, scrambling down and grabbing his wrist as you run to the water. Stumbling over the sand, the last of your hair falls down from the half-up hairstyle Wanda had done this morning before you left. Hair flies freely in the wind, tangling hopelessly. Laughter tears from your chest as you run, looking back at Bucky who can’t contain his smile either. Suddenly, you stop only feet from the water, stumbling as your face drops.
“What’s wrong?”
Releasing his wrist, you wring your hands nervously, “what if it’s not what I want it to be?”
“It will be.”
“How are you so sure?”
Bucky studies you, searching your face as though he’s found something. He’s sure because he can’t remember the last time he was this excited to spend time with someone. The last time he got to see joy and hope on someone’s face because he was doing something they wanted to do, not the other way around. Because he’s watched you talk about the ocean, seen the way your eyes linger on the paintings in the castle and the coast as you drove by. He feels the tugging in his heart, felt the longing of closer.
“Only someone worried that they would love something so much would be afraid to do it.” He offers instead.
This, you realize, is love. You love him. Deep true love, not the kind you thought you knew. Love is to be truly seen. He sees you. To be afraid and jump anyways.
It’s too soon, you think. Far too soon to say it out loud, much less consciously think it, but you know it, mind racing all the same. Your eyes beg him, asking for a quiet recognition of ‘you know me.’
“So,” Bucky prompts, motioning to the water, “are we going in?”
Pressing your lips together, you suppress a smile as you nod, kicking away your impractical. His boots follow your shoes, waiting neatly next to yours and you step into the water.
Oh. Oh.
You hike your skirt to your knees, wading deeper and laughing in disbelief. Fuck propriety and fuck rules and fuck whatever made you wait this long to feel this. Bucky comes to stand next to you, his own pants rolled up as he catalogs your reaction. “Well?”
You laugh like you can’t believe it, wiggling your toes in the sand beneath your feet. “You were right,” you exclaim, “I do love it.”
Bucky can’t resist smirking, a smug pride settling in his chest with the knowledge that he made you this happy. Still, he is overcome with something boyishly mischievous and sticky. If you ever asked, he would say that’s why he leaned down to scoop up a handful of water and flick it at your arm.
Most women he’s met would gasp in disbelief and storm away, forcing him to grovel for forgiveness, but your response is far more daring and something no one would ever dare to consider doing to a crown prince.
Clenching your skirts tighter in your fist, you kick a wave of water at him, sending enough at him to soak his lower front in cool ocean water. You pause for a second, a mischievous glint in your eyes before you turn and take off. Water splashes wildly around you, shrieked laughter echoing down the beach. “Hey!” Bucky shouts, giving chase, “get back here!”
With your skirts soaked from the waist down and the water slowing you down, Bucky’s long legs catch you easily, reaching down to splash at your back again before wrapping his arms around your waist. Your back is pulled into his chest, laughter fading as you turn into him, steading yourself with a hand on his chest, above his pounding heart.
“Got you,” he husks. He leans closer, your breath catching as his nose brushes yours.
The moment is interrupted by the crashing of an errant wave against you, knocking you to your ass, water soaking the rest of your dress. Bucky fared better than you, boulder that he is, looking down at you in horror.
“Shit,” he curses, holding out a hand. “Are you alright-”
Wrapping your hand around his, you dig your feet into the sand and give a sharp tug, pulling his unsuspecting form down, arms caging around your head to catch himself.
This is far more charged than your former position. His body is warm despite being soaking wet, his lower half pressed to yours with no urgency to move away as he leans down. Or you lean up. There’s no clear answer and you’re not inclined to find one as your lips meet.
The kiss is more charged than it was at Willowstream. More desperate than that one, lips moving with urgency to say what words can’t. All pressure and no gentleness. You move with him, pressing deeper and gasping when Bucky’s tongue prods your lower lip, slipping into your mouth greedily. His hand traces down your body, digging his fingers into your thigh and hitching it over his hip. Canting your hips up, you can feel his length pressing against you through his pants. Your hand grasps his neck, whimpering his name as he moves to your neck, pressing one, two, three wet kisses to the sick of your neck. He groans low and guttural as you grind yourself up into him.
Your hair is now soaked with salty seawater, the waves crashing around your body as Bucky grabs at your dress, fumbling for whatever ties and buttons he can reach. The fabric is heavy, clinging to your body like a second skin. You don’t bother trying to pull your arms from the sleeves, letting it hang open. His own shirt is easily pulled away from him and tossed further up the beach, your skirt following carelessly. Hot skin presses to your chemise as he tugs at your slip. The outline of your body is clear through the fabric, now sheer from the water. Tugging easily at the fabric, it rips, reduced to nothing but a pile of rags. A groan tears from his throat as his hands roam your soft flesh, searching for the best places to hold onto but never stopping in one place for long, greedy to discover more.
Bucky groans into your mouth as your fingers trace the ridges of his abs, physically shuddering when you run them along his waistband. Your own wandering hands embolden his tongue to slide fervently against yours as he palms at your breast. If your nipples weren’t hard before, they could cut glass now, stiff peaks poking against his warm palm. You arch into his touch, silently asking for more pressure, more him. Bucky’s fingers wrap around your right nipple, pinching and rolling the bud to pull soft moans of his name from your mouth.
“You feel so good.” He murmurs, voice muffled against your collarbone. You can only gasp in response, digging your nails into his bicep.
His hand traces down your stomach, hovering right above your slit. His middle finger drags through your slick, gathering it at your clit and circling. “Can I-” He whispered, raising his head slightly, as though he couldn’t possibly bear to be further than a few inches from you.
You nod, reaching down to his length. You palm him as he strokes you, eliciting quiet moans from each other.
Looking up at him, your eyes meet his hooded blue ones, suddenly shy despite the fact that his throbbing erection was in your hand, no one could possibly see you, and his want seemed to outweigh your own. “I’ve never done this before. I-I don’t know how.”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you as he pulled his hand from between your legs, running along your thigh to hold your hip in place. He settles back on his knees, acting as a breaker for the waves and leaving you utterly exposed to his gaze. You shudder as his fingers return to graze your clit, a high pitched gasp tearing from your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs, unable to tear his eyes from your face, cataloging every twitch and reaction of your body. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”
He inserts a single finger, curling it against your walls. The movement causes your back to arch into him, eliciting a cry of his name from your lips. “Buck-y oh-!” His thumb targets your clit, circling and stimulating the little bud with the experienced precision of someone who derives their pleasure from their partner. The action sends tingling waves of pleasure through your body, unconsciously arching into his touch. He plays your body like an instrument, pulling pleasure from you like he would drown without it. Bucky catalogues your reactions, pushing another finger in and grunting at the way you tighten around him again, clenching and canting your hips to meet his movements.
“You’re doing so good, doll. So perfect, just for me.”
“J-Just for ah- you!” You echo, eyes bleary as you try to lift your head to see him. The sight before you is magnificent; Bucky buried knuckle deep in your cunt, meaty thighs holding your legs apart to allow him to work. An arrogant smirk plays on his shiny, swollen lips, so incredibly pleased with his abilities.
A knot in your lower belly forms with every twitch of his fingers, but as soon as it arrives, Bucky pulls his hand away, quickly undoing his pants.
“Why- why did you stop?” You cry, propping yourself onto your elbows. Tears of frustration well in your eyes as your pussy flutters around nothing, begging for more.
Bucky leans back over you, coaxing you down onto your back and draping himself over you like a blanket. His sweet kiss is nothing like the obscenity between your legs as his hard cock presses against your weeping folds.
“I’m sorry, darling, but I’m selfish. I want to feel you around me when I make you come for the first time.”
Eyes wide and mouth slack, you watch as with one swift movement, he pulls himself out, fisting himself and fully running the tip through your folds. Any frustration you could have had in the prior moment about the retraction of his touch is resolved, a hot pressure pushing at your weeping hole.
“It’s- it’s big.” You gasp as the tip breaches you, looking down to be met with the obscene sight of where your bodies meet. Bucky leans down to press a featherlight kiss to your lips. “Bucky, please!”
“We’ll make it fit,” he whispers against your lips, pushing further in. “Just let me in, sweetheart.”
You throw your head back, the sand from the beach scratching abrasively against your scalp, but you don’t care. Bucky is all-consuming, slowly claiming your body as his own with every inch of himself he pushes into you. The feeling was so strange, your body unaccustomed to the feeling, but you couldn’t help but want more. The sensation overwhelmed Bucky, resisting the urge to push inside you in one fell swoop with every mewl and clench of your body around him.
“Bucky, please!” You cry, unsure what exactly you’re asking for but begging all the same. A hand tangles itself into his damp hair again, tugging at the locks and eliciting a groan from him. He rocks his hips again, pressing deeper until your hips are flush to his. You freeze against him, his chest heaving against yours with barely contained restraint. The tip of his cock pressing against your womb, your pussy stuffed full with him. The gentlest shift of his hips recast the intrusion entirely in pleasure. The consuming stretch of your body singing Bucky’s name as though it could not fathom ever existing without it. A loud moan tore from your lips, echoing around the deserted beach.
Bucky didn’t move, savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. He brought his hand to your face, tugging your lip down with his thumb. “You’re so perfect,” He gritted, “like you were made for me- fuck. So tight.”
You let out an airy sigh, closing your lips around his thumb and sucking the tip into his mouth. With your eyes maintaining eye contact with him, Bucky felt the last of his restraint disappear, pulling his length from your cunt and slamming back in one smooth thrust. He built his rhythm easily, each press of his cock into your warm heat sent a shock of pleasure through your body, the coil in your stomach growing again.
“You’re doing so perfect for me.” Bucky moaned, waves crashing around the two of you. You felt yourself struggling for control as your peak grew. Your eyes struggled to stay open, vision blurring as Bucky moved above you. “Fucking Chirst, you’re so wet.”
Bucky kept his rhythm, hips bucking against you with clinical precision. You try desperately to maintain a shred of dignity as your clit throbs in time with his movements. Sensing your need, he slides his fingers between the two of you to carefully rub patterns on your swollen clit. Dignity fully gone, you cry out his name, thanking him in high pitched gasps.
“That’s right,” he coos, pecking your lips sweetly in an action entirely in opposition what is happening below your waist, “let me hear it. Let me know how much you like me filling you like this.”
“You- I- ah! I’m going to- mphh!” Another moan is muffled against his lips with a hot kiss, tongues tangling with each other’s. Even the waves cannot cover the sound of his skin slapping against yours, wet plaps that should make you blush, but don’t.
What does make your blood run hot is the squelch of your wetness with every push inside you.
“I- Bucky- I can’t oh!” Your release crashes over you like the waves of the ocean, unrelenting and consuming. The fluttering of your walls around him shatters the remainders of Bucky’s restraint, chasing his own pleasure with sloppy thrusts.
“Sweetheart, I’m close. You’re going to take it, okay? You can- ah- I know you can.” You nodded hurriedly, wrapping your leg around his waist to keep him close to you and encouraging him to fill you. His hand palms aggressively at one breast, nipping and biting at the other while he pushes into you with a fervor unlike before.
His own release came with a grunt of your name and a roar of ecstasy ripping from his throat as though it could not be contained. You felt his release fill you, marking you as his like never before. He owned you, from the inside out. He throbbed within you, kissing languidly at your neck as though he never wanted to let you go.
“I know you,” he whispers, so quietly you can barely hear him, “I don’t know how, but I know you.”
You don’t respond, unable to summon a response through your gooey, pleasure drunk brain. You aren’t even sure if you heard him right, but he knows.
Inside you, his tip kept spurting warmth against your cervix, pumping you so full that you felt the excess of his seed overflowing out of your tired cunt.
Neither of you move or say anything for a long moment, sharing breaths. Bucky softens inside you, slowly pulling himself out with a ‘pop!’ and a whimper from your lips at the sudden ache of emptiness. He sits up and freezes, looking over you with something akin to horror.
There is something about you so familiar, so comforting, the back of his mind whispers. The eyes of his angel peirce his brain, blood running cold.
“I-” You begin, still starry-eyed in your post-orgasmic haze, but Bucky stops you.
“We should get back.”
He helps you to your feet, tucking himself away with precision and avoiding eye contact. Bucky refastens the buttons of your dress and replaces your skirt with tactical precision, as though you’re an essay that needs editing. His touches are fleeting, all warmth and tenderness gone. Silently, he leads you back up the beach and picks up your shoes, carrying them to the carriage. Something cold and rotten settles in your stomach, feeling as though ice has begun to run through your veins.
When he begins to guide the horses back towards the main road to the palace, you feel tears prick your eyes.
“Did I-”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, but doesn’t look over at you either. “No. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.”
You want to scream, for the first time feeling like leaving Clare-Auberge was a mistake, that the man you’d dreamed of for years wasn’t what you had imagined.
“Okay,” you say thickly, barely a whisper. Turning to look at the cliffs, a cloudy sunset over them, Bucky doesn’t notice you swiping furiously at the one tear you’ve allowed to fall.
dad’s best friend - bucky barnes x rogers!reader, part 1
(check part 2)
bucky didn't say a word when you got in the car. he just started the engine, his fingers wrapped in that black glove tapping impatiently against the steering wheel. the silence inside the car was heavy.
he'd only come to pick you up because your dad, steve, asked him to. "she's coming back from some date, buck. just make sure she gets home safe, please"
you could picture the scene: steve with that worried dad look, and bucky rolling his eyes before grabbing the keys. but he went. and now here he was, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road.
you were frustrated, and a little bit drunk. the date had been a disaster. the guy talked too much, laughed at his own jokes, and the kiss was awful. gross.
and the worst part? you couldn't stop looking at bucky's profile. the line of his jaw, the dark hair falling across his forehead, the way his black shirt stretched across his shoulders. the tension between you wasn't new, it had been there for months in lingering looks and almost-touches. but you'd never done anything. and neither had he.
until tonight.
traffic was stopped. bucky sighed deeply, ran his metal hand over his face, and that's when you saw it. he was looking at your legs. his eyes dropped in a quick glance, but you noticed. your short skirt had ridden up on your thigh, and he couldn't look away, his chest rising and falling faster now. when he realized you'd caught him, he turned his face toward the windshield like nothing had happened.
you had to break that unbearable silence. "no guy these days even knows how to kiss" bucky laughed low. "maybe you're just picking the wrong boys, kid" you turned your face toward him, confused, your heart beating faster than it should. he didn't look back. just drove with one hand, turned down a dark street, and stopped the car. bucky killed the engine. now he looked at you. didn't say a word. just waited. "bucky…" your voice came out shaky. he raised an eyebrow, half-smiling.
you leaned in. your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the seatbelt, then for the button on his jeans. he didn't lift a finger to help. just watched, like he wanted to see how far you'd go. all the way, apparently.
your fingers found the zipper. pulled it down slowly. and when you hesitated for a second, it was his metal hand that came to you, reaching for your hair. those cool fingers brushed the strands away from your face with a tenderness that hurt from how contradictory it was. you held his gaze for a second, and then you went down.
the first time you touched him, he let out a low groan. his metal hand tightened just a little more in your hair, and the other gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. "you have no idea what you do to me" he whispered and you didn't answer. you didn't need to.
bucky gasped when you wrapped your fingers around the base, your other hand braced on his thigh for balance. your thumb slid along a thick vein, feeling the pulse against his skin. you licked the tip in slow circles, and he threw his head back, a moan slipping from his throat. "wanna watch me lose control, is that it?"
you were already going down again, deeper, until your eyes watered. your mouth slid wet and hot, moving up and down at a pace you knew was cruel, until he started shaking. the metal hand slid to your neck, not squeezing, just feeling your throat move as you took him in. the sound was obscene, mixed with the low moans he couldn't hide anymore.
meanwhile, your hand worked what your mouth couldn't reach, until you tasted the precome, until you felt his whole body lock up. "fuck…" he whispered, voice cracking. his hand tightened in your hair, pulling gently. "if you keep going, i'm gonna come in your mou—" you didn't let him finish. you went all the way down, throat relaxed, and when you felt the first spasm, you moaned against him on purpose.
bucky came and you swallowed, lips still sucking slowly until he went soft, until his fingers loosened.
when you finally looked up, his eyes were dark, pupils blown, mouth slightly open. "you're not going out with any more boys. not after this."
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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Pairing: Congressman Barnes x Reader
Word count: 4.6k
Warnings: SMUT, p in v (doggy style), oral (f receiving), fingering, jealousy, established relationship, secret relationship, Bucky Barnes being down bad for you.
Summary: It's entirely your fault that people think Bucky is still available, but that doesn't mean that you have to like it.
+fran: this is in the same universe as undisclosed relations, can be read as a standalone. read all my congressman barnes works here
dividers by @/bhavihelps
Before he met you, early mornings in his apartment were quiet.
Bucky went out for his runs pretending the sheer stillness of the place didn't make an itch bloom in the back of his brain.
Sometimes the condo felt too big, even though it wasn't huge, it also wasn't a shoebox.
Since the night in his office, though, he wakes up around 6:45am to the sound of his kitchen being used and, if he asked you, the sound of hearts breaking all over D.C. in the process.
Bucky stretched in bed like a cat, groaning at the tightness in his low back that you'd definitely tease him about. He could hear your voice a little further down the hall when he got out of bed.
The sunlight spilling into the penthouse is soft and gold, cutting across marble floors and stainless steel like something out of an architectural magazine.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s very accomplished,” you said smoothly into the AirPod you had on. “No, I don’t need her résumé." You sighed. "If she’d like to attend the fundraiser, she can RSVP through the official channel like everyone else.”
He turned the corner and there you were.
Your laptop was open on the kitchen isle, hard paper planner and your favorite pen beside it. Your hair was pulled up by the claw clip you had on, and the only thing over your frame was a blue striped button down Bucky wore the day before.
You nodded you head as if the person on the phone could see you, and rolled your eyes knowing they couldn't, as you sliced and scooped half an avocado with surgical precision.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe for a second and allowed himself to just watch you in your bubble.
Watching you like you’re something he’s not entirely sure he deserves.
“Mmhm. I understand,” you continue, voice honeyed but impenetrable. “But Congressman Barnes’ schedule is quite full. He’s not taking personal engagements at this time.”
You placed the avocado on a piece of toast on the counter by the stove, turning to your side and scooping some scrambled eggs from the frying pan to put on top of it.
“I’m sure brunch would be lovely." Bucky raised his eyebrow at that, pushing off of the doorframe and walking over to stand behind you as you turned off the heat on the bacon pan.
"Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one engagements with donors under forty who describe themselves as ‘emotionally intuitive.’” He snorted into your shoulder, pressing a kiss there.
You crumbled the crispy bacon on top of your toast, and put the rest on a plate over a paper towel to absorb the grease.
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as you got off the phone. “Three women have tried to secure private time with you in the last twelve hours.”
“And?” he asks quietly.
You turn, holding his plate out to him. “And,” you say, eyes cool but faintly amused, “they can get in line.”
He takes the plate but doesn’t break eye contact. “Didn’t know I had a line.” You could kiss the smug smile off his face in a second.
“Oh, you do.” You take a bite of your toast. “There’s a Pilates instructor. A nonprofit founder. And someone who signed her email ‘Future Mrs. Barnes.’”
His lips twitch. “And what’d you tell them?”
You swallowed the bite before answering it. “That Congressman Barnes is unavailable.” A beat. “For brunch,” you add lightly, raising your brow to make a point.
Bucky set his plate down on the counter by your laptop, and you do the same with yours, snagging a slice of bacon off the plate. “Just brunch?”
“Congressman Barnes’ personal affairs are private,” you say calmly, letting one foot rest on your knee, standing on one leg and leaning agasint the counter.
His thumb brushes slowly along your hip, his other hand braced on the counter, effectively trapping you between him and the marble.
“You’re eating my bacon,” he murmurs.
“You’re welcome,” you shoot back, taking another perfectly measured bite. “For saving your old man arteries.”
He actually scoffs while you take a sip off your coffee. “Old man?”
“You are over a hundred,” you point out, finally glancing at him over the rim of your mug. “Statistically speaking, you should be dust.”
He stepped closer, offended but amused. “Super soldier.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Super stubborn. Super dramatic. Super in denial about cholesterol.”
Another call came in, phone buzzing again. He reached past you and flipped the phone face down. “They can call back,” he said simply, with a smirk that told you the things going through his mind weren't simple at all.
You studied him for a second. “You know this is only going to get worse,” Another sip, and you put the coffee on the counter. “Election cycle. Public appearances. The mystery bachelor narrative.”
He leaned down slightly, voice lowering. “Good thing I’m not a bachelor.”
You arched a brow. “Oh? Since when?” His hand tightened at your waist — not possessive in a public way, but certain.
“Since you started answering my calls at six in the morning and making avocado toast in my kitchen.” You pretend to consider it.
“Strictly professional,” you said.
“Mm.” His mouth curved. “Was it also stricly professional to sit on my face until you had a calf cramp las ni—” You didn't let him finish as you shoved a slice of bacon in his mouth.
"Eat your bacon, old man."
The phone rang again and you turned in his hold, twisting just enough to reach across the counter and grab it — and in the process, you bent slightly over the marble, pushing your ass into his groin on purpose.
Bucky groaned through the bacon slice. “Congressman Barnes' Office.” you say smoothly, voice honeyed and professional.
You shifted, grinding back into him some more. “Yes,” you continue into the phone. “I’m aware she’s very interested in supporting the campaign.”
You really hoped they could not hear the sound of your panties being pulled down.
The gala is loud in that polished, fake, expensive way — crystal glasses clinking, donors laughing just a little too hard, cameras flashing every few minutes.
She’s stunning. Effortless in that way that takes effort. Red dress. Confident smile. She waits for the donor Bucky’s speaking to finish, then slides in seamlessly.
“Congressman Barnes,” she says warmly, touching his arm like she’s testing ownership. “I’ve been hoping to meet you.”
Bucky immediately clocks what she's doing, and also your reaction, which is to take a couple steps towards him awith a painfully fake, polite smile.
“I host a private policy dinner every quarter,” she continued. “Very intimate. Carefully curated guest list.”
“That sounds lovely,” you say before Bucky can respond. “If you’d like to submit an invitation, Congressman Barnes’ office reviews all engagement requests formally.”
The bitch has the audacity to look you up and down and dismiss you.
“Oh, I’m sure we can skip the paperwork,” she says lightly, eyes sliding back to him. “This is more… personal.”
A lesser woman would've grabbed her by the hair and made a scene.
If staring burned holes into people, she'd have a dinner plate sized one in the middle of her skull. “Congressman Barnes does not attend one-on-one dinners with donors,” you say, tone pleasant but final. “Transparency is very important for his campign.”
“I’m very persuasive,” she says, voice dropping, stepping closer to him.
You stepped closer too — just enough to close the gap. “Congressman Barnes is very disciplined,” you answer smoothly.
The tension hums, and her smile tightens. “Well,” she says, eyes flicking between you, “if he changes his mind—”
“He won’t,” you reply calmly. "Oh, I see Senator Whitmore," you turned your gaze to Bucky. "He was looking for you, Congressman."
Bucky gave her a half-meaning apologetic look. "Duty calls." And started to walk towards him with you.
“You were about two seconds away from committing a crime in a ballroom,” he murmured in your direction, making you roll you eyes.
"I'm not jealous, she was…" You huffed. "Presumptuous."
As you appreach the older man, Bucky files your reaction away int eh back of his mind, smirking to himself. “Whitmore,” Bucky greets easily, slipping into politician mode without effort. “Good to see you.”
You spent the rest of the night a little quieter, not as many sarcastic remarks, shifting on your feet like you did when you were itching to get the hell out of the room. You contribute when needed, nod at the right moments, redirect a conversation or two.
When you both slipped into the backseat of the towncar, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, you haven’t said much in ten minutes before asking the driver to drop you off at your apartment, making Bucky whip his head towards you in surprise.
"What?'
You shrugged. "It's on the way."
"I know that. Why are you going home?" The driver pulls up the partition when Bucky's voice goes up a smidge.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” That makes his brow furrow and his lips turn.
“Inconvenience me?”
You finally look at him then, composed but tired. “You’re a very busy man,” you said evenly. “Wouldn’t want to complicate your schedule.”
“This about red dress?”
You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Don't insult my intelligence by insulting yours, yes you do.” His voice was stern now, like he was done entertaining whatever Catch 22 you had going on at the moment.
“She was inappropriate,” you say.
“And?”
“And she clearly thought she had access.”
You swear you made sense most of the time. You do. But Bucky's been around for long enough to know it does make sense, even when it doesn't.
“You think I’d go?” He was almost hurt at the thought of you thinking that.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the point.” He sighed, turning his entire body towards you, two fingers tilting your face towards him. "You realize you're the one keeping me a secret, right?"
You huff, trying to stay mad, but he’s laughing softly now, clearly enjoying every second of your internal crisis.
“All I’m saying,” he continues, voice teasing, “is if you wanted to go public, I’d be very cooperative.”
You shake your head, frustration bubbling back up. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“And I’m trying to choose you,” he says. “You don’t get to shut this off when it’s inconvenient,” he says quietly. “Not after tonight.”
"That's not—"
“You were ready to go home because some woman thought she had a shot. But you won’t let me make it obvious she doesn’t.”
"Your career is more important than my feelings, Buck. You can make real change here."
“I want to hold your hand without you dodging me in front of reporters.” That made you falter. He noticed immediately.
His teasing softened just a little, thumb brushing your cheek. “You know I’m not embarrassed by you, right?”
You look away, and he nudges his forehead against yours.
“Also,” he added lightly, grin returning, “I’d like to stop pretending my PR manager doesn’t kiss me goodbye like I’m shipping off to war every morning.”
You blink, head snapping back feigning offense. “I do not—”
“You do,” he says, delighted. “And it’s adorable.”
You swat his chest, cheeks burning, and he just laughs, catching your wrist and kissing your knuckles like he’s won something.
He ends up knocking on the partition again, and telling the driver to just go straight to his condo instead.
By the time the car pulls up to his building, whatever sharp edge was left in your mood has dulled into something quieter.
“Bucky,” you murmur under your breath, low enough that it sounds like nothing.
He doesn’t look at you. “What?”
“You’re—”
“I know.”
The marble lobby gleams under soft lighting. A couple people linger near the seating area.
The doorman opens the door, greets him by name, nods respectfully at you.
Bucky doesn’t let go of your hand for a second, pulling your left arm behind you so he can have his right arm around your low back and pull you even closer as you wait for the elevator.
You just smirk to yourself at the same time he does. A silent "so this is what we're doing now?" being responded with "yes, it is." just as quietly.
The clicking of your heels matches the cadence of the thud of his shoes against the floor, the walk from the elevator to his front door seemingly shorter and longer than usual at the same time, anticipation bubbling in your stomach like freshly poured champagne.
Bucky unlocked the door and opened it, standing outside of the doorway looking at you like this was it.
This was your out.
You could keep the optics, turn around, and go to your place, and he wouldn't bring a public relationship up anymore for a while.
Or, you could step into his apartment, which you've basically made a home out of already, and stop hiding.
You held his gaze for what it felt like a million years to the both of you, words caught in your throat. He raised his brow, posing the question once again. Daring you to dare him to choose you.
And when you made up your mind, he could see it in your face.
Every guarded wall just came down as you sighed, happily and anxiously at the same time, biting your lip and grabbing him by the tie, walking backwards into the dark apartment wanting nothing but to turn the smug smirk on his face into your most comfortable seat.
It took him no time to press you up against the wall in the foyer, “Careful,” he muttered, one hand tight on your waist and the other hand coming up behind your head just before you hit the wall. His mouth coming down on yours immediately.
His hands met behind your back as his mouth worked over yours, tongue leaving no inch of yours unloved as your hands tugged on his hair and scraped the nape of his neck.
He popped a single button and down the zipper went, the now itchy and bothersome fabric of your Saab gown dropping and pooling around your feet, leaving you only in black stockings and black lace panties.
Bucky pulled away from your kiss to pepper kisses and licks and sucks down your jaw and neck, pulling your right leg to wrap around him, fully clothed.
"I like this way better." The fact that he had you putty in his hands, practically naked, while all you did was pull his tie off and throw it somewhere you'd find tomorrow, should be at least a fineable offense.
“This is so irresponsible,” you whisper.
He chuckles against you, pressing you on the wall harder so you feel exactly how irresponsible he's feeling. "Y'can complain tomorrow." He smirks.
Bucky carries you to the bedroom like it's routine, because it is. He doesn't bother turning a light on until he drops you on the bed softly, your hair fanning out around your head and your lipstick long gone, replaced by a sheer flush from his beard rubbing all over your face and neck.
He sat up on his knees once you snuck your hands under the shoulder of his jacket, shrugging it off and immediately going for the last few buttons of his shirt while your hands found themselves undoing his pants like you'd die if you didn't.
You’re half tangled up with him, breath a little uneven, his mouth warm against your skin, his hands steady and sure like he’s still making up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself tonight.
You felt the buzz of the phone before you heard the ring.
It came from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, thrown carelessly on the bed. He looked at you with an expression that bordered "are you serious?" before his mind took a more nefarious route.
You fished the phone out from the pile of fabric, your blood immediately boiling when the caller ID revealed who it was.
“Oh my god,” you say, sitting up slightly. “How the fuck did she get your number?”
“I didn’t give it to her,” he says easily, not even sounding concerned, keeping the assault of his lips on your neck.
“I know! That’s worse,” you mutter, looking at the ceiling like if you stared at it hard enough a meteor would crash into her house. “That means she worked for it.”
“Answer it,” he says, kissing your sternum.
You turn your head to look at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Blue eyes meet yours as he flicks a nipple with his tongue and closes his lips around the peak.
“You want me to answer this?”
“Mhmm,” he groans, way too calm about it, biting the supple skin of your breast lightly. “Go ahead.”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs against your stomach, going lower and lower as his eyes look up at you, entertained, curious. “Let’s hear it.”
As your fingers swiped to answer the call, his hooked around your panties and pulled them off of you while his mouth bit at the skin below your bellybutton.
You brought the phone to your ear and let out a chipper "Congressman Barnes' phone." out of your mouth. Much too chipper for someone who had said congressman between her legs.
“Oh— I was actually hoping to speak to him directly.”
You glance down at Bucky as he holds your gaze, placing a kiss on your folds, making you choke on a breath.
“Congressman Barnes is unavailable,” you reply evenly.
So unavailable. Not like he's flattening his tongue against you, parting your lips and licking the slick that has pooled there for his presence near you alone.
“Well, I figured this might be a better number to reach him,” she says, a little sharper now. “Things tend to move faster when they’re… personal.”
Bucky can hear everything, the smug motherfucker.
You throw your head back, eyes shut tight, taking a deep breath to not moan at the feel of his tongue circling your clit.
Bucky shuffled above you, getting comfortable with your legs over his shoulders and his front flush against the bed.
“Not in this case.” He pulled you closer to him, groaning into you. The vibration caught you by surprise in such way you let out a whimper.
“I’d still love to discuss dinner,” she continues.
“Of course you would,” you mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” you say sweetly. “Unfortunately, Congressman Barnes does not attend private dinners.”
At this point, she was as annoyed that you picked up the call as you were.
“Is that his policy, or yours?”
Bucky's metal middle and ring fingers plunged into your heat at the same time he sucked your clit into his mouth. "Both!" Your voice went up an octave before you tried to recover, glaring at him and only receiving a wet smirk in response.
"He's a very busy congressman. Any communication will be done through official channels. This number will not be accepting anymore calls from…" You saw him raise his brow. "Anyone."
You hung up without waiting for a response, phone falling from your hand onto the hardwood floor as your hands threaded through his hair for purchase instead.
"Fuck, Bucky—" You whined, grinding your hips down on his face, heels digging onto his now naked back.
He chuckled against you once more, pulling his mouth away from your pussy to bite at the skin of your inner thigh, his own hips grinding onto the mattress. "Did so good, baby."
You whined, his fingers still curling deliciously inside of you, rubbing the spongy spot that made your feel like you were floating, soaking his hand and face even more.
"Not gonna let anyone think you're single now." You said, a complete 180 of your own opinion barely an hour before.
He kissed the spot over the bite mark. "Don't want you to."
You pull him up by the back of his neck, kissing him and tasting yourself. The kiss was messy, slow, as if he was savoring the moment you'd let all hell break loose.
You made quick work of his pants, and he discarded them just as easy.
Bucky turned you around on the bed, until you had both shoulders on the mattress, face down, and pulled your hips up, thumbs spreading your cheeks as his palms kneaded your skin.
"God, sweetheart…" He bent down and pressed kisses up your spine, until you could feel his breath beside your cheek and the blunt head of his cock nudging between your folds.
You sighed contently at the feeling, pushing back into him while your eyes met.
When he pushed the first inch in, both of you sighed into each others mouths.
Then he kept pushing, and further, and further, until your folds touched his pelvis and your mouth knew no other shape than his name.
He kissed your cheek as you let your head fall forward, and he pulled out until only the tip of him was in, then pushed back in.
So slow you could feel every ridge of him, the thick vein on the underside and left side that split into two the closer it got to where he'd spill into you.
"Mmmmm, feel so good…" Your cheek was now smushed against the soft duvet that you chose, nails scraping softly against the fabric.
Bucky kissed your shoulder blade, thursting deeper, but not faster, keeping you right where he wanted you. "There she is…" Another kiss.
His voice is softer now, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You breathe out his name, barely more than a whisper, your fingers tightening in the sheets as he keeps that slow, deliberate pace—like he’s in no rush anymore.
You push back into him instinctively, earning a quiet, approving hum against your skin.
“Always so impatient,” he teases, but there’s no real bite to it. Just warmth. Just something fond underneath the heat.
“Not—” you start, breath catching, “not impatient—”
“Mm,” he interrupts softly. “You are.”
Another kiss, higher this time.
“But I like it.”
Your head turns slightly, just enough to catch his eye, and there’s something in your expression that makes his breath hitch—something open, unguarded in a way you don’t usually allow.
"Never gonna let anyone think they can compete, baby." Another punctuated thrust. "M'yours," and another. "Just like you're mine."
Your chest tightens just slightly, the weight of it settling somewhere deeper than the moment itself.
"Yours." You swallow thickly. "Yours, Bucky, please—"
His flesh hand reached down as his metal fingers interlaced with yours, deft fingertips teasing and rolling your clit between them like he was much used to doing. "I got you, baby, c'mon."
He felt you clech around him and groaned against your skin.
You pushed back into him in the same rhythm he pushed into you, a plap! plap! plap! of wet skin the only symphony aside from your moans.
Your hand grasped at his forearm, desperate for some sort of grounding, anything to keep you from floating away like your mind thought it was gonna happen.
“I love you,” you remind him, voice softer now, and he stilled for half a second.
Then leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly against your shoulder “I know.” His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, like he was anchoring you there. "I love you too, baby — fuck—"
“Say it again,” he murmured.
You swallowed deeply, turning your head just enough. “I love you.” A particularly deep thrust knocked the air out of your lungs and you let your head fall forward again. "I'll always choose you, Bucky, fuck, I'm—"
Your brain was mush at this point. Jelly.
"I know, baby, c'mon," His fingers worked deeper circles, the spring in your stomach contracting so tightly you couldn't breathe anyjmore. "That's my girl, you're almost there…"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my God!"
Your eyes squeezed shut and a rainbow of colors exploded behind your eyelids, Bucky following suit at the feeling of your cunt squeezing around him.
He thrust until he was sure you had milked him of every drop, and that he had fucked every doubt straight out of you.
He stayed there after, barely holding his entire weight on top of you as you both breathed heavy, more than just the physical component of getting your brains fucked out weighting in your lungs.
He pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder as your nails grazed his forearm lightly.
“You with me?” he murmured, voice low, softer, careful.
You hummed faintly in response, eyes still closed, cheek pressed into the duvet. “Mm… yeah.” A shy smle adorning your face.
“Hey,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder just enough with his nose. “Look at me.”
You turned your head, slow, a little dazed—and when your eyes meet his, something in his expression shifts.
“Hi,” you murmur.
He huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “Hi.”
Your fingers loosened slightly against him, but didn't let go. “I meant it,” you said softly after a second.
His gaze didn't waver. “I know you did.”
“I always do.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” it was muffled against your shoulder as he kissed it again. It’s not a question.
You shake your head faintly. “No.”
“Good.” His thumb traceed slow, absent patterns along your side, grounding, steady. “You still spiraling?” he added after a moment, a hint of that teasing tone slipping back in.
You let out a soft, tired laugh. “A little.”
“Mm, figures.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him again. “You didn’t help.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re a problem.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you admitted easily.
He smiles at that—soft, satisfied in a way that doesn’t need to be loud. “Good,” he murmurs.
And when he pressed another kiss to your skin, it was slower, gentler. And the kisses that followed, all the way to your lips, were just as much.
Like he wasn't trying to take anything from you, just stay right there with you.
Exactly where you both chose to be.
Congressman Barnes Sparks Dating Rumors After Intimate Lobby Moment with PR Advisor
Washington, D.C. — Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes may have just traded his mystery bachelor status for something far more complicated.
Late last night, Barnes was photographed entering his Capitol Hill residence following a high-profile fundraising gala — but it wasn’t his arrival that caught attention. It was who he brought with him… and how he held her.
Photos obtained by The Capitol Wire show Barnes accompanied by a woman widely identified as a senior PR strategist from Pressing Issues PR, LLC, a firm closely tied to his campaign’s public image.
While the two have been seen together at official events for months, insiders have long maintained their relationship is “strictly professional.”
These photos tell a different story.
@/winterthorne
the way he looked at her in that last pic???
yeah no that man is GONE
@/buckydefenseleague
everyone saying “he’s just being polite” I’m sorry have you EVER been held like that by a man who wasn’t obsessed with you
Pairing: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
Word count: -- (updating as I go)
Warnings: friends to lovers, cheating tropes (like repeatedly, but bucky does not cheat on you), SMUT, p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, tears, angst, public sex, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn but also not?, loss of virginity, creampie, mutual pining, yearning, miscommunication.
Summary: Bucky and you make a pact to get married to each other if you don't find anyone by the time you're 35. It never ruined your friendship, just every other romantic relationship.
+fran: every time I get angsty and emo, I think of this fic, so I decided to stop being a pussy and write it.
All fics can be read on their own or as parts of a story!
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Should've Kissed You Anyway (You're 18, Bucky is 20)
Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though, he's your brother's best friend and you crush for the past decade.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Not That I Miss You, I Don't (You're 20, Bucky is 22)
When they told you not to get drunk with low battery on your phone, you didn't take anyone seriously. Bucky's number is the only one you remember by heart, not your boyfriend's.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ 'Tis The Damn Season (You're 23, Bucky is 25)
Bucky unexpectedly spends Thanksgiving break with your family. And he has a plus one.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ The 1 (You're 25, Bucky is 27)
Your engagement party is supposed to be joyful, celebrating a big milestone. Then why is it the butterflies in your stomach only bloom when you get dragged into a closet with Bucky?
does nobody want to write excruciating angst anymore? i keep trying to find angst only to end up with “hurt/comfort” “happy ending”. WHAT ABOUT “no comfort”, and “no happy ending”?? people don’t want to write peak anymore. and yall keep tagging it angst when its full on smut.. its like nobody wants to write angst these days
summary: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference; light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; guided masturbation; slight degradation; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
word count: 15.8k
a/n: helloo! today it's my birthday 🎈that's why this story is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. I apologize but the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip (I’m not going to be very active for a while). I was too exhausted to write/edit something more plot-driven, so I hope you’ll enjoy this anyway 💛
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes scream do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend's body has been betraying him for a while— knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park— technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes— to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is firm, deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Hm-hm.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, doll.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... She looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn't miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… Just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes– yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice– the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech– the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, checking in quietly, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… You smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… Sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own is empty, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done. You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants— selfishly, desperately— to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to. He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It bleeds. It calls for you. It moves through him like something alive and restless that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him– and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... It’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It's just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little smile of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… Look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses– Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie– you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs; it sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class; it blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you're both left wheezing. With Bucky, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it.
He has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile impossibly more, the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.” Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter. “You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his soft attention.
“I know. I know, bunny.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… Irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the next hour. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway, sighing.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good– too good.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer. You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this— he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, hm?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky. You pulled out a fucking notebook.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you've already watched, and rated with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes–”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, bunny.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s an incredible scene.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so it doesn’t dig into you, then shifts again so you’re draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Hm.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... Just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs— soft and low— then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can't help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud. “I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You've already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why–”
“You have your own stuff to do–”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and hot, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet little pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the most wicked of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching and kissing you everywhere. His sheets were drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sunrays split through the curtains to hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower, but the ache is always there, challenging him.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the truth is sitting at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can't believe he's really going to say it.
“I just–” He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… Sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and let it fall between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like–” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a–” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, slower now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… Physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re– We’ve always been– I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically twice, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… Us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You admit suddenly.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... The last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... Years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t–” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head once, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… Sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding once. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or– or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes– too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit– catch that instantly.
“Are you suggesting we try?” You ask, almost daring him.
Bucky hesitates— not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t– I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just–” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… Anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the pet name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently. She’s figuring out if this will change things between you two. She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it. She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I–”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it–”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it's been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… Can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. You are close enough to feel each other’s warmth, two best friends nervously hovering between what you’ve always been and what you’re about to become.
His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. His thumb brushes along your jaw, gentle, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment in his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that tiny motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact– a question posed in motion. It's the gentlest of kisses that is meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes brushing his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand reaches your waist, tentative at first, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust, the closeness. And your hair is caught under his fingers as he tilts your head slightly to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this– this closeness, this softness, this moment– is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re incredible.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Just… Gorgeous.”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. He tilts his head, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours like he is trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding together the pieces of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, like you belong to each other. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m–” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... To come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your heartbeat jump. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby girl?”
“I have… Toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You–You want to watch me while I… ?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But–”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t trust him, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Uhm, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky's mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… Fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his–
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… Disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if ashamed. “Yes, sweetheart. I'm sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a kiss on the corner of your mouth first, gently.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, hm?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, embarrassed, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want to let me hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Hm, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, yet Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… In a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... Kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It–It depends if–” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood– Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Hm?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two. Your lips purse in contemplation, and Bucky can’t resist leaning forward for another quick peck, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile lingering on his lips to kiss you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager tangle.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going sack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your bundle of nerves. Your slick seeps through and turns the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky shoots his head up, clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo, slipping it between your legs. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent bedroom.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at a faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you give the sensation a short moment of consideration before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit. “Can I–” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could bust right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah– yes, yes please!” You shiver, eyes falling shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift impatiently. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. C’mon.”
The reminder is gentle but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“That's it. Good girl.” That proud look takes over his face again, the praise eliciting a whimper out of you before you can stop it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
It just feels so right.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindfolded into the pleasure.
“Bet that feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over him, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the line of his nose, the sweep of his shoulders, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly real. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. The subtle tension in his hands as they hold you, claim you, memorize you, are a wordless testament of the raw intensity that runs through his veins, leaving your body taut and starving for more. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, and the pull in your chest finally bursts, and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting at the sensations traveling from your core and spreading through your veins like electricity.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is commanding though you can see his throat bobbing shakily.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and clear this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
You want to be his good girl. You want him to be proud of you. You want him.
Your pussy clenches and aches for release, the vibrations are cruel, causing your mind to go rogue and indulging in fantasies of Bucky ordering you to come rather than just watch it happen passively.
“Why don’t you take it off your clit for me and fuck that sweet pussy now?”
You twitch, aching desperately with the need to put the toy back, to force yourself over the edge against his order, yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding the dildo inside your soaking core.
This is what you need. To be full, to be fucked. The stretch feels perfect, almost as though it belongs inside you.
“Shit, look at you taking it so good.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“Love when you say my name like that.” He grits out almost to himself, exhaling harshly. “Faster, baby, c’mon.”
You follow his order, thrusting harder, faster, your eyes rolling back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
You are a good girl. His good girl.
Just as you’re in the midst of exploring and pleasuring your own body, you experience the added sensation of Bucky’s hands– vast, warm, so familiar yet new as they explore your sides. They glide under your sweater, up and up, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as his gaze locks with your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, teasing his way down your body, leaving soft pecks that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs expertly brush your nipples, taking his time, indulging in every little moan and restrained gasp. Bucky plants two kisses on the swell of your breasts, then focuses on your already hard peaks. Both nipples receive the softest of nibbles and sweet suckles, the tip of his tongue playfully flicking them only to suck harder.
“Such pretty tits. Why were you hiding them from me, doll hm?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw to spit on your tongue. “Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his instruction, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. “Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
His answers is instant, attentive. “Please what? Talk to me baby, what do you want?”
It takes you a few tries to let the words out, arousal and embarrassment making it difficult to string a proper sentence together. “I want– fuck– I want you.” You eventually stammer.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your core. “Good girl, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. Fuck that pretty pussy nice and hard for me and you’ll have me.”
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs spreading impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That's it. Does it feel good to fill that pussy for me?”
For him. He has such a filthy mouth and it spurs you on even more. Covered in a sheen of sweat, you manage to answer him through the fog in your brain. “So good.”
His grin is something dirtily mocking. “It's been a long time since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my baby needs my cock to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
Overwhelmed, something breaks inside of you and you’re unable to hold anything back. With a raw moan you almost sob in frustration. “Please. Bucky please fuck me, need it so bad!”
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form, steady and safe, as you clench and ache and yearn. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Yes, yes! That’s what you need!
Nodding enthusiastically, you chase the climax that you’ve been greedily anticipating, only to realize it’s not going to happen like this. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, the pleasurable torture feels more like a cruel punishment, and you can’t help the dejected whimper that escapes your throat. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, his voice is not enough anymore.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress, the warmth of his skin on yours settling your rapidly unravelling nerves. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me”
“I need– can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit, can you?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I–I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam's apple bobbing, and his whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly swat your hand against yourself, glancing up at him to find him frozen, staring at your bare pussy, wet and shiny. You repeat the action, squeaking. “Like this.”
His nostrils flare, tongue licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into his coveted prey. “Sweet girl, you like getting your little pussy slapped?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me, princess.”
Fiercely determined to show him and thankful for finally getting some stimulation on your clit, you swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp slap. The shock of the impact makes your body lurch, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so hot and tender with the amount of attention it has been receiving from both you and Bucky, but the slap is a welcome change in sensation, spurring you closer to that final edge. Sliding the dildo back inside, you feel delirious with lust.
“Again.”
You strike your flesh harder this time, gasping at the delicious sting. The friction on your clit brings you dangerously close to your climax as you keep alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks. You’re not so sure you’d be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you to do it.
Humming thoughtfully, his cock hot and throbbing, still trapped in the confines of his wet underwear, Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“Maybe one day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pretty pussy.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His hand squish your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.” Maybe if he let you, you could come from slapping your pussy now. The thought of orgasming from something so depraved renews that spark of embarrassment, only serving to drive you deeper into this maddening lust.
“So fucking polite.” He growls. “Again.”
Your body jerks violently as the pain ricochets through your whole being. It feels so overwhelmingly good, every nerve alive and sore, tortured by this endless, pulsing arousal.
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “Bucky please! ’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “I know, princess. I know. One more thing and then I’ll let you come, okay?” You nod weakly, sniffling. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.”
You sob then, so broken and sensitive you aren’t sure how much more you can take.
His velvety voice rumbles against your neck. “Take the dildo out and turn it off for me.”
“But–” Bucky wants to punch himself in the nose at the look of pure misery on your face.
“Do you trust me, darling?” Humming dejected, your hand trembles as you whine at the loss, your hole clenching around nothing.
“Good girl. Breathe with me.”
You pull in some deep breaths, his hand flattening yours against his chest to follow his lead. Of course he wouldn’t leave you like this, and trying to fight off the fog clouding your brain, you wonder if he’s going to fuck you finally.
“Show me the toy.”
You balk at his request, somehow more self-conscious about this than the fact that you’ve been masturbating in front of your best friend for God knows how long.
Hesitant, you lift the damp dildo, and Bucky leans forward to inspect it.
“It’s soaked with your sweet pussy juice, doll.”
A surge of arousal boils in your veins at his words, prompting you to cover your face with your free hand, but Bucky promptly catches your wrist, gently bringing it back to its previous place.
“No need to be embarrassed, sweetheart. Take a look, you did so good for me.”
It’s not much of a surprise to you to find the dildo glistening, yet you bite your bottom lip out of mortification. The thing is, seeing the proof of your raging arousal standing proudly between you two shouldn’t make you leak so much.
Bucky smiles, before guiding you into an open-mouth kiss with a hand on your nape. “Look at you. You're so fucking gone, aren’t you?” He blabbers against your lips. “Beautiful… So, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
As you nod enthusiastically, still completely spaced out, he nods along with you. “Yeah, I know you do. C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
Turning the dildo back on, you notice that your wrist is a little sore, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop now.
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you start rubbing the toy around your nub, the sensation taking you higher and higher as the room is soon being filled with your lewd sounds. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors.
Bucky diverts your attention before you can get carried away, still cupping your cheeks and hovering over your lips. “Don’t you dare come without my permission, baby girl. I want to know when you’re close, alright?”
While your initial thought is to complain about having to wait a little longer, you bite your tongue and decide to not challenge his patience. The thought of being so obedient for him is too tantalizing to resist, so you do your best to hold back as each vibration hurls you towards your imminent climax.
“Fuck! I’m so close– Bucky please make me come. I can't– fuck.”
“Let go, doll. C’mon, you have been such a good girl for me. Soak it for me, make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps, his words forcing you over the edge and into pure oblivion. Electricity courses through your veins and your poor, abused pussy throbs and clenches, your whole body shuddering uncontrollably. You are on your knees, at your pleasure’s mercy, from your trembling thighs to the noises shamelessly falling from your parted lips. You’re barely able to register Bucky talking you through it, with you every step of the way.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect. Fuck, I want to keep you. Please let me keep you, angel. Love you so damn much.”
You have never had such an intense orgasm in your entire life, its power taking the breath from your lungs and leaving you floundering for some kind of stability.
“Deep breaths, honey, c’mon.”
Feeling entirely too sensitive now, you quickly yank the vibrator away, throwing it somewhere on the bed. You try to focus on your breathing as your head flops back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
“That’s it, good girl.”
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, as if trying to leave little pieces of himself along your skin. Until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers run from your clit down to your entrance. You flinch, body lighting up.
“Bucky–”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs, inviting your pussy to his hungry gaze.
“Haven’t finished with you yet, sweetheart. Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your pussy, his words sending shivers down your spine, his hot breath tickling your most intimate area. He lightly flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing you with delicate and precise touches that burn so deliciously.
You feel like your body is going to implode as his fingers slide back and forth between your lower lips, and without warning, he slips one inside, eliciting a strangled moan out of you. Almost immediately, he finds that spongy spot as he leans in to tease around your puffy lips with his teeth, grazing the meat until your hips twitch up with need. He thoroughly licks up the slickness from your inner thighs, savoring every drop of arousal from your previous release. Your body is slowly melting under his unhurried actions, until Bucky decides to attack your clit with his mouth and you flinch, feet digging into the bed as a yelp leaves your throat.
“Ah! Bucky!” You choke out, a hand coming to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
He knows you are especially sensitive, after all that relentless teasing and prolonged edging, but it only makes it better. “‘S okay, I've got you, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” With a mumble, he leaves a sweet kiss on your inner thigh, then slips another finger alongside the first one, making you cry out as he overstimulates your sweet spot.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily licking a long, slow strip from your clenching entrance all the way up to your pulsating clit, your natural scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. His saliva drips down his chin when his lips eagerly suckle on your sensitive nub, coaxing out desperate moans from your quivering lips. His need to please you is insatiable, and you can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. You are completely lost in this wild lust, so feverishly intense, that you are left trembling with pleasure, on the verge of transcending into another state of being. His actions are an overwhelming assault on your senses, your mind and body both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers thrusting so precisely inside your poor walls.
Bucky cannot escape the pleasure, his addiction to your unique flavor driving him to new heights of bliss. His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like an animal, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single touch of his cock.
At some point, he pulls away with a wet pop, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon, make a stupid mess on my face, beautiful.” He growls, voice husky with urgent arousal. His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds as he eagerly consumes you, his soft groans adding to the melody of pleasure filling the bedroom.
His fingers curl up, massaging that sweet, sweet spot of yours, so lost in the euphoria of it all that his arms shake with pent-up desire, his actions leaving you both teetering on the edge of sublime release.
“I’m gonna– fuck , please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. He’s a fucking beast as he devours you whole.
“That’s it, doll, give it to me. Grind on my tongue, just use my mouth.”
You obey, literally humping his face, convulsing under a thin layer of sweat. “‘M gonna come.” You sob. “Jamie– fuck!” His tongue abuses the poor bundle of nerves while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth and down his chin, soaking his stubble. He loves when you go limp in his hold, your whole body quivering under his palms.
“Shh-shh, you're okay, pretty.” He slowly retracts his fingers while keeping his eyes locked on your face, still dragging his lower face between your puffy folds, rubbing you raw with his facial hair to gather every bit of your orgasm. He brings his fingers to his mouth once he sits back on his heels, making a show of licking them clean before he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you, like an apology for being so needy.
“What?” You squeak, still dazed yet blinking at him, more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He pleads, his hand soothing along your hips and waist as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before you can beg to give it to you, a weight settles on your soppy core, hot and solid, sliding between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as Bucky thrusts forward, the underside of his length grinding along your heat, coating him in your slick.
“Shit.” He grits out.
Gaping, your hand slowly reaches down to grasp him. He’s so thick and heavy in your palm, throbbing with desire as precum dribbles from the bulbous tip and over your knuckles.
“Yeah, touch me like that, baby.” He rasps out, panting. “You’re so sweet to me. Letting me play with your pussy until you’re dumb and drooling and all pretty and relaxed for me.” He wraps his fingers around yours on his girth, tightening and squeezing the base. “There we go.” He grunts, bending down until there isn’t a sliver of air between you both.
You mewl pathetically, garbling nonsense. He’s deliciously mean as he lovingly bullies your clit with his cock. Your raw nerves burn with every thrust, your juices spilling down your ass. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, sweet girl? Wanna be my pretty slut, baby? Spend every day being stuffed full of my cock? You won’t have to think about anything, just be nice and wet for me. I’ll put it in your mouth, and then get you on your hands and knees just to spank your pretty ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you.” He chuckles darkly as your eyes glaze over and your breaths go thin and shaky, every cell in your body buzzing as you cling to his forearms.
“You feel me on your pretty button, baby?” He grinds again. “Poor little clit must feel so sensitive. Is that why you’re crying?”
Above you, Bucky curses, mouth watering at the sight of the creamy mess you made on his cock, soaking the bed and his thighs as well.
“Are you going to let me inside, baby girl? Fill you up with my seed, and watch it leak out because it’s too much for you to keep inside?”
“Please, please, Bucky.” You beg, nails digging into his skin. “‘M ready, so ready for you.” A pulse of agony beats through you.
He shushes your blabbering softly, cupping your cheek. “Alright, pretty girl. I'm here, just a little more patience.” The reverence in his blue eyes pours into your heart, unraveling in a delicious storm. “Thank you for letting me have you like this. Thank you for giving me the honor.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and incredibly gorgeous, staring down at you with his blue eyes so full of fondness, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down into another kiss– hard, and desperate, and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, tip of the nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in reverently, brought to his knees by three simple words. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you in my arms, and you’re mine– you are mine, right?”
“Wanna be yours, always have.” You whine, and with a broken groan, he caresses your hips, mapping out every inch of your body with his strong hands, kissing any part he can reach like this. He trails from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, capturing a nipple between his lips. Your arms hook over his shoulders to keep him close, softly moaning as he switches between your tits, his warm tongue taking care of both nubs thoroughly.
“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs, forcing himself to stay still as you adjust to his length teasing your entrance. “You’re gonna take it for me like a good girl, right?”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss that you break with a sharp cry when your hole starts stretching wide, welcoming the leaking tip with some resistance. Bucky initially distracts you with sweet pecks, but as he sinks into your warmth maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat.
“So deep.” You squeal, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so good. Jesus, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the head inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands coming to cling onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling more sensitive than before.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then shifts your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, and thrusts harder as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle sending your eyes back in your head.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” You reach around and dig your nails into his shoulders, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in your little details as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut every time your pussy pulses with a new sensation. At some point his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to pinch and rub your sensitive clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clamp involuntarily around him.
“That’s it, baby, there you go.” He coos, bullying your nub some more before he traps you completely under him on the rocking bed. His pecs press against your bouncing breasts, your sensitive nipples rubbed raw.
“I love you so much, sweetheart.” His tongue drags up your cheek, your bitter tears fueling his primal side as he stifles your wanton noises with his tongue, your lips and teeth clashing in a filthy kiss.
“Can feel you clench so hard, are you gonna squirt and make a stupid mess all over my cock?” His arms slide under your back, keeping you firmly against him with every rough thrust. “I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy and fill you up with all my love.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision and his muscled arms keeping you safe and still for him to play with you.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” He growls, pounding into you earnestly, panting like a feral beast. “This is my pussy now. Gotta keep you marked up, show everyone that you're my girl– shit.” His voice breaks when you clench, choking him. “Wanna be mine forever, sweetheart?”
It’s too much– his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering whatever pops into his head.
And you? You just take it. You take it and you scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close. You whine and your toes curl with each thrust, your hips trying to rock back onto his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body erupts in flames, and you squirt as Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the broken fountain making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, still fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. He needs to ruin you for anyone else, the only thought in your mind each time your fingers plunge into your pussy being him and only him.
You shake uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock, balls deep against your quivering, gushing hole.
He growls against your tear-stained cheek, every muscle contracting. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna come so fucking hard for you.” He repeats, his voice bordering on a snarl. “You are my girl now.” He pants, digging his fingers in the flesh of your ass. “Love fucking you, love watching you come, love you–”
Your vision is blurry, yet you don’t need it to know Bucky is completely surrounding you, from the heavy panting of his chest against yours to his damp skin sticking to your body. You decide to not acknowledge the creamy mess where you’re connected though, too embarrassed by what you have done. It’s intense, the way you’re so wet, warm and tight around him.
Bucky groans gutturally, harshly pressing his lips to yours, his face scrunched up tightly as he pins you down, not a sliver of space between you. “Fucking take it, fuck– take it, please–” His hot cum floods your ruined hole, spurting along your stretched walls to claim you fully. There’s so much that it spills out and down his pulsating length to his tense balls, joining your mess everywhere.
Bucky ends up collapsing against you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for who knows how long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet– and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax– so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewl when he finally reaches your mouth. Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey,” He clears his throat, voice still hoarse. “Are you okay?”
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. Bucky leans closer, resting his nose against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every damn bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel your trembling, the last threads of overstimulated energy slowly unraveling. He holds you tighter, hums a low, almost inaudible note against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
When he cradles your face in his hands, Bucky looks more lucid. “We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every thrum, every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble. Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall, tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars reflected in dark water, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, quiet worry, and secret yearning suddenly all converge in this single moment. His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
ending notes: I don’t do taglists anymore, sorry. thank you for reading!
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 16.3k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽. 1
a/n: due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist
synopsis:
After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.
After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.
But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.
When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.
“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.
“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”
Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.
She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.
You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.
“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”
Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.
“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.
And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.
“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.
They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.
You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.
You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.
Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.
“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”
“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”
“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”
Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”
You felt your body go rigid.
“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.
“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.
“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”
You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.
They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.
But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.
“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.
Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.
“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.
“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”
“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”
“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”
Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.
“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”
They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.
You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.
To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.
Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”
You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.
Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.
From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.
He had called you his girl.
He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.
But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.
“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.
“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”
Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.
You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.
You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.
His girl.
And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.
Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.
He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.
In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.
Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.
How dare you leave him?
He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.
He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.
Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.
A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.
Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.
“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”
Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”
“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”
Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.
Jamie.
His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.
“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.
“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”
The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.
He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.
But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.
He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.
“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.
“You called for me?”
Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.
Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.
Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.
Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.
“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”
Jamie stayed quiet.
Bucky took a step closer.
“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”
Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.
“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”
Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.
“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.
A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.
“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”
“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”
Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.
“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”
Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.
“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.
“Son—”
“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.
His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.
“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”
Princess Barnes?
Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.
No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.
Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.
“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”
It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.
He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.
“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.
“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”
“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.
“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.
Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.
“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.
But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.
“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”
And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.
Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.
“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”
Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.
“Son. Enough—”
“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”
Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.
“Jamie. Stop it—”
“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”
Propose?
Give you the world?
He wanted to give you the world?
Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.
Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.
The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.
His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.
Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.
“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”
“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.
“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.
“Jamie, that isn’t—”
“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.
He had hit his own son.
In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.
“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”
“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.
His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.
“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”
“Son, I—”
Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.
“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.
He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.
You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.
Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.
At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.
They weren’t just watching; they were searching.
You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.
They were looking for someone with very specific features.
They were looking for you.
You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.
You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.
A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.
“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”
The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.
“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”
“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”
The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”
The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.
“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”
The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.
“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”
The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.
“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”
Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.
He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.
“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.
He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”
The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.
“Thank you, miss—” he began.
As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.
The Barnes eyes.
Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.
The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.
It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.
If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.
You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.
To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.
Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”
He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”
“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”
Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.
“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.
You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.
If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.
“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.
You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.
Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.
You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.
You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.
Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.
You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.
“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.
He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.
“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.
“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.
A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.
“Hush now,” you murmured.
Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.
Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.
You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.
You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.
Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.
“Here,” you whispered.
You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.
Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”
There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.
Safe simply because of your presence.
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.
He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.
“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”
You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.
“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”
You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.
With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.
It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.
“Your Highness—”
“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”
Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.
“What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.
“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”
You held your breath, not daring to speak.
“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”
“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.
“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”
Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”
He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'
“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”
He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.
“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”
“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”
Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.
“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”
You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”
“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”
You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.
To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.
With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.
“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”
You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.
“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.
But Jamie didn’t budge.
“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”
For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.
With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.
“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.
“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”
You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”
“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.
“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”
He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”
“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”
Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.
“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”
“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”
Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.
He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.
“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”
You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am.”
You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.
You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.
If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.
You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.
“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”
Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.
Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”
You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.
“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”
Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.
As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.
“Is that Prince Jamie?”
“Look at the bruises on his face!”
“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”
“Is that why there are so many guards?”
One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.
“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”
Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”
The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”
Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”
But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.
You were nowhere to be seen.
You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.
Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.
“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am—”
You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.
“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.
It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.
With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.
Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.
He was looking for his son.
Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.
It was selfish.
It was sad.
It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.
As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”
You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?
As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.
Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.
The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.
Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.
It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.
Your glove.
“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.
You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.
You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?
He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”
As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.
“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.
At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.
“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.
“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”
Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”
“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.
They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.
Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.
“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”
Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.
She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”
Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”
Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.
His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.
“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”
Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”
Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.
“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”
As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.
“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.
“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.
Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.
In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.
Please, don’t be mad at me.
She’s going to kill me.
Save me, Bucky.
His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.
Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”
But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”
You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.
“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.
“I…”
“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”
But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.
You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.
You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.
In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.
“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.
It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.
You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.
Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.
He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.
“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”
As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.
You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.
Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.
He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.
“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”
Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.
She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.
“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”
“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”
He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.
“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.
“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”
Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”
He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”
All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.
Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.
Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.
“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.
Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.
“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”
Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.
“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”
Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.
“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”
The room suddenly went very quiet.
You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.
Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.
“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”
As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.
Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.
Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.
Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”
“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.
“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.
“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”
“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”
“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”
“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”
“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.
After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.
“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.
With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.
As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.
Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.
You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.
“Your Majesty—”
“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”
He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.
“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.
He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.
“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.
“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”
Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”
You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”
Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.
“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”
Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.
“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”
While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.
“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”
His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.
“I finally get to have you.”
Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.
He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.
A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.
“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.
“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”
“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”
As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.
With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.
Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.
It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.
“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”
He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.
“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”
Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.
“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”
He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.
“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”
A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.
“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”
Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.
“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”
You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.
Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.
A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.
“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.
Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.
His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.
He wanted everything.
When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.
Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.
“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”
He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.
He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”
“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”
Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.
The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.
“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”
He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”
Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.
“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”
But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.
Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.
“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”
He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”
His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.
“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”
Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.
You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.
“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”
You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.
“Good.”
He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.
“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.
You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.
He wanted to savor all of this.
He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.
But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.
As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.
“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”
“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.
He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.
His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.
“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.
“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.
The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more.
He needed more.
“Bucky! Ah—!”
The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.
“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”
He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.
“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”
Wife.
You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.
The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.
Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”
He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.
“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.
“M’gonna—mph—cum…”
Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.
You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.
He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.
“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.
“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”
Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.
He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.
“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”
He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.
“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”
The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.
You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.
“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”
Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.
“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.
“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”
He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.
For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.
He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.
Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”
When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.
Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.
“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.
Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.
“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.
“You guys look rough.”
thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!
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summary: The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
a/n: this is part of the bwa series!! much love to you all and thanks for listening to me saying "i'm cooked" over and over and also with your help with bringing this fic to life!! also wanna shout out my bestie, @salty-tang, who has heard me go on and on about this fic and helped flesh out my ramblings. love you bestie!! <33
"Alright, here are your lab partners for the next two weeks."
Your professor unpauses the projector screen, revealing two columns of names. You search for yours, flicking through the blur of pixels until you land on yours.
Yours on the left. On the right: James Barnes
Four weeks. You'd managed to avoid working with Bucky Barnes—'the best linebacker' on the football team —for four weeks. Twenty days of complete bliss. 480 hours of not hearing his whining and complaining about how your friend allegedly cheated on Steve Rogers. It was a whole big deal where Bucky took Steve's side and you took your friend's side. Naturally. They kissed and made up, but you and Bucky; well, you couldn't get past the misunderstanding. So here you are, at each other's throats while Steve and his girlfriend are living happily ever after.
Steve isn't in this class, but John and Sam are. They make a ruckus over the fact that you and Bucky are lab partners, because why not? John's always kissing Steve's ass, trying to secure his spot as the back-up quarterback, and Sam constantly teases Bucky over every single aspect of his life.
"Gentlemen, enough," the professor says, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "This is a biology lab, not the locker room. I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."
The commotion dies down, but you can still hear John and Sam's hushed voices.
This is exactly why you don't talk to anyone outside of the music department. It's a landmine of passive agressive comments disguised as small talk.
You avoid the jocks at all costs. They're a loud, obnoxious presence wherever they flock to. Their entire personality is Liberty Knights this, Liberty Knights that, never knowing when to shut up about Brooklyn Western Academy's football team. It truly feels like they peaked in high school and make it everyone else's problem.
But having to work one-on-one with Bucky? Impossible. The worst. He hates your guts and never takes anything seriously—a horrible combination, really.
You're trying to take notes on the professor's lecture, but your thoughts are on an endless loop, drowning out his procedures. You start to doodle in your notebook, hoping to take your mind off of Bucky, but you can't help but feel like someone is watching you.
You sneak a peek over at the jocks and Bucky is staring at you. Fuck, why is he staring at you? He never looks at you. Actively avoids it, actually. Does he really hate that he has to work with you that much? Is he trying to find a way to switch partners because he can't stand the thought of being next to you?
This is going to be a long two weeks.
"Okay, Barnes, here are the ground rules," you start when you both meet at the lab table. He cocks an eyebrow. "Rule #1: I'm not doing all of the work in this lab. You have to contribute your share." He opens his mouth but you barrel over him. "Rule #2: I'm going to get an A on this, so you better lock the fuck in. Rule #3: We need to set a strict schedule of when we work on this lab. I don't care if it's during your…" you gesture toward the table Bucky and his friends were sitting at. "whatever you guys do. We need to stay consistent."
"Consistent… Well, what days work best for you, princess?"
You blink at him twice, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "Did you just call me princess?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know. Did I?"
A flush spreads across your cheeks, hot and intruding. You know what, we're not gonna deal with that right now.
"Most mornings between 9am and 11am," you say after taking a breath. "Don't even think about nights. I have rehearsal."
He groans, rolling his eyes, the icy blue eclipsed by flesh. "Rehearsal. Right. Well, I can't do mornings."
You cross your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him. "What, cause you're too hungover? Or do you have 'practice' at that time."
"No, I have class in the morning." He pauses. "Then practice."
"Well, when are you not busy?"
He thinks for a moment. "The weekends?"
"The weekends."
"Yep. That's when I'm free."
"Can you give me a time frame or…?"
"How about you give me a time frame and I'll work around it." His tone is condescending. And you don't like that.
"Fine. 10am to 5pm. Either day. Can you work around that?" you ask, the words dripping with sarcasm.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." Gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. "Saturdays at 2pm."
"Perfect." You start to gather your things. "Guess I'll see you—"
"We should exchange phone numbers or something." He clears his throat. "For the lab. For easy communication."
"I check my email daily. Email is fine." He should also be checking his email.
He's silent for a moment. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. "My notifications don't always show up right away on my phone. Wouldn't want to leave you hanging if something comes up."
"Okay… Do you use Instagram?" you ask him this knowing damn well he does, his profile always popping up in your recommended accounts. "We could use that."
He shrugs, pulling out his phone. "That works. What's your username?"
You give it and he friends you. The request notification pops up and you accept it. His profile is public, of course.
Another notification appears.
[jbbarnes] sup
"There," he says, pocketing his phone into his varsity jacket. "Now you can message me whenever." Hopefully it isn't always this dry.
"Mhm, yup." You stuff your belongings into your bag. "Whenever…"
Ever since you friended Bucky on Instagram, the app taunted you. It's not your preferred social media choice—you mainly downloaded it to keep in touch with friends and family—but you use it enough to warrant the amount of storage it takes up on your phone. A post will appear once every three months or so, something to show your mom that you're not dead, but that's about the extent of your profile.
There's nothing exciting about the pictures—you don't bother with the filters, the captions are basic—so why are you now worrying about each post at 1am? Why are you wishing that you'd taken the extra five minutes to choose a filter or two?
You tap the direct messages icon. The top message stares at you.
[jbbarnes] sup — 14h
It's unopened. Which is fine. It's not like there's anything else to it, right? You watched him type it. It took a second, maybe less. Case closed.
Yet your finger hovers over his username. What if he put something else? What if he included some important information that you've missed for fourteen hours?
You should check it. Just one tap… It's harmless; he sent you it for a reason. Just. Open. It.
With a shaking finger, you tap the screen.
sup
One bubble. One word. Nothing more, nothing less.
You throw your head back and groan, the cement wall doing nothing to help the headache that's been simmering for an hour. Why is one message bothering you so much? Let alone one from Bucky Barnes?
It's fine. Just swipe out of the conversation and move on. Time to put Instagram away.
You tap on his username instead. What are you doing?? Put. the phone. down. Nothing productive will come out of this, and you know that.
You stare at his profile.
James "Bucky" Barnes
no pen or paper but i still draw attention
BWA class of '27
sc: jbbarnes
Oh, this is the worst. This man seriously wants to be a physical therapist? You roll your eyes. There's no way. No way he'll make it past undergrad. Not with the way he's constantly partying and at practice and lifting weights and—
A picture catches your eye. It's the third post down where he's laid down on the bench press seat, mid-rep, and holy shit he's ripped. You tap on the post and bring your phone closer, counting each ab muscle adorning his torso. One, two, three… How the fuck does he have an eight pack?
Then your eyes travel down farther, down to his gym shorts, where he's…
All of the moisture in your mouth dries up as you stare at the outline of his dick and travels straight down to your core. No, this isn't… You don't like him…
You shift in bed, the creak of the cheap mattress frame assaulting the stillness of your room. You don't like him. Any other person would have the same reaction. Especially since he's very… large…
Enough of that. It's really getting late and you have class tomorrow.
You click on his most recent post. A team photo with 'the boys.' Steve is in the middle, his signature golden boy smile beaming and Bucky next to him with a smirk, holding up bunny ears behind Steve's head. Sam is arm in arm with Joaquin; John is behind them, trying desperately to push his way in. By some miracle, Pietro is stood still, pointing finger guns at the camera. And to round it all out, Thor, the Norwegian exchange student, is holding up Bob with one arm, his bicep fully flexed and on display. You're unsure as to why Bob is there—isn't he the water boy?
And the caption: someone call the weatherman cuz we making it rain
God, where does he find these?
You click into the comments.
captain_rogers: best team in all of brooklyn
jbbarnes: best team in all of new york
captain_walker2: i think u forgot to tag me barnes
wingmanwilson: my boys 😤
jbbarnes: the boys of bwa
captain_walker2: barnes, can i get a tag?
cucumber_bob453: omg im part of the boys now??
jbbarnes: you've always been part of the boys bob
captain_walker2: tag?
A chuckle escapes your lips. It's entertaining how much John is trying to fit in with them all. It shouldn't be that hard, but there's just… something about him that doesn't mesh with the others.
You scroll down to the next post. Bucky's smiling at the camera—eyes crinkling and a small dimple formed on his right cheek—with his arm around Sharon Carter.
A strange feeling tugs at your heart. Seeing him there with Sharon. You shake your head, erasing the thoughts faster than they arrived.
You scroll through his posts faster now, catching glimpses of more muscles and smiles and football games. He's not… unattractive. The dimple is cute. He's got nice facial structure. Middle of the run nose. And his eyes… Piercing blue. Almost green in some lighting. He's the opposite of unattractive. Not like you'd actually admit any of this to anyone.
You turn off your phone with a groan. You're not attracted to Bucky Barnes. He's annoying. He's a jock, of all things.
But your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. And there's another body part that's pounding—
Enough! The phone is off. The thoughts need to be turned off. Go. to. sleep!
You sigh and pull the covers up around your shoulders, ignoring—but failing—to think of the boy with piercing blue eyes and shaggy brunet hair.
Bucky's not sure when you started hating him.
No, that's a lie. He knows when you started. He's just unsure as to why you still do.
After Steve and his girlfriend made up, Bucky thought that the two of you would go back to mutually watching each other from the football field. He'd watch you in the stands, laughing at something the person next to you said, and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.
You were infectious. Not in a diseased way, but in the way you laughed. The way you smiled at everyone while walking across campus. Except for when he passed by and you'd avert your eyes quickly, finding a leaf or pebble to stare at on the sidewalk.
But the times your eyes would find his? When you'd brush the hair out of your face after playing the school song and see him on the field? It felt like magic. Like he could survive off of your gaze and nothing else. He would drop everything to go up there and say something that made you smile. He would take any punishment from his coach to drop the ball and pull you over the railing and kiss you.
The only issue: you still hate him.
It's the Saturday after you two were paired up as lab partners.
He opens the door to the seemingly empty biology, immediately hit with the sharp smell of alcohol and sterilizing agents.
You're already at the counter, stacking the petri dishes and gathering the swabs for the lab. He looks at his phone, checking the time. He wanted to get here a couple of minutes early to ensure everything was in place, but you beat him.
"When did you get here?" he asks, watching your diligence over the lab materials.
You jump and whip your head toward him, sending the petri dishes clattering along the counter. "Christ, Barnes, where did you come from?" you shriek, gripping your chest.
He glances at the entrance to the lab. "Last I checked, the only way to get in was through that door."
Your eyes roll. "No shit, Sherlock. You just, fuck, you scared me. Do you have silencing shoes or something?"
A chuckle. "Nah, I'm just agile. It comes with the training."
"Agile. Noted."
He nods and a smile creeps up on him again. Get it together, Barnes, or else she's going to think you're a creeper or something.
He clears his throat and moves closer to the counter, grabbing the dishes and stacking them the way you initially organized them. "So what's on the agenda for today?"
You watch his hands, almost transfixed with the movements, then realized he asked you a question. You blink up at him. "Wh-What? Sorry, what did you say?"
"What's on the agenda for today?"
"Oh, well, we have to check the dishes from Thursday, record those findings, then start the next batch."
"Got it. I can start on the batch from Thursday if you want to start the next batch?"
You nod. "Just don't mess it up."
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, bringing his hand up to his forehead in mock salute.
You roll your eyes again and turn away from him quickly, burying your head in your spiral notebook. He swears he sees the flushing of your cheeks but doesn't want to get any closer. It seems like you're opening up to him and he doesn't want to ruin that. So he'll tread carefully. He can be patient.
The two of you work in silence. Bucky brings his own lab notebook to check on Thursday's batch, while you diligently swab the new bacteria. The silence is comfortable; not tense, not demanding, just there. A soothing rhythm of pencils scratching against paper, the clink of plastic, and each other's breath.
"So, uhm," Bucky starts, finishing up his writings. "Are you excited for next week's game?"
You look up at him and nod, humming in response. "Of course. You?"
He smirks. "Of course. It's my favorite day of the week."
The corner of your mouth tugs upward. "Makes sense."
"Well, that's my entire personality, right? Might as well stay consistent."
He walks closer to you, tossing his notebook down on the counter. "As they say, consistency is key, Barnes."
He pauses for a moment. "Tell me, what's the instrument you play? The brassy one?"
You raise an eyebrow at him. "'The brassy one?' Thanks for the specificity. So helpful."
"Okay, you can't blame me. I don't know the instruments. Just trumpet, brass, flute…"
You laugh. A genuine laugh that makes him want to grab you by the waist and dip you into an earth-shattering kiss right in the middle of this biology lab.
"Ah, yes, the three instrument families: trumpet, brass, and flute."
He smiles, unable to hold back the joy that's been aching in his heart for weeks. Months, even. "Please just tell me. Put me out of my misery already."
You wipe a tear from your eye, small laughs escaping here and there. "Mellophone. I play the mellophone for pep band, but french horn for concert band."
"Mellophone," he says, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. "Hmm. And french horn? A woman of many talents, I see."
That almost-blush from before returns, dusting the tips of your ears pink. "It-It's basically the same. Nothing too fancy about it." Your eyes flick away from him now and you busy your hands with the collected samples.
No, don't look away he wants to say. He wants to see the way your eyes light up when you talk about playing your instrument. He wants to make you laugh again, hypnotizing him with the way it pitches up first and then comes back down. He's an addict and he needs more.
"Earth to Barnes," he hears, a hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, are you in there? Did you get lost?"
His vision focuses back on you, your figure sharpening in front of him, now standing. "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Did you say something?"
"Yeah. I said do you think we're done here? I've got all the samples we need and I assumed you finished up over there." You raise your eyebrow again, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Did I bore you with my music talk?"
"No, no, not at all," he says, shaking his head vigorously. The exact opposite, actually. "I was just.. Also thinking about the fact that we're done here." But he really, truly doesn't want to be done here. Would you say no if he asked you to go to the cafe on campus? Probably. The last thing he wants is for all the progress he's made to be for nothing. One step forward, two steps back?
"Great. Yup. All done here…" you say, dragging out your words a little too long. "I'll, uhm, I'll see you on Monday? For class?"
Your tone sounds reluctant, like you maybe don't want to go either?
He should just do it. Just ask. He opens his mouth, about to say it. Saying it… Asking you to go to the campus cafe…
"Yeah, for sure. See you on Monday."
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Barnes, you fucking idiot!
All the muscles in your face relax into… disappointment? Goddamnit, Barnes. Save it. Save this. Don't make her frown.
You just nod solemnly and shuffle out of the lab.
And he just watches you leave like a fucking idiot.
Whoever invented brass instruments clearly forgot to take into account that it might be played outside. And the fact that prime marching band season is, in fact, during September, one of the hottest months of the year.
Whoever that person is, you'd like to have a nice, long conversation with them, because your mellophone keeps slipping out of your hands and almost hitting the turf beneath your feet.
Because of the heat, marching band practice has to take place at 8am on a Sunday. You'd much rather be anywhere else than the football practice field at 8am on a Sunday, but such is the life of a music major.
"Okay, everyone, gush and go!" your director calls from the bleachers on the megaphone.
In an instant, 150 band members are running to their water bottles on the sidelines of the field and chugging as fast as they can. You almost crash into five separate people on the way to your bottle, but you get there eventually and spray the stream into your mouth.
"Did you save any for me?" Natasha asks as she walks up to you, her tone light and teasing. Even with the 80 degree weather, she somehow hasn't broken a sweat.
You take a breath after drinking and say, "I sure hope you brought your own. If not, rookie mistake."
She smirks. "Oh, I did. I just like to keep you on your toes."
"Ha ha," you deadpan, wiping the corners of your mouth. "But seriously, don't scare me like that."
"Like I said, I gotta keep you on your toes. Expect the unexpected and all that jazz."
You take another long swig before your director calls out again. "Times up! Back to set one!"
Natasha salutes to you and you salute back before running to your respective sections; one flute, one mellophone.
The drum major commands the band to attention and blows their whistle, signaling the tempo of the first song. Your instrument is up—lips to mouthpiece—and you take a breath on the fourth whistle.
The band moves for the first eight bars, completing the drill without a hitch. Then the next eight bars are played with no movement—a rest during the hardest part of the song.
You're about to transition into the next set— your eyes straight ahead and body aware of the people around you—until a blur of movement pulls you from your focus.
The first rule of marching band: don't let distractions mess up the set. (At least, according to your band director. Is it true? Who knows.) Focus is key or else the entire set goes to shit.
Any other time, you'd ignore the blur. Students go on runs through this part of campus all the time. However, this blur looks familiar. The body type, the backwards baseball cap, the kinesiology tape wrapped around the left shoulder. You've seen this body in plenty of Instagram pictures.
Focus. You have to focus. One diagonal step at a time.
Your heart rate picks up as he gets closer and you notice that he's shirtless. Eight pack out and visible for everyone to see. Glistening pecs and pumping biceps. This is different than seeing a still picture. This is real. He's right there.
Before your feet can catch up with your brain, you miss a step. You trip over your own feet, one ankle crossing over the other, which sends you hurtling toward the mello player next to you.
The second rule of marching band? Protect the instruments at all cost. Especially since you're liable for any damage done to the instrument while in your possession.
Don't let it smash into the ground, please, please, please.
You lift the mello up as high as you can while crashing toward the turf, hoping and praying that anything but your instrument is damaged. You'll take a broken bone, a scraped knee, even a brusied ego, but your lack of funds cannot take mellophone damage.
The fall rattles your bones, sending shockwaves from your hip and throughout your body. Somewhere on the way down, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't want to bear witness to any damage to the precious piece of metal in your grasp.
This is not happening. Nope, not at all. There are not people crashing around you. There are no grunts and gasps traveling throughout the mellophone section and into the trumpet section. How could there be, when your eyes are shut?
You're going to just stay here. This patch of the turf? Your new home. What a comfortable spot. It's lovely, isn't it?
Your band director is calling your name. Or maybe this is a hallucination. Maybe you fell asleep and you're taking a nice nap in the sun, the rays beating down and warming your skin.
You've almost convinced yourself until the weight of your mellophone is no longer being held up by your hand. You pry open an eye, preparing for the worst possible outcome—your band director towering over you—but instead, you're met with the unexpected.
Bucky Barnes is stood in front of you, setting down your instrument gently on the turf. You open your other eye, taking in the full image. His chisled body is absolutely drenched in sweat, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You can see your frazzled reflection in his sunglasses and cringe. Your hair is plastered to your face and somehow also sticking up on the other side of your head. Your face can best be described as a tomato.
But, by some miracle, Bucky extends his hand out to you. You can't quite see his eyes through the sunglasses, but if you had to guess, he might look concerned.
You stare at his hand. Do you take the help and be mortified forever? Or do you suck it up and stand on your own?
Bucky doesn't give you the chance to decide, and instead takes the hand that you still haven't put down. His skin is warm and calloused—lighting up the nerve endings of your palm—yet he touches you like you're glass. Like one wrong move could cause irreparable damage.
He's helping you up now, his other hand a warm presence on your hip as you stumble. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. Your heart skips a beat, unsure how to process the gentleness of his tone.
"Th-Thanks," you stutter, your voice almost as unstable as your legs. "I'm good now. You can let me go."
He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You're shaking. Let's get you to the bleachers."
You look down at your hands and, sure enough, your fingers are moving uncontrollably.
"It's fine, I can make it—"
Bucky cuts you off by moving, the hand at your hip gripping ever so slightly. "Just let me do this, sweetheart. Let me help you."
Oh, God. Sweetheart. Sweetheart? This sweetheart is different than the one from the lab earlier. His voice is soothing, sweet, tender, where the first one was nothing but sharp around the edges. Mocking.
You might just melt by the time you get to the bleachers.
"My instrument—"
"Ava will get it. I've got you."
You sigh, finally giving into his touch, leaning into it just a bit more.
You let him walk you across the field and set you down gently on the bleachers, his warm touch replaced with the aggressive bite of the metal.
His reaches toward you for a moment before recoiling back. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, concern laced through each consonant and vowel.
You nod and swallow quickly, finding your voice as his naked torso comes back into view. "Thanks, Barnes."
It's his turn to nod—a quick bob of his head—before he runs off, returning to his previous route.
Before you can say anything, you're swarmed with a hoard of people. Your director, the drum major, section leaders, the whole nine yards. They're asking you questions, but you don't hear them. All you see is Bucky's retreating form, jogging away from the field with long strides.
"School song everyone! School song!"
At the drum majors command, all band members clambor from their seats, fumbling with instruments and flip folders until the school song is found.
The Liberty Knights scored the winning touchdown for Brooklyn Western Academy. The crowd went wild, cheers erupting throughout, the parents of the players hugging and pumping cardboard cutouts of their faces.
To continue the celebration, the pep band plays the school song at top volume. It might not sound like a symphony, but tone quality is not the main focus here. This is about pep and energy, and with a large band, that is more than delivered at the end of the game.
The school song is played with an intensity unmatched to previous games. Excitement is at an all-time high! The boys of BWA will be advancing to the playoffs! Who wouldn't be excited?
"Are you pumped for the next game?" Kate asks you as you both pack up your instruments.
You shrug, shutting your case closed and snapping the latches shut. "It's kinda like every other game, right? We play, we play some more, we watch a game we pretend to know, we play, then the team wins. Then onto the next one." You grab the handle of the case and pick it up. "Don't get me wrong; I love playing pep band. It's a great time. But football? Not as much of a great time."
Kate shoves you playfully and looks at the field. "You're not having a good time staring at Barnes's ass?"
Your face flushes hot. "I don't— I'm not—" She's laughing as you sputter. "Okay, fuck you, Bishop. Not funny."
"It's kinda funny—"
"Not. Funny."
She holds her hands up in surrender, her case swinging back and forth from one. "Okay, okay, fine. Not funny. Apologies." Another giggle escapes. "But maybe you should make your staring less apparent if you don't want people to notice."
You glare at her. "That's it. Friendship over. You can play the 2nd horn parts by yourself now." You walk away from her, starting your descent down the bleacher steps.
"Wait, wait, I'm sorry!" she calls after you, scurrying to follow. "I take it back. I have noticed zero staring. No staring ever. On my life."
You look over your shoulder and grin. "Apology accepted. Friendship back on. 2nd horn partner reinstated."
"Phew! Don't scare me like that. I don't think I'd ever recover."
You let out a short laugh, reaching the bottom of the steps. Natasha is waiting there for you, her purple and gold uniform gleaming under the lights.
"Nat! We missed you!" Kate calls, giving her a hug. "I still would love to know how you never break a sweat in that uniform."
Natasha smiles. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. I'm sworn to secrecy."
You roll your eyes. "Okay, Miss Mysterious. We get it. You've been blessed with perfect genes. No need to rub it in our faces."
"But where's the fun in that?" She holds her hand out, gesturing to your case. "Here, let me help you."
Your eyebrows furrow. This is out of the ordinary for Natasha. "What? Why?"
"Barnes is waiting for you behind the bleachers. He said something about a lab project?"
Your heart does a flip. It's been almost a week since the marching band practice fiasco. You've interacted with Bucky during biology, but nothing more than working on your samples in a class full of students. Therefore, you haven't had a moment alone since causing a crash in the middle of the practice field.
"Lab project… Right. Okay." You hand her your case. "Take care of her, okay? I'll hunt you down if you don't"
"Oh, I know you will." She lets out a small laugh. "Okay, go. You know how impatient he is."
Did you though? She said that like you've been friends for ages.
"Alright, alright. Going."
You round the corner before you hear, "Text me later!"
This is sounding more and more like a setup.
Underneath the bleachers, Bucky is leaning up against one of the supporting beams, arms crossed and one foot pressed against the beam. His protective gear is off, leaving him in his jersey and those ridiculously tight pants.
When he spots you, he pushes himself up and walks over to you. "Hey," he says, almost breathlessly.
You quirk up a brow. "Hey," you say, your doubt creeping into your tone. "Nat said something about our lab project?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"
"Barnes, this is not the time to tell me that you have some event or practice or whatever that has suddenly come up and you can't finish the lab so I have to do it myself."
His hairline shoots up. "No! No, it's not that. Fuck, it's not that…"
You cross your arms over your chest, frustration oozing out of your skin. "Okay, then what the fuck is it?"
"I… Well, I've been thinking—"
"A feat for you, truly—"
"About— hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"
You shake your head. "Just spit it out already."
"Fine, whatever." His hand goes back to his neck, then says your name. "I was thinking… Would you maybe want to, I don't know… Go on a date or something?"
Did you hear that correctly? "A… date?" He nods. "You're asking me out…" He nods again.
After a few long moments, a laugh bursts out of you. "Oh— You're kidding right? This is a joke." You wipe the corners of your eyes. "Barnes, you're funny. You're hilarious. Who put you up to this? Was it Sam? Steve wouldn't be the type to do this… Oh, I know. It's John. Am I right? John bet you to ask me out. Is this what will finally get him into the cool kid club?"
Then, you look at him. He's not… Oh, shit he's not laughing. Your stomach drops. He almost looks hurt. Like you just kicked his puppy and laughed until your stomach ached.
His eyes travel to the ground, searching for something to latch onto. "You know what, just— Fuck, just forget I asked, okay?" He turns and starts to walk away, but you can hear him muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"
Shit, you gotta fix this and fast. "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to— Barnes, wait!" you call out to him, running after him. You grab his hand and give him a tug so he faces you. "Are you being serious? Is this serious?"
He catches your eyes for a moment then looks down.
"Bucky, I— I thought you hated me."
This brings his gaze back up to yours. "You thought I hated— I thought you hated me!"
"Because I thought you hated me."
He blinks once. Then twice. "I don't. I mean, I did just try to ask you out…"
You're at a loss for words, staring into his eyes and searching for an answer. "But Steve and… You hated me for taking her side." You shrug. "I hated you for taking Steve's, but that's besides the point. You really don't hate me?"
He scoffs, dragging his hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm an idiot. I should've just said something. Stupid, stupid—"
His rambling is cut off with the softness of your lips on his.
You pull away for a moment and murmur against his lips. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."
His lips crash against yours—hard and relentless—his tongue running along the seam, begging for entrance. You part them, welcoming the intrusion with open arms.
The kiss is electric. His lips are as soft as you imagined them, softer than any other man you've dated. He's intoxicating and you can't get enough.
In a flash, he's pushing you up against the beam he occupied earlier, pressing up into your body like he needed it to live.
"Bucky, fuck—" you manage to gasp out between kissing, moaning as he moves to your neck. Your hands grip his arms, nails digging into the rigid muscle. "Bucky, what if someone sees—"
"Then let them," he mutters into your skin, the vibrations sending heat down to your core. "I've waited too long for this, sweetheart."
A gasp escapes your parted lips as his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your pants. "What are you—fuck," you hiss as his fingers run over your clothed folds, then pressing gently onto your clit. "Bucky, this is a bad idea."
He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, pulling another moan from your mouth. "But you want this, right?" He looks up at you, eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell me to stop. Say the word and I will."
You don't. You don't want him to stop. That's the last thing you want him to do. But he chose a really poor place for it to happen.
You return his look, panting down at him with swollen lips, and don't say a word.
He grins and presses against your clit again, harder this time. You moan and buck your hips forward, searching for more pressure. "Gonna make you feel good, okay? Gonna take care of you."
He pushes your panties to the side and slips two fingers into your folds, collecting some of your slick and spreading it upward. "Fuck, you're already wet for me?" You nod, delirious from his touch. "Of course you are, baby. You've wanted this all along. Wanted me."
"God, Bucky, yes," you groan, growing impatient. "Please, I want you."
"Alright, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you…" He plunges a finger into your cunt, grinning at the way you clench around him. "Oh, s'that what you want? You want that, baby?" You nod vigorously. He pushes in another finger, making you hiss at the stretch. "You're takin' it so well, doin' such a good job for me…"
"More, Bucky, please…" you beg, rolling your hips until his thumb hits your clit. "Th-There, please. Want that too…"
"Don't you worry, I'll make you feel good. You want it like this?" His fingers start pumping inside of you while his thumb rubs circles over your clit.
The moan that comes out of you is loud. Loud enough that Bucky covers your mouth with his other hand. "Shh, baby, gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone hearin' us."
He pumps faster, each drag of his fingers pulling a needier moan from your covered mouth. You clench around him, feeling your release getting closer and closer.
"Bucky," you moan against his hand, but it comes out muffled.
"That's it, baby. You gonna come for me?"
"Mhm…"
He increases his speed, soft squelching coming from your cunt. You're gripping onto him like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, you might lose yourself all together.
You squeeze his arm twice. "Buck."
He looks up, concentration etched on his face, and sees your face contorted in pleasure. "You ready to come for me, baby? Gonna come around my fingers?"
He lifts his hand up enough for you to speak. "Yes, Bucky, fuck, I'm— Shit, fuck, I'm gonna—" The band in your belly is threatening to snap. "Jus' like that— Fuck, yes! I'm gonna—!"
White, hot pleasure floods through your veins as Bucky fingers you through your release. Your thighs are trembling, your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers.
Bucky says your name, whispering it against your skin. "Yes, sweetheart. You look so pretty when you come…"
After you're done and spent, you rest your head against the metal beam, panting heavily as Bucky removes his fingers. You whimper at the loss, a soft moan escaping your lips.
He wipes your slick on his pants and uses his other hand to move the hair covering your face, kissing your forehead once it's out of the way. "You did such a good job for me… Fuck, please let me do that again."
You let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe on a bed next time?"
He grins. "A bed would be great."
A moment passes filled with breath. Your heavy, gulping ones and his soft, warm ones against your skin.
"Alright, Barnes," you say once your lungs are working normally. "Pull down those skin-tight pants."
"Wh-What?" he sputters, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?"
You gather up your hair behind your head and wrap a hair tie around it. "You want me to return the favor, right?"
He stays frozen for a second longer, then his thumbs start pushing his pants down.
Not two seconds later, Steve rounds the corner of the bleachers. "Buck, where the fuck are you?"
You and Bucky's eyes meet, both pairs widening. He yanks his pants back up and tries to pull his jersey down to cover his growing boner.
When Steve finally spots the two of you, his eyes narrow at Bucky. "Buck. What in the hell are you doing back here?"
"Well, we were.. we were talking about our lab project! Right?" He turns to you and says your name. "Biology lab project."
"Mhm, yup," you say, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest. "Biology lab."
Steve looks between the two of you, taking in the flush across your cheeks and Bucky's failed attempt at hiding his boner. "I—I'm just not going to ask. But Buck, we need you for the team picture."
You press your lips together, the laugh threatening to escape.
"The picture, right… How could I forget?" Bucky sends you daggers with his eyes. "Let's get to it then, Rogers."
It takes every cell of your being to withhold your laughter until the two of them round the corner. Then, and only then, do you release it.
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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Summary- You hated how everyone loved him. You were polar opposites, bucky was his fraternity president and you an alternative 'outcast'. Opposites definitely don't attract...or do they?
Warnings- College/uni AU, enemies to lovers kinda, mean reader, bully walker, slow burn, secret mutual pining, yearning. Angst, fluff, eventual smut. Chapters will have individual warnings.
Status- ongoing!!
AN: i love this au and trope so i hope you all enjoy, 10 things i hate about you inspired
Summary- You hated how everyone loved him. You were polar opposites, bucky was his fraternity president and you an alternative 'outcast'. Opposites definitely don't attract...or do they?
Word count- 2.3k
Warnings- Walker being a bully and just a prick, angst, yearning bucky, just angst really, tintsy possible fluff near the end. Not proof read/ part wrote on phone
AN: part 3 coming soon :) let me know if you wanna be in the tag list
My masterlist
[1] [2]
The cafeteria was loud enough that you should’ve been able to disappear into the noise, clattering trays, espresso machines hissing, someone’s terrible indie playlist crackling through a phone speaker a few tables over. Perfect place to forget the way bucky had looked at you a few days earlier.
Except you couldn’t forget. Not when the memory kept replaying like a glitching video. Yelena plopped her tray down across from you, sliding into the seat with the grace of a brick wall. “Okay. Spill.”
“Theres nothing to spill Lena.” You muttered, stabbing your fork into your pasta like It had personally offended you. “Mm.” She took a sip of her drink. “Then why are you staring at your food like it’s going to turn into him.”
You choked. “Yelena.” She smirked. “Barnes flavoured soup. I told you!” You were about to argue again when something prickled at the back of your neck. A strange, heavy awareness. You didn’t want to look. You really didn’t. But you did.
Across the cafe, at the table full of football players and frat boys, Bucky Barnes was staring at you. Not glancing, not peaking, staring.
Elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand, blue eyes locked onto you like you were the only person in the room. His friends were talking, laughing, shoving each other, but he wasn’t paying attention to any of it.
He was watching.
You stomach flipped so violently you nearly dropped your fork. Yelena followed your gaze, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh. Ohhhh. Hes not even being subtle.”
“Shut up.” You hissed, heat crawling up your neck. “I’m just saying” She whispered, leaning in. “If a man looked at me like that, I’d be pregnant.”
“Yelena!” your voice was aloud whisper
Before you could tell her to be quiet, walker noticed. You saw it happen, the moment his eyes tracked buckys line of sight, then landed on you. His grin spread slow and mean. “Oh, great.” You muttered. “Here we go.”
Walker elbowed bucky,” Dude. Seriously? Her?”
Your blood ran cold. Bucky didn’t look away from you. Not even for a second. Walker laughed louder, making sure half the table heard. “Barnes has a crush on the campus cryptid.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped. “I will kill him.” You grabbed her wrist before she could stand. “Don’t. He’s not worth it.”
Walk kept going, voice carrying across the café. “What’s the plan, buck? Gonna ask her to read your aura? Maybe summon a demon together?”
You face burned. People were looking now, whispering, snickering. You wanted to sink into the floor, willing your face to stay stoic.
Before walker could say anymore a girl walked over to their table, her long blonde hair cascading down her back. It seemed every thought walkers small brain could muster disappeared at her presence.
Her manicured nailed brushed across the table as she stopped, standing right in front of bucky cutting you from his view. “Hey Jamie” she purred using her other hand to twirl her hair. “Larissa” he gruffed back at her, trying to look around her to see you, but she angled her body each time.
A sigh fell from his lips as he looked up at her. “So, I was thinking, I’m throwing a Halloween party and would love for you and your team to come.”
Her voice filled his ears like an itchy velvet. “Yeah sure” he agreed just trying to get her to leave. As he spoke a high pitched giggle rippled from her throat, he winced at the sound. Rolling his eyes.
“Oh my god! I can’t wait! We should totally do matching costumes” he tuned her voice out, nodding his head as he stood brushing her off, as he moved around her leaving the table.
His eyes shot back over to the table you were sat at, only to find empty chairs at empty tables. His brows furrowed instantly eyes scanning the room for you, as he began to feel hopeless that you’d already gone, he caught a glimpse of your signature jacket, his heart quickened.
And so did he pace, rushing through the crowd of people trying to leave, bumping past people, shoulders colliding as be moved, a quick sorry and excuse me fell from his lips.
As you saw the blonde arrive at their table you were quick to finish your lunch and drag Yelena out of there, although she was still furious at walker.
As you walked through the corridor to your next class, unaware that a certain buff jock was trailing you. Yelena’s arm was wrapped around yours, grumbling about how much she hated walker.
Yelena was till muttering curses under her breath when she suddenly stopped walking. You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy trying to swallow the humiliation burning raw in your throat.
Then she tugged your sleeve. “He’s right behind us.” Your stomach dropped. You turned before you could stop yourself. Bucky Barnes stood a few yards away, chest rising and falling like he’d run after you. His hair was mussed, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on you with something sharp and unreadable.
Something that made your ribs feel too small. Yelena’s expression hardened. “If he’s here to apologise for walker, he better- “
“Lena” you whispered, but your voice cracked. She heard it, her eyes softening for a second before she stepped back, giving you space.
Bucky approached slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt. You almost did. You didn’t answer. He swallowed, glancing away for half a second before forcing his eyes back to yours.
“I…wanted to check if you were okay.” You let out a humourless breath “why wouldn’t I be.” He flinched at your tone. “Walkers an idiot, he shouldn’t of said any of that.”
“You didn’t stop him.”
That landed like a punch. His jaw clenched “I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“It was already bad. “You said quietly, “you staring at me while he made fun of me didn’t exactly help.” His brows pulled together, hurt flickering across his face. “I wasn’t staring to make fun of you.”
“Then why?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. He opened his mouth, closed it then looked away and that hurt more than anything walker had said.
“Forget it.” You muttered, turning to leave. “Wait.” His hand shot out, catching your sleeve, but he froze before he actually touched you, fingers hovering like he was afraid your burn him. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Yeah, well it did.” He looked wrecked. Actually wrecked, like hed been holding something in for too long and it was starting to crack through. “I wasn’t staring because I was judging you.”
He said his voice rough, “I was staring because I can’t stop looking at you. And that’s the problem.” You caught you breath. He kept going, words tumbling out like he hated every one of them.
“You make me- “he shook his head. “I don’t know. Forget things. Lose track. I don’t get distracted. And then walker noticed and- “
“You let him humiliate me.” He shut his eyes like the truth physically hurt him. “I’m sorry” he whispered.
You wanted to believe him, God you really did, but the ache in your chest was louder than anything. “Sorry doesn’t change anything.”
He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your throat tighten. Desperate. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something already slipping through his fingers.
“Just…tell me you’re not mad at me.” He said quietly. “I don’t know what I am.” That broke something inside his expression. He stepped back, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Okay. Yeah, I deserve that”
You didn’t say anything. He nodded once, jaw tight eyes glassy in a way he tried to hide by looking at the floor.
“I’ll leave you alone. If that’s what you want” he murmured, your chest twisted painfully, but you didn’t answer, couldn’t.
And Bucky who had chased you through a crowed cafeteria, who had looked at you like you were the only thing he could see. Took your silence as an answer.
He turned around and walked away.
Yelena stepped beside you again, voice soft for once “you, okay?”
You weren’t. Not even close but you nodded anyway.
You didn’t see bucky for the rest of the day, not in the hallways, not outside your next class, not even across the quad where he usually held court with his teammates.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did, more than you wanted to admit. Yelena kept glancing at you like she was waiting for you to crack open and spill everything you were feeling, but you kept your face neutral, your voice steady, your step even.
You were fine. You were absolutely-
“Okay, you’re walking like someone just stole your spine,” Yelena muttered as you left your last lecture. “Just say you miss him.”
“I don’t.” you said too quickly. “Theres nothing to miss.” She raised an eyebrow. “Sure. And I don’t want to punch walker in the throat.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was sitting heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it wanted out. You didn’t miss Bucky. You missed the version of him you thought existed.
The one who looked at you like you were something he didn’t know how to name.
The one who chased you through a crowded cafeteria.
The one who apologized like it physically hurt him.
You were halfway across the courtyard when you heard footsteps behind you. Heavy ones. Familiar ones. You didn’t turn around.
“Hey.”
His voice was rougher than before. Tired. Like he hadn’t slept. You stopped walking but didn’t face him. “What do you want, bucky?” A beat of silence, then quietly “To talk.”
You exhaled slowly, staring at the ground. “I thought you said you’d leave me alone.” “I know.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I’m trying.”
You finally turned, he looked awful, not physically, he was still bucky Barnes, all broad shoulders and stupidly pretty eyes but there was something strained in the way he held himself. Like he was bracing for impact.
“I didn’t come to bother you,” he said. “I just… wanted to explain.” You crossed your arms. “Explain what?”
He hesitated. You could see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wanted to stay guarded. And the part that wanted to tell you everything. “I didn’t stop Walker because I didn’t want him to make it worse for you,” he said. “But also, because… I didn’t want him to know.”
“Know what?”
“That he was right.” Your breath caught. Bucky looked away, jaw tight. “I do stare at you. I do get distracted. I do… feel something. And Walker would’ve turned that into a joke. I didn’t want him to use it against you.”
You swallowed hard. “You could’ve told him to shut up.” I know.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I should’ve.” Silence stretched between you, thick and fragile.
You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. But something in your chest loosened, just a little.
He took a step back to give you space. “I’m not asking you to like me, or talk to me, or even look at me.”
You hated how your heart reacted to that. “I just… wanted you to know I’m not ignoring you because I don’t care.” He swallowed. “I’m ignoring you because I care too much, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Your breath hitched, he turned shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll uh… see you around. I hope.”
He started walking away, you didn’t call after him. You watched him go, feeling something warm and painful twist inside you.
You didn’t sleep that night, every time you close your eyes you saw him walking way, every time you tied to breath you heard his voice. I care too much, and I don’t know what to do with that.
By morning, you’d convinced yourself to avoid him. Not out of spite out of self preservation. You weren’t built for whatever storm lived behind Bucky Barnes’ eyes.
But fate, apparently, didn’t care. You ran into him outside the library. Literally.
Your shoulder collided with something solid, and your books went flying. You muttered a curse, dropping to your knees to gather them. Then you heard him.
“Sorry,” Bucky said quietly, crouching to help. “I wasn’t looking.” You froze.
He handed you a notebook without meeting your eyes. His hair fell forward, hiding most of his face, but you could see the tension in his jaw. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. You swallowed. “It’s fine.”
He nodded once, still not looking at you. He started to stand. Something inside you twisted, sharp and desperate and before you could think you reached out. Your fingers brushed his wrist. He stilled instantly.
You snatched your hand back like you’d touched fire. “Wait.” He looked at you then. Really looked.
And the exhaustion in his eyes nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. You scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I miss you or I hate how much you matter.
Instead, you shoved your notebook against his chest. “Can you just hold this for a second?” you blurted. He blinked, confused, but took it.
You pretended to adjust your bag, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. When he wasn’t looking, you slid a small scrap of paper behind the notebook he was holding.
Your number, folded twice, hidden. You took the notebook back, acting like nothing happened. “Thanks.” He nodded, stepping aside. “Yeah. Sure.” You walked past him, pulse roaring in your ears. Letting the small piece of paper flutter to the floor.
You didn’t look back. Not even when he bent down grabbing the paper of the floor . Not even when you heard his breath catch as he opened it.
Not even when he whispered your name like it hurt.
You kept walking.
He watched you walk away, hope burning in his chest, the piece of paper heavy in his hand.
————————————————————————
AN: okay i said next week but its here now! Thank you for all of the love for this series, hope you guys like it
Taglist for this series- @dpr-teag @mfstargirlsworld
Synopsis: You and Bucky are exes, things had gone south when your dad found out about the two of you. After a few years, you finally see one another again and it changes everything.
Warnings/main themes: Dad’s best friend (Steve Rogers daughter), age gap, depression, toxic relationship (not with bucky), cheating, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v, mutual pining, yearning, fluff, lots of feelings, etc idk this is my first time doing these sort of warning tags im not the best and i don’t wanna spoil haha
Word Count: 9.8k
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The warm summer’s day beat down on Bucky as he sipped from an icy cold glass filled with the finest alcohol from Steve’s drink cabinet.
He found himself nervous as he leaned against the counter of the makeshift bar that had been set up for the big birthday bash for Steve. It wasn’t a feeling he was well acquainted with, at least not anymore.
“You’re sure making your way through those” Sam noted in a knowing hum, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
“It’s a party, Sam” Bucky reminded him, desperately trying to play off the quickening of his heartbeat.
It had been years since he’d seen you. Four, to be exact, and he’d felt every day of it.
Your history together was messy, enough so that he was surprised to even be here, to even have an invite after how everything had gone down. He’d tried to be good back then, he really had. He had all his issues and trauma, and you were something he didn’t deserve, but he couldn’t stop chasing.
You were young, fresh-faced and fiery. You had him hanging on every word you let fall from your lips, your big eyes fluttering up at him that would always make him melt right there on the spot. You were full of life in a way he could only dream of, while he lived in the shadows, you shone like the sun on the brightest day of the year.
He knew it even then that it couldn’t work, that it shouldn’t. He was freshly forty and you were barely twenty two. He wished so many times that he’d been born later, or that you’d been brought into the world earlier. Just something, anything, to make the difference between you feel less striking to anyone who seen you together.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t even the age that was the big issue. Sure, it played a part, but you made him feel young again in a way not even a whole night’s round of alcohol couldn’t do.
The issue was the fact you were Steve’s daughter, his pride and joy and apple of his eye. And Bucky? He was supposed to be his best friend. Needless to say, it didn’t exactly go down well when he found out about your little entanglement with one another.
Bucky hadn’t even known that Steve had a daughter. They’d been friends all of childhood but found themselves losing connection over the years, it wasn’t until Bucky reached his late thirties, that they finally found one another again after living two completely different lives. Steve, of course, had welcomed him back into his life with open arms and countless invitations, and Bucky had been grateful after spending so many years alone. Things had been going well, too well he guessed, and then came the day you walked into his life.
It had been Steve’s idea. It was Christmas and he hated the idea of Bucky spending another one alone, so he all but insisted he come join his family for the holidays. Bucky had been skeptical, he hadn’t wanted to intrude, but he also didn’t want to be rude and decline his oldest friend so he’d agreed to the proposal and packed his bags.
Bucky could still remember the first time he saw you. How you’d walked into the house last that Christmas eve with a baggy knitted beanie on your head and the most adorable pink tinged nose from the snow outside, carrying all sorts of bags and boxes that you almost dropped while trying to close the door.
He felt like the wind had been knocked out his lungs as Steve introduced you two, your hand extending out to grip his as you sweetly gave him your name. He barely managed to focus on anything that had been said over dinner, his focus drifting to you whenever you were distracted enough to not notice him staring.
As the night went on, he began to wonder if he was imagining things or if there was something reciprocal between you in the air. He noticed you would pass him dessert first even though he was sat the furthest away, you’d offered to share a blanket with him on the couch, and you’d even leaned over him, shirt cut low and teasing him to hell and back to grab a fresh bottle of wine from the cabinet despite the fact he knew there were several already chilled in the fridge.
He got confirmation the next night after everyone else had gone to sleep and you were the only ones still left up, attempting to finish a movie playing on the screen even though Bucky couldn’t even name a single character. The only thing he could think about was how sweet your perfume smelled as it hung in the corners of his nose, how your leg had brushed his on more than one occasion as he remained firm in place like some marbelled statue.
Bucky wasn’t even sure how it happened. One minute you were cracking jokes about the main character’s terrible decision making, and the next you were on top of him while your lips crashed against his.
He wanted to say it was a one time thing. A lapse in judgment that he never repeated, especially after how good Steve had been to him by taking him in and essentially giving him a family again.
But New Years came, and you’d both ended up in the same bar by some cruel twist of fate and his self control dissolved completely as you’d pulled him in for a kiss as the fireworks outside echoed around him. For the first time in years, his apartment wasn’t empty that night. You’d brought a warmth into it that no amount of paint and decoration could even manage. When he woke up the next morning and seen you curled up in his sheets, hair spilling out onto his pillow, he decided he never wanted to wake up again without the same sight.
After one month of sneaking and sleeping around, he made it official. Even if you couldn’t proudly display your relationship in public because of your situation, he still wanted to claim you in some way, to make sure you wouldn’t disappear into the night and never return to him.
By nine months in, you guys had a routine nailed to perfection. You’d all but practically moved into his apartment, all your things in his drawers and your toothbrush on his bathroom shelf. You would cook dinners at night and he would grab a bottle of wine on his way home from work for you both to share and you’d spend the evenings cuddled up against one another, often leading to a messy makeout session that would eventually travel to the bedroom. Everything was perfect, he’d never been happier.
Month ten was when it all came crashing down. You were sick of hiding what you were, and arguments started arising more frequently. Bucky was just being cautious, he didn’t know how Steve would react and no matter how many times you both rehearsed a speech to tell him, he couldn’t go through with it. And the guilt was eating him up from the inside.
You both got short with one another, you would stay out late at the bar instead of coming home to him and in return, he would opt for longer hours in the office to distract his mind from thinking about all the guys who would no doubt be all over you in whatever dive place you’d managed to find yourself in.
One friday, things had looked up. He had come home on time from work and you were already there, dinner ready on the table and an apologetic look on your face as you both hashed out how things had become unnecessarily tense. You’d agreed that telling your dad could wait a little longer, when Bucky was ready, and that you were happy to have him in whatever way you could.
The apology went from verbal to physical very quick. Items of clothing peppered along the hardwood floors as you retired to his bedroom, exploring eachother in the best way as he ate up every single moan and whisper of his name. You’d both been so caught up that you didn’t even hear the knocking at the door. It wasn’t until Steve’s voice bellowed from the living room asking where Bucky was that you both realised how screwed you were.
You’d never seen him move so fast. He forced a pair of sweatpants on his hips as you desperately tried to clothe yourself in whatever was close to you, forcing one of his t-shirts over your neck as your heart hammered with anxiety.
Bucky had tried to play it off, tried to gesture to Steve that he was getting lucky and that he didn’t need to worry about him, that next time he’d answer the door when he came to visit. Steve had been apologetic at first, embarrassed even, that he’d interrupted his friend in an intimate moment and he’d almost reached the front door to quickly leave when he spotted something in the corner of his eye.
It was your bag, slung on the corner of a breakfast bar chair. He knew it was yours. You had stitched all sorts of patches onto the front and dotted the pockets with all your favourite pins you’d collected over the years. This wasn’t just some generic bag that you could find anywhere, it was filled with your personality and when he turned to question Bucky why it was here, he noticed the look on his face. Fear.
Things escalated quickly from there. Punches were thrown and harsh words fell from your dad’s lips as you finally rushed out the bedroom while begging him to stop, that you could explain the situation. He didn’t want to hear it, to him it was wrong. You were half his age and you were his daughter. Bucky had served him the ultimate betrayal.
Things were never the same after that night. Steve refused to talk to Bucky and he forbade you from seeing him, even if you protested how you were an adult and he had no authority over your choice in men. You had tried to keep things going as they were, your dad would eventually cool off and understand, you knew it, but Bucky didn’t.
He punished himself, pushed you away. He could barely even look at you without ripping his gaze away like a puppy who’d done something wrong. You’d hoped that he would come out of his trance and things would go back to normal, but they only got worse. He broke up with you the next time you went over to his, his words sounding all too rehearsed and his eyes empty and devoid of the love you’d come to know over the months. It had broke you heart. You’d protested, you’d cried and you’d begged and yet he remained unmoved, eyes trained to the floor as he explained it was for the best and that you were young and you’d find someone else, someone better.
You eventually accepted it for what it was. You soundlessly packed your belongings and walked out his door, slamming it for full effect as the tears streamed down your face.
Bucky never saw you after that day. He expected you to fight more, to phone him up and convince him he’d made a mistake. In fact, sometimes he checked his phone hoping to find a text from you but it never came. He knew he didn’t deserve it, and that he’d been the one to break up with you, but he still held a little hope that things could have worked out.
After a year or so, he found himself at the same party as Steve. He expected another black eye, but instead he found an apology. Steve was still annoyed, still couldn’t shake the fact that out of every woman in New York, Bucky had picked his daughter. But he forgave him, nonetheless. Because that’s what friends do, after all. Besides, it’s not like it was anything weird, he hadn’t known you since you were a kid or anything. It was just one of life’s weird little happenings.
Things didn’t go back to normal straight away. Steve still had his guard up, still kept his distance beyond niceties at events and such. Eventually, things got better. He’d have longer conversations with Bucky as they stood by the bar, he’d offer him a ride home, soon enough they were back to going to the gym together every Thursday and Sunday.
Steve never brought you up. Bucky wondered if he was simply pretending the whole thing never happened, if that was easier. Bucky also never asked about you, even though he wanted to. He couldn’t jeopardise things again. You were simply just a thing of the past.
That was until today, however. He’d tried over the years to forget about you, to push you so far out of his head that sometimes he wondered if you were ever real at all or just a false memory.
Now, you were standing across the yard looking as out of this world as he could remember. Your smile still lit up a room, your hair still messy in that endearing sort of way. Sure, you looked older; cheekbones more prominent, eyes less naive. But you were still the same, still the only woman he’d ever truly loved.
Bucky didn’t expect you to acknowledge his attendance. After how he broke your heart, he wouldn’t blame you if you begged your dad to kick him out. Yet, there you stood with your eyes locked on him until it felt like you were the only two here.
Bucky’s foot twitched, ready to start striding towards you and say sorry for how he was in the past. But then a man snaked his hand around your waist and captured your attention, eyes pulled away from his and onto this mystery man who seemed to hold you beside him as if he owned you, as if you weren’t your own person. Bucky never did that.
He noted how you look almost embarrassed as the man continues to talk animatedly to the group beside him, his arms waving around making big gestures and drawing all the attention to himself as you remained tucked into his side, silent and forcibly smiling.
He ripped his gaze away from you to pour himself another drink. Of course you had met someone else. It would be stupid of him to think you’d just been alone and pining after him all these years. He’d tried to move on too, went on dates that Sam had set up, talked to women at bars and even invited a few back to his apartment. But none of them were the same, none compared to you.
“You’d think it was his birthday party, huh?” Steve scoffs from beside Bucky, fixing himself a drink too “Always needs to be the centre of attention”
“Who is he?” Bucky asked, voice slightly low as if he was overstepping by asking.
“The latest boyfriend” Steve hummed “Hunter”
He said the man’s name with such venom on his tongue, Bucky already knew that he didn’t approve. Not that he was shocked, he looked and acted like a total prick.
“I thought the last one was bad” Steve added “I swear she’s picking them on purpose just to punish me”
Bucky wondered if you were. If it was your way of rebelling against how he liked to get involved in who you were seeing and have his say.
“i’m sure she’s not” Bucky replied, though he didn’t entirely believe his own words.
Silence fell for a minute before Steve leaned against the bar, a sigh falling from his lips as he swirled the contents of his drink in the glass.
“You know…” Steve began, unsure if he should really say what he was thinking “Sometimes I think about how i’d rather she was still with you”
“No you don’t” Bucky replied, remembering the hurt on his best friend’s face that night “You hated me just as much as you don’t like this guy, in fact, i’m pretty sure a part of you still does”
“Sure, I was pissed” Steve confirmed “Sometimes I still am”
Bucky nodded in understanding. Their friendship was almost the same again, but not quite. There was still that bump he’d caused, the kind that never really goes away.
“But at least i’d know that she was being treated right” Steve explained, looking at you with eyes of concern “I can’t trust these guys, this one especially. She doesn’t feel the same, he’s changed her. And not for the better”
Bucky didn’t want to worry Steve further by agreeing that he thought this Hunter guy was bad news, that he was being overbearing and holding you like some sort of hostage who couldn’t leave his side.
“You just need to trust in her choices” Bucky responded, finishing his drink and excusing himself to the bathroom.
He was grateful to create some distance between you, even just for a moment. He hated how he could see you with another man in his peripheral, how he had his hands all over you. He followed the hallway he hadn’t been in since that fateful Christmas all those years ago, bathroom door closing behind him as he gripped the sink to focus on his breathing like his therapist always told him to do.
He frowned at his reflection. He’d always felt older, but now it was starting to show. The small hints of grey fighting through in his hair and on his beard, the frown lines on his face that only seemed to grow deeper every time he looked in a mirror.
He stayed a few moments before gathering himself, opening the door once more with a deep inhale.
His eyes fell on you immediately. You stood there outside the door, seemingly waiting for him as no one else was around, everyone still outside chattering loudly.
Bucky knew this wasn’t the only bathroom in the house. A part of him growing eager at the thought of you purposely following him inside to talk.
“Why are you here?” You asked, half hurt and half accusatory.
You were still mad at him, he could see it on your face. Your eyebrows knitted in the middle as your lips formed the faintest pout while you waited for a response.
“Your dad invited me” Bucky replied.
“But why are you here?” You repeated, another question lying between the lines.
You had to have known that he usually turned down these sort of event invitations, that he’d carefully avoided attending anything he knew there could be a chance you’d also be there.
“Surprised your boyfriend let you wander off unaccompanied” Bucky said, changing the subject.
He knew it was a low blow, that he was only going to annoy you further by giving you that response and ignoring your question. A part of him wanted that. Having you mad at him made it easier, left less room for hope or consideration.
“You don’t get the right to talk about him” You scoffed, offended.
“No, I don’t” Bucky agreed, infuriating you further.
You hated him in this moment. Hated how you felt like you were holding back tears, hated how he was here, hated that after all these years he still made your chest tighten with one look.
“You shouldn’t be here” You said, voice almost a whisper as you felt like your voice might crack.
“Does he make you happy?” He asked, moving ever so slightly closer to you.
You bit down a gulp as the familiar scent of his cologne swirled around your nose, the one that you used to smell on his sheets and pull closer to you in the morning when he went to work. You felt like you’d been pulled back into the past, that all your progress had gone to shit.
“He takes care of me” You replied, knowing that was true.
Hunter was well off. He splurged on fancy dinners and designer bags and jewellery to spoil you with. Not that you were particularly materialistic, but it felt safe. You knew you’d never need to worry about paying bills, that you could live in a fancy house with more bathrooms than you had fingers on your hands. It was stable, it was the right choice.
“That’s not what I asked” Bucky corrected, eyebrows raised as he locked eyes with you.
You weren’t unhappy, but there were certainly drawbacks with Hunter. He could be controlling, possessive even, but you tried your best to get over that. After all, he just cared about you a lot. That was a good thing, right? You’d rather have someone be slightly overbearing and give their all to you than someone who didn’t want to put in the effort.
“Worry about yourself” You sighed, pushing past him and locking yourself in the bathroom as you desperately tried to regain a normal heart rate.
Bucky didn’t linger. He went back out to the party, resumed his drinking and conversed with Sam for most of the evening. Though neither of you spoke again, you both felt it; the overwhelming presence of one another. You swore you actually let out a sigh of relief when he eventually climbed in his cab and drove off back out to the city.
————
A part of you felt like you’d done something wrong, that you were being punished somehow.
It was supposed to be a fun night out, an evening for you to forget about your troubles for the night and just let loose. It certainly started that way. You thought back fondly to your first drink, the brightly coloured cocktail swirling with a symphony of different spirits that you gladly pounded back.
Things had been rocky with Hunter, to say the least. It was never perfect between you two, even at the start there had been small issues, but this felt different. It felt scarier.
The other night you’d come home late, you opted to stay behind at work a few more hours so that you wouldn’t need to go in over the weekend and sacrifice your lovely long lie in on Saturday Morning. It was a good decision, harmless. Or so you thought.
Hunter was at your apartment when you’d arrived home, eyes tired and stifling a yawn. It didn’t take him long to accuse you of getting up to no good, of betraying his trust in some way. You tried to be rational, explain to him that you were just simply putting in a few extra hours at work. He didn’t believe it.
He’d been angry before, you’d seen how he could get. This time felt different. A part of you was worried he’d actually hurt you as he shouted at you, his hand waving around awfully close to your face. He never did, but you still flinched all the same when he slammed his palm against the wall in frustration as you held back tears.
He’d apologised profusely the next day. Blamed his outburst on how stressed he was at work, how he was responsible for this big client and that if he didn’t pull through, a lot of money was on the line and thus, so was his head on a chopping block. He took you to dinner and bought you your favourite flowers accompanied by a fancy box of chocolates. You slept with him even though you weren’t really in the mood. It was fine, it never lasted that long. You didn’t mind, sometimes you preferred it. He had a habit of getting too rough, not in the fun way that you enjoyed, but in the way that made you ache and go numb. Nevertheless, you forgave him. Everyone made mistakes.
Still, you couldn’t shake it completely. Your friend had suggested a night out in town and you agreed without a second thought. Hunter was in California for the week so you knew that he wouldn’t be waiting at your apartment to question you being out all night. You sent him a text goodnight, that you were having an early night and he seemed satisfied, replying back with plentiful love heart emojis.
One drink turned into three and now here you were, leaning over the bar to order a fourth. You weren’t properly drunk, just nicely buzzed. However, that quickly fizzled into the air when your eyes locked onto a familiar face a few seats down.
Once again your heart stopped in its place, your lungs subconsciously holding in the air as he gave you a gentle nod of acknowledgment. The bartender pulled you out your stare by handing over your drink and told you the total. You fished around in your purse for some notes but Bucky expertly handed over a twenty before you even had the chance.
Against your better judgment, you walked over to him, checking to see that your friend was occupied by a guy she had casually been seeing for a few weeks, back facing you.
“Don’t do that” You warned, trying to keep whatever control you still had.
“Just trying to be nice” He shrugged, bringing his own glass to his lips before taking a slow gulp of the strong whiskey.
“Since when do you come to this bar?” You asked, noting how you’d never seen him here once, not even when you’d been together.
“Guess I wanted a change of scene” He shrugged simply.
A part of you wondered if he’d followed you here somehow, kept tabs on you and watched you all night. You hated how the sheer idea of that elevated your heart rate.
“Boyfriend busy tonight?” Bucky asked, noticing his absence.
“He’s out of town” You explained, already regretting your loose tongue.
You swear you seen him smirk before he polished off the rest of his glass, sliding it over to the bartender before paying off his tab.
“Leaving so soon?” You teased, hating yourself for falling into the trap he had undoubtedly set.
“Would you rather I stay longer, doll?” He quipped.
“Don’t call me that” You huffed.
“Aw, but you used to love it” He smirked proudly.
“Well, I don’t anymore” You sighed.
“I don’t think that’s true” He whispered, mouth dangerously close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath against your skin.
You weren’t proud of your next actions. You should have gone back to your friend. Instead, you sent her a text saying you weren’t feeling the best and that you were heading home. Except you didn’t go home, and now you were standing in the living room of the apartment you’d walked out of all those years ago.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the fridge.
“No, i’m okay” You replied, wishing you could still feel the effects of your previous drinks, that you could somehow use them as an excuse for being here.
The space still looked mostly the same. The paintings on the wall hadn’t changed, he still used the same coffee brand, his practically tattered blanket still remained draped over the edge of the couch.
You tentatively sat on the edge of the padded cushion you used to curl up in, the guilt creeping up inside of you for even being here after telling your boyfriend you were all safe and settled in your own bed. You forced him out your mind as Bucky joined you on the couch, keeping a distance between you even though you both knew it was a feeble attempt as he stretched out his leg, his knee knocking against yours.
“Miss it here?” He asked, a little too cocky for your liking, but you knew he was right.
“Do you…miss me?” You countered, flipping the focus onto him.
You’d imagined him countless times with someone new; someone older who was more sure of themselves, more mature and elegant. Your eyes skimmed the room in search of any signs that someone else occupied this space alongside him, but you drew a blank.
“All the time” He said honestly.
That’s all it took for you to let yourself come crashing down. Those three little words. You made the first move because you knew he wouldn’t, but that certainly didn’t stop him from reciprocating as he pulled you onto him while he deepened the kiss.
You missed his lips, missed how rough his beard felt against your face as his hands got tangled in your hair to bring you in closer. It was intoxicating and left you dizzy. It felt like coming home.
You straddled his thighs as you barely came up for air, scared that if you stopped too long then it would all disappear like some sick dream.
“God, I missed you” He breathed between kisses.
You missed him too. You couldn’t remember a week where your mind didn’t trail to him in some way. You always thought it was silly, that you were ridiculous for always circling back to him when you hadn’t even been with him a year. It was only ten months of your life, you’d been dating Hunter longer but it never felt anywhere near as all consuming, not even close. You didn’t like to admit it, but sometimes when you were with Hunter, you thought about Bucky, pretended it was him.
You both continued on, mentally pushing out the thoughts that this was wrong and you were going to regret it. Instead, you let him undress you as he lifted your top off over your arms before he let it fall to the floor. It had been so long and yet, you weren’t nervous at all around him.
“I’m starting to think I drank myself silly at the bar and i’m just dreaming all of this” He joked, looking up at you with wide blown eyes.
His hands felt so big against the bare skin of your waist, fingers skimming across your soft skin as he continued to pepper gentle kisses along your neck and jaw.
“Make me feel good” You whispered, wanting to give yourself to him fully before you had the chance to second guess the whole thing.
“Always” He replied, placing one last kiss on your lips before flipping you onto the couch.
He seamlessly moved down to the floor, practically kneeling in front of you like he was at some sort of worship while he tugged at the small skirt you had been wearing; the one that had his heart racing across the bar as you’d danced with your friend to the music blaring from the speakers.
When you were left in just your underwear, his hands caressed your other thighs as his lips trailed along the inside. His hand eventually crept round to the front of your panties, his thumb pressed against the fabric as he felt just how ready you were for him.
“So wet for me” He breathed, finger hooking around the panties to yank them to the side and expose you fully to him.
“Always” You reply, a small smile on your lips as you repeat his own words back to him.
It didn’t take long for him to get to work, his fingers torturously circling your clit before he dove in like a man deprived, his tongue expertly working on you as he moaned into you from the taste.
It felt like no time had passed at all, that you were still on his couch after your usual evening routine of dinner together and then snuggling up. He still knew what made you gasp and clutch the pillow beside you, how to make you a trembling mess in minutes.
“Always so fucking sweet” He groaned, pressing his tongue against you harder while you struggled to breathe properly.
“Bucky…” You whined, back arching as you hit your high.
Bucky guided you through it, slowing down then pressing soft kisses along your thigh as you tried to catch your breath. You could see the prominent bulge in his trousers, desperate to be released from the tight confines of the denim. With your hand still a little shaky , you reach out and palm him through the material, ready to reciprocate the gesture.
“Not tonight” He said, moving your hand and snaking his arm around your waist to pull you up “Need to feel you properly”
You giggled into his neck as he scooped you up and carried you through to his bedroom, laying you down on the sheets that still smelled of the same cologne. He quickly got undressed, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them to the side as you followed suit, getting rid of your bra and the panties that were thoroughly soaked at this point.
The cold air hit against your bare skin but you quickly found warmth as he joined you under the covers, hovering over your body as you eagerly spread your legs in anticipation. You knew that you should probably close the blinds, but there was just something so sweet about how the moonlight bounced off his face so beautifully. His lips were curved up into that smile you always loved, the one you looked forward to seeing every night. Bucky wasn’t even inside you yet but it still felt more intimate than any experience you’d had with Hunter, or any other guy for that matter.
“You sure you want to do this?” He asked softly, holding back for the sake of making sure you were okay about it all.
That’s one of the things you always loved about him. He never pushed, never pressured. He was a gentleman, a true old fashioned loverboy that put your needs and feelings above anything else.
“I’m sure” You nod.
You know you’ll hold guilt later, that you’re doing something completely immoral by cheating on Hunter. But that was a problem for later, and after the week you’d had and the horrible words your boyfriend had spat at you just days ago, you just needed to feel good again.
Bucky started gentle, pushing in so slowly that you both let out a collective sigh as he begun to fill you up. Your hands skimmed across his back, muscles tight as he started to pick up the pace.
You almost hated him. How he’d ruined every other guy for you, how they could never make you feel even a sliver of what Bucky could do to you. It didn’t help that he kept his eyes trained on you, soaking up every little gasp and scrunch of your eyes with the pleasure rippling through you.
“Fuck, baby” He groaned, the nickname rolling off his tongue with ease.
God, you missed him. So fucking much. It was like the minute he looked at you, your brain melted and slipped out your ear. Right now, you didn’t care about morals or repercussions. You just wanted to stay in this moment with him forever and never leave.
“James” You breathed, back arching into him as he hit just the right spot.
He moaned even louder at the name. He didn’t let anyone call him that, not even Sam, who he had grown pretty close to over the past few years. He never liked it, always seemed too formal for his liking. But with you, it was different. It sounded softer, sweeter; made him feel more human in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. That his past didn’t matter because you saw him for who he really was, not what everyone wanted him to be.
“That feel good?” He asked, taking one hand to gently caress your cheek, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.
You nodded pathetically as a muffled whine escaped your lips, too blissed out to even form proper sentences. He always loved seeing you get like this, watching you unravel and letting him take over you completely.
“Yeah?” He repeated, tone slightly cocky “Does he ever make you feel this good?”
You were slightly surprised he was even bringing up your boyfriend, it was clear that he had an obvious distaste for him. But then again, that’s exactly why he was even asking. He wanted you to tell him what he wanted to hear, that no one could compare.
“No” You panted, voice shaky from how he was rutting against you “No, he doesn’t”
You saw the flash of pride flicker across his face as he pushed himself up and out of you. You whine at the loss, confused that you’d perhaps said the wrong thing and upset him somehow. The panic doesn’t last long, he pulled you to the end of the bed and slides back in, standing up straight now so he could go even deeper.
“My poor girl” He hummed, squeezing your breasts firmly before sliding his hands down “Neglected for so long”
His hand moved further down until he reached where you were most sensitive, rubbing circles against your clit that made you spill out his name on a loop, breathy and ragged.
“Don’t worry, baby” He reassured, putting more pressure “I’m gonna take care of you”
It didn’t take much longer for you to reach that climax, your thighs tightening around him as you moaned his name loudly against the sheets.
He didn’t stop there, you knew he wouldn’t. He was greedy like that, always wanting one more out of you. An hour later and you were now curled up into his side, breathless and tired out from the intense workout. His hand trailed lazily up and down your back as he stared at the ceiling, not quite believing how his night had gone, how he finally felt whole again.
Despite how confident he’d just been during your little session, he now felt scared to say the wrong thing. What if he said something and it made you gather your things and walk out? What if you were already wondering how to gather your things soundly and leave the minute he passed out?
His worries died rather quickly when he noticed how you’d already fallen asleep beside him, your breath heavier and your grip on his hand becoming looser the further you drifted off. It almost hurt to look down at you, how perfect you were in his arms. He’d lost you once, he didn’t want to lose you a second time.
Though the clock already told him how late it was, he stayed up a little longer just admiring you and soaking up the moment as much as he could. Eventually, he felt his own eyes grow heavy and soon enough he joined you in slumber as you both remained intertwined with one another, never parting the whole night.
—————
When morning came and the sun streamed in through the window, you stretched out and hummed contently against the sheets. You noticed the empty space beside you on the bed but the smell of food and the sound of the muffled radio let you know that Bucky was simply busy working on breakfast, just like he always used to do.
It scared you just how natural it all felt, how easily you could feel yourself falling back into the rhythm you both used to be so accustomed to. It could be so easy to stay in it, to go back to how things used to be and pretend the gap inbetween didn’t exist.
But it did. You had a boyfriend, you had a life that had up until the last few weeks, been going smoothly. Now you had hit a rock, your ship capsizing with the resurfaced feelings that felt like they were going to drown you.
You shook away the guilt creeping up in your body and shoved one of Bucky’s t-shirts on and some boxers and padded your way out the room to see him working away at the stove, flipping pancakes and softly humming alongside the song playing.
As you got closer, his super hearing kicked in and he turned to greet you with a smile. You reciprocated it, of course, finding it hard not to mirror his actions as you slipped into one of the barstools to watch him finish breakfast.
“How did you sleep?” He asked, sliding you a mug of freshly poured coffee.
“Great, thanks” You hum, taking a sip of the drink and nodding at how much you needed the caffeine.
“I’m glad” He beamed, plating up the food and turning off the stove.
Bucky passed you your plate and placed his down opposite you, but he didn’t sit and join you right away. Instead, he grabbed a small porcelain bowl and filled it up with a mysterious pouch from the cupboard.
“What are you doing?” You asked, amused.
Before he had a chance to answer, the sound of paws pattering towards him beat him to it. He bent down and placed the bowl on the floor and the fluffy white cat immediately started to tuck in. Your eyebrows raised, surprised to see the feline as you wondered how you hadn’t noticed them last night.
“You got a cat?” You asked, smiling in shock at the thought of him spending his evenings here with a cat beside him.
“Technically I found her” He shrugged, sitting down “She’s a stray, but she’s a sweetie”
Your heart melted even more at his words. It checked out as something he would do, he was caring that way. Always finding the hope in even the smallest places, never letting anyone or anything be forgotten.
“Very cute” You smiled, taking a bite of the pancakes.
“Cute?” He repeated, incredulously.
“Yes, cute” You confirmed.
He smiled to himself as you shared easy conversation over breakfast, enjoying the easiness of it all. You knew you should get back home and try and sort yourself out, but you wanted to linger just a little longer.
“I should uh…go home soon” You mumbled, pushing the plate to the side.
Bucky tensed at this, the fear creeping in again as the thought of you disappearing and never coming back.
“You could always just stay” He suggested, voice quiet, like he was scared to say it.
“I have things I need to do” You said, knowing you had some work that needed done before Monday “I need to shower, get into clothes that are actually mine”
“Okay, and what about after that?” He questioned “You could come back”
You wanted to, of course you wanted to. But you couldn’t let yourself get sucked into this bubble of false hope, you had a real life to get back to. Bucky let you walk out all those years ago, you couldn’t afford to have your heart broken a second time thinking things had now suddenly changed. Besides, Hunter wasn’t that bad. Sometimes it could even be nice.
“Bucky…” You trailed, unsure how to word your thoughts to him “We can’t-“
“Don’t do this” He pleaded “Don’t tell me last night didn’t mean anything”
“I never said that” You replied.
“Then what? Don’t tell me this is because of that asshole” He scoffed “You don’t love him, I know you don’t”
“Bucky-”
“We could make it work this time” He said, reaching for your hand “Leave him, be with me”
Your heart swelled at his words, the same ones you’d longed to hear years ago. You wanted to believe him, you wanted nothing more than to be with him again and feel like the version of yourself that you used to be before it all went to shit. These past years, you’d coasted by, but last night was the first time you’d felt properly alive again.
“Getting over you was the hardest thing i’d ever done” You whispered, feeing emotional as you thought back to how empty you’d been “I cried for weeks, I felt the pain everywhere. I can’t go through that again”
Bucky moved from where he was sitting to stand in front of you, gently spinning your seat so you could look up at him, his fingers tucked under your chin so your eyes met.
“I’d never do that to you again” He promised “I shouldn’t have even done it the first time. I was stupid and scared and I handled it badly”
You felt your eyes welling up, the wound never properly having healed even after all this time. You remember how you’d hibernated in bed, how your mom had bought you more ice cream than you could count, how you’d had to beg your dad to not beat Bucky to a pulp for breaking your heart.
“I’m still scared” You whispered, a stray tear rolling down your cheek.
He wiped it away without a second thought, his lips pressing against your forehead as you felt yourself lean into him, his touch almost medicinal as it soothed you instantly.
“You’ve no idea how sorry I am for the past” He said “I wish I could go back and change it, I really do. But I promise it’ll be different this time, i’ll be whatever you want me to be”
“I never stopped thinking about you” You admit, locking your fingers with his “Even though I really, really tried”
“You’re it for me” He smiled “It’s always been you”
Your lips got lost in his again, hands tangled in your hair as you both spilled out the rest of your emotions physically. Bucky lifted you onto the counter as if you were weightless, never breaking your kiss even once. You could already see where this was going to end up, and you definitely weren’t mad when he pressed himself against you and you could feel just how needy he was for you.
“Round two?” He asked, that small smirk you usually cursed, tattooed on his face.
“Hell yeah” You laugh, squealing when he hauled you over his shoulder and carried you back into the bedroom.
————-
A lot can change in a year. You knew that all too well.
“You need a hand?” You asked, closing the car door.
“Absolutely not” Bucky replied “You’re not carrying anything for the next six months”
You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, watching him balancing seven bags between his hands, stuffed full of christmas gifts and leftover food from visiting your parents for the holidays. Bucky had been worried, naturally, but it had all gone smoothly, with only a few slight digs here and there from your dad but they were only playful.
You knew your dad was just grateful to see Hunter and the rest of your arrogant suitors, gone. It still felt weird for him to see you as a couple, but he could see how happy you were and he couldn’t be the one to deny you that. The break up hadn’t exactly been easy. Hunter had reacted just as you’d expected, lashing out and calling you all sorts of names that you once used to cry about at night when you knew he’d already fallen asleep. Luckily, Bucky hadn’t let you tackle it alone, especially when you’d confessed to him how nasty he could be towards you and the time he’d almost hit you when he’d gotten angry.
Hunter’s confidence took a very quick dip when Bucky pinned him against the wall and gave him a less than friendly warning about staying away from you and what would happen to him if he didn’t comply. The scare tactic obviously worked because you hadn’t heard or seen him since the day you handed him back the box of his belongings.
“Bucky, i’m pregnant, not injured” You reminded him “I can handle a bag or two”
“Not gonna happen” He replied, pecking your nose with a soft kiss before walking up the path of your new house.
You still missed the apartment sometimes. After breaking things off with Hunter, you moved in with Bucky. He said it was for your own safety so he knew that Hunter couldn’t drop by and try something when he wasn’t around, but you knew he just secretly wanted you there. You didn’t complain, you loved being at his, and you and Alpine had grown very close. You swore that Bucky was sometimes jealous of how often she chose to curl up on your lap instead of his.
Still, you loved the house. It had big gorgeous bay windows that you loved to sit at and people watch at night. As much as you enjoyed the city, there was something calming about being away from it all and settled in a quiet little neighbourhood where everyone said good morning when you walked down the street. Besides, Bucky still worked in the city, so it wasn’t as if you never got to visit anymore. In fact, you often went out for dinner at all the nicest little spots in the city, trying something new every other week.
“I think we have enough food to last us weeks” Bucky muttered, gesturing to the large collection of leftovers in tupperware that your mom had handed you when you left earlier today.
“Good job i’m eating for two then” You joked.
Bucky smiled in response, his large hands gently rubbing against your stomach that was finally starting to show. He dipped his head down, meshing your lips against his while you soaked up the last few hours of Christmas.
You thought back to the day you’d found out you were pregnant. You’d been feeling off for a few days; extra tired, headaches, feeling nauseous. Even Bucky’s famous lasagna couldn’t fix your aversion to food, but you put it down to your hormones and figured your period was due.
When Bucky left for work in the morning, you had started your usual routine of fixing yourself a coffee. Only this time, the smell of the ground beans felt sharp, like it was attacking your nose. You just about bolted to the bathroom to throw up, your head suddenly putting the pieces together of why you suddenly felt so ill.
After a quick run to the store, you sat on the toilet seat and observed the stick in your hands, the two bright lines confirming your suspicions. You were pregnant.
For hours you paced Bucky’s apartment, the adrenaline and panic taking over you as you cleaned the place top to toe to distract yourself. You even made his favourite meal which took hours to prep and had it proudly displayed on the table when he came home, his hands yanking off his tie as soon as he came in the door.
He awed at the effort and kissed you promptly on the cheeks before enjoying the meal, telling you all about his day and how annoying his coworkers were being over one particular issue. You responded when you should, laughed when he told a joke, but he could still tell something was off and how you hadn’t drank any of the wine he’d poured you, even though he knew it was your favourite.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” He asked, worried it was something he had done.
“Nothing’s wrong” You quickly dismissed, still trying to mentally prepare your speech on how to tell him.
“Something’s bothering you, I can tell” He noted, reaching for your hand.
You took a large inhale and tried to not get worked up, though with all the hormones changing inside you, the threat of tears was quite possible.
“I need to tell you something” You whispered, looking up at him carefully.
Bucky tensed at those words. Between the worry on your face and the history of those words never meaning anything good, he prepared himself for something bad.
“You can tell me anything” He said, trying to keep a calm tone.
Bucky mentally rewinded through the past year. To him, everything had been great. You both had your routine, your great sex life and everyone always doted on you when you went out to socialise and labelled you the perfect couple. He was the happiest he’d ever been, he couldn’t think of why there would be any problems for you to bring up.
You felt like your throat had run dry, scared that he was going to freak out on you when you told him. You remembered how he’d shut down all those years ago when your dad had found out, how he’d pushed you away. You were scared now, more than ever. You couldn’t handle him pushing you away again.
“You’re starting to scare me” He said, eyebrows furrowed as you sat across from him silent.
You pulled out the test from earlier and you gently placed it down in front of him. His eyes confused for a second until he focused in on what he was holding. His face relaxed and he looked up at you with an expression of disbelief mixed with awe.
“You’re pregnant?” He asked.
You nodded your head, your eyes truly welling up at this point as the weigh of it fully hit you.
“I’m sorry” You whispered.
Up until recently, you’d been on birth control. You were careful, always. You had been starting to get bad reactions to the medication so they had put you on a slight break before starting you on a new one. You should have been more careful, told Bucky what was going on, but you didn’t want to worry him.
“Sorry?” He asked, puzzled “Why are you apologising? This is great news”
“It is?” You replied, expecting him to be freaking out way more about this.
“Are you not….are you not happy?” He questioned, voice slightly deflated as he realised you were still younger, that maybe you weren’t ready.
He could see your emotions were pretty fragile, he hated ever seeing you cry. Even when you would tear up at sad romcoms on the tv, he would feel his chest clutch at how upset you looked. He moved round to where you sat at the table, his hand intertwining with yours as he kneeled on the floor trying to get you to look at him properly.
“I….I’m just scared, I think” You replied “It’s so unexpected”
You had been too worried all day thinking about how Bucky was going to take it, that you hadn’t even given yourself time to think about how you felt about it all. You knew you wanted kids, you definitely knew you wanted them with Bucky as you saw firsthand how caring and attentive he could be. You had just never put much thought into when that would be, you figured it would have been more planned.
“I’m here for you, no matter what” He reassured “I think this is great news, but if you’re not ready or if you don’t even want kids, then that’s okay too. You’re my number one priority, always”
More tears fell from your eyes at how perfect he was, at how he always knew how to say the right thing to make you feel calm when your mind was running by a hundred miles an hour.
“I do want kids” You nodded, always dreaming about being a mom since you were little and playing with dolls.
“And do you think you want that now?” He asked, voice gentle and not pressuring.
You looked at his face, his deep blue eyes meeting yours as a small smile etched on his lips looking up at you. Even though you were still scared, and you definitely felt behind and unprepared, you knew you wanted this with him.
“I think I do” You smiled, wiping away the rogue tears that were left.
The grin on his face broke out wider at your response. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a firm kiss on it as all hi trouble and stress from work simply melted away with the news. He’d always wanted to be a father. As the years went on, he’d just accepted that it wouldn’t happen anymore, that it was too late for him and it was a silly dream to begin with. Now, with you, it was a reality.
“I’m gonna be a dad” He breathed, his own eyes growing a little glassy at the idea.
“You’re going to be the best dad” You replied, biting your bottom lip as you let the excitement of it all take over.
“I will, I promise” He vowed “I’m going to be the best damn father to this kid, I swear”
You nodded and pressed your forehead to his as you both enjoyed the moment, smiles all round as you realised just how happy you were. How those years of pain and emptiness had been worth it to get here.
The rest of the night was spent planning the future, lying on the couch and talking baby names and nursery themes. You knew to some that it might seem too soon, too irrational. But to you, it wasn’t. You knew Bucky was the one for you, that you wanted to be with him forever.
Now, you were enjoying your first Christmas together in the new house that Bucky had insisted you move into because an apartment is no way to raise a baby. You told him that plenty of people do it and that it’s the modern thing, but he simply didn’t take no for an answer.
You carried a few bags into the nursery that was halfway finished. Bucky was determined to build everything himself for it, even if some of those furniture packs were the most infuriating things he’d ever encountered. Still, he persisted, and even if it did take a few hours longer than it was supposed to, he’d successfully built the crib.
The light coloured wood felt soft under your touch as you ran your hand across it, the thought of it having a tiny version of you both inside it soon made your heart tighten with joy. You were excited for this new chapter in your life, especially with how supportive everyone around you was too.
Bucky crept in behind you, mirroring your actions as he admired his own handiwork. He was so unbelievably excited, every day he swore he was happier than the last. Now that you’d started to show, it really felt like it was happening, that it was real. He didn’t think he deserved anything this good in his life, that you were some sort of angel sent to him from heaven.
Bucky cleared his throat from behind you and you turned around, surprised to find him on the floor, kneeling and holding something in his hand.
“Bucky…” You trailed, mind racing as you realised what was happening.
Bucky gave you a whole speech, tears welling up in your eyes as he brought up all the little quirks about you that you hadn’t even realised he’d noticed. He talked about your future, how excited he was to raise a family with you and have mini versions of you running around. He told you about that first night he’d met you, how he’d never seen anyone as beautiful in his life and that he knew you’d be the one he’d end up with forever or be doomed trying. It was perfect.
“Will you marry me?” He finally asked, holding out a beautiful shiny ring in a velvet red box.
“Yes, yes, of course I will” You whispered, eagerly pulling him up and in for a kiss.
It felt like it lasted a lifetime, your bodies so meshed together that you almost become one. A part of you thought that this was all too good to be true, that it was a big dream you’d eventually wake up from. But then he squeezed your hand and you realised it was definitely very real, and you were the happiest woman in the world.
Summary: Bucky and you hate each other, but that doesn't prevent you from going on mission together. This time though, he inhales a strange pollen, and you both get locked into the smallest room imaginable.
Wordcount: 9.4k
Warnings: MDNI, oral (f receiving), handjob (m receiving), angry sex, creampie, sex pollen (obvisouly), hate relationship, p in v, multiple orgasms, quick mention of anal, unprotected sex (wrap it kids)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female reader (no use of y/n)
A/N: Sex pollen, okay? I don't know what you're expecting me to say...
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The mission had unraveled in a blur of chaos and bad decisions, the kind that left you questioning every choice that led you here. You and Bucky Barnes, two Avengers who could barely stand the sight of each other, had been paired up for this infiltration op in a derelict HYDRA outpost buried deep in the snowy Alps.
The facility was a labyrinth of rusted corridors and flickering emergency lights, the air heavy with the metallic tang of decay and the faint, acrid scent of old chemicals.
You'd argued the whole way in - him grumbling about your 'reckless' tactics, you firing back at his outdated stubbornness - but necessity had kept you moving, weapons drawn, senses on high alert.
It happened in the lab section, a sterile chamber lined with shattered glass tubes and dusty consoles.
Bucky, ever the brute force option, had lunged at a guard, his metal arm swinging wide. In the scuffle, his fist connected with a sealed vial on a nearby shelf, the fragile container exploding in a puff of iridescent dust.
You watched in horror as the shimmering particles swirled through the air like deadly fireflies, Bucky inhaling a lungful before he could react. He coughed once, twice, waving it off with a curse, but you knew better - HYDRA's experiments were never benign.
Before either of you could process it, alarms blared, and a massive steel door hissed shut behind you, trapping you both in what must have been a forgotten utility closet.
The space was minuscule, no more than three square meters if you were generous, the walls pressing in from all sides like the jaws of a trap. Barely room to turn around without your shoulders grazing the cold, grimy metal panels. Shelves crammed with forgotten tools and wiring dug into your back as you tried to create distance, the dim overhead bulb casting harsh shadows that made the confinement feel even tighter.
The door was solid, unyielding - Bucky's vibranium fist thudded against it repeatedly, the impacts echoing like muffled gunshots, but it didn't budge. No give, no panel, just seamless HYDRA engineering designed to hold.
And then the pollen hit him.
You saw the change ripple through Bucky almost immediately. His breath hitched, coming in shallow, uneven pulls as he slumped against the opposite wall, his broad frame taking up most of the available space. A flush bloomed across his stubbled jaw, creeping up to his ears, and his blue eyes - usually sharp with that perpetual scowl - now darted wildly, pupils dilating into dark pools. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill in the air, his flesh hand clenching and unclenching at his side while the metal one whirred softly, servos straining.
The air in the tiny room thickened with his labored exhales, carrying a faint, sweet undertone from the pollen that made your own throat tighten in response.
He rounded on you suddenly, his body invading the scant inches between you, heat pouring off him in waves that clashed with the cool press of his arm brushing your side.
“This is your fault, damn it!” Bucky snarled, his voice rough and edged with something raw, almost desperate. He jabbed a finger toward your chest, close enough that you could feel the tremor in it, his muscles taut under his tactical gear.
The proximity was immediate and invasive - his chest nearly brushing yours, the scent of his sweat mingling with the chemical haze.
“If you hadn't frozen up back in the hall, barking orders like you run the show, I wouldn't have had to improvise. Now I'm breathing in this crap, feeling like my skin's on fire, and it's all on you, you reckless idiot!”
His words dripped with the same old animosity, the kind that had fueled your clashes since joining the team - him seeing you as a liability, you viewing him as a relic too stuck in the past to adapt. But the pollen amplified it, twisting his anger into something sharper, more primal.
His gaze raked over you, lingering a beat too long on the curve of your neck, the way your body shifted in the cramped confines, and you felt an unwelcome spark ignite low in your gut. It had been ages since you'd felt any real contact, any touch beyond the impersonal brush of mission gear, and this forced closeness clawed at that deprivation, making your pulse thrum despite the irritation boiling up.
You shoved his hand away firmly, your palm connecting with his warm knuckles, the contact sending a jolt through you that you immediately regretted. Pressing harder against the wall to put space where there was none, you met his glare head-on.
“Save your breath, Barnes,” you snapped, your tone laced with steel even as your body tensed from the unwanted awareness of his nearness. “I didn't smash that vial, you did that all on your own with your caveman routine. Blame me if it makes you feel better, but we're both stuck here because of HYDRA, not because I 'froze.' So quit whining and figure out how to deal with your little pollen problem without taking it out on me.”
Ten minutes dragged by in the stifling confines of the room, each second amplifying the awkward standoff between you and Bucky.
You had retreated to your corner as much as the tiny space allowed, your back wedged against the unyielding wall, knees drawn up slightly to carve out a semblance of personal space.
The air hung heavy, laced with the faint, cloying sweetness of the pollen that still lingered like an unwelcome fog. Bucky occupied the opposite end, his massive frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor - or so you thought.
The dim light flickered occasionally, casting erratic shadows that danced across his tense shoulders and the rigid line of his jaw.
You closed your eyes, forcing your mind to focus on escape routes, on the mission protocols you'd drilled into memory during briefings. Anything to ignore the growing heat radiating from him, the way his breathing had shifted from ragged anger to something deeper, more labored.
The proximity gnawed at you; even at opposite ends, you could feel the brush of his presence, the shared oxygen turning thick and intimate. It had been too long since you'd allowed anyone close - missions, distrust, the endless grind of Avenger life had left you starved for touch, and this enforced nearness twisted that ache into something sharp and unwelcome.
When you finally reopened your eyes, blinking against the haze, you found Bucky's gaze locked on you.
Intense, unblinking, like a man parched in the desert who'd just spotted salvation in a distant oasis. His blue eyes, darkened by the pollen's grip, roamed over your form with a hunger that made your skin prickle. Sweat glistened on his brow, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, and his metal arm flexed subtly, fingers curling as if fighting an invisible pull.
“What?” you demanded, your voice edged with irritation as you straightened up, meeting his stare with a glare of your own. The word came out sharper than intended, a reflex to the vulnerability his look stirred.
Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, and for a moment, he looked almost lost - the Winter Soldier reduced to a stuttering mess.
“I... Er... I need your help,” he stammered, the words tumbling out rough and halting, his usual gruff confidence fractured by whatever the pollen was doing to him.
A scoff escaped you, laced with sarcasm as you crossed your arms over your chest, the motion pulling your shirt taut against your skin.
“Oh, so the great James Buchanan Barnes needs the help of the annoying agent he can't stand now?” you shot back, your tone dripping with mockery.
The jab felt good, a way to reclaim some control in the charged air, even as his pleading expression tugged at something deeper, stirring the long-dormant tension that simmered beneath your mutual disdain.
Bucky's eyes narrowed into a glare, dark and stormy, as your words hung in the air between you. The pollen's influence sharpened the edges of his expression, turning his usual brooding intensity into something predatory. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his metal arm glinting faintly in the dim light, while his flesh hand clenched into a fist at his side.
"You're always so nice," he drawled, his voice laced with irony and a bitter cynicism that cut through the tension like a knife. The words dripped with sarcasm, a mocking echo of your barbs, but there was an undercurrent of raw frustration in his tone, the pollen twisting his restraint into something fraying at the seams.
You opened your mouth to fire back, but he wasn't done. His gaze raked over you again, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way your stance shifted under his scrutiny.
"And at least I'm asking," he added, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "I could take what I want from you and you'd be in no shape to stop me."
The threat ignited a spark of fury in your chest, hot and unyielding. It had been months since anyone had touched you like that, the isolation of missions and the walls you'd built around yourself leaving you aching in ways you refused to acknowledge.
But his words stripped away the pretense, forcing that denied hunger to the surface, mingled with the rage you both shared.
Your blood boiled, and before you could think, you surged to your feet, closing the scant distance between you in two strides. Towering over him as he remained seated on the grimy floor, you glared down, your fists balled at your sides.
"Fuck you, Barnes! I fucking hate you," you spat, the words exploding out like venom, your voice echoing slightly off the confined walls.
The air crackled with your mutual loathing, amplified by the pollen's insidious pull, making every breath feel charged, every inch of space between you electric.
But as you turned to retreat to your corner, desperate to put even a foot of distance between you, Bucky moved.
Fast.
His hands shot out, one flesh and one metal, clamping down on your ass with a firm, unyielding grip. The metal fingers were cool and unyielding against the fabric of your pants, sending a jolt through you, while his warm hand squeezed possessively, pulling you back toward him.
You stumbled slightly, caught off balance, your body now pressed closer to his seated form, the heat of him radiating up through your clothes. His touch was aggressive, fingers digging in just enough to hold you in place, the pollen-fueled obsession making his hold both desperate and dominant.
Your heart pounded, a mix of anger and unwelcome arousal surging as the proximity forced you to confront the hard lines of his body beneath you.
Bucky's face hovered mere inches from your crotch, his breath hot and ragged against the thick fabric of your combat pants.
The confined space amplified every sound, every shift, turning the air thick with the scent of sweat and something primal that the pollen had unleashed in him. His eyes fluttered shut, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest, vibrating through the point where his hands still gripped your ass - flesh fingers kneading the firm muscle, metal ones pressing with unyielding precision, holding you captive in his grasp.
"You smell so fucking good..." he murmured, the words rough and husky, laced with a desperation that clawed at his usual control.
The pollen surged through his veins like fire, sharpening his senses until your natural scent - musky and intoxicating after the mission's chaos - drove him wild. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing gently against the seam of your pants right over your pussy, inhaling deeply as if he could taste you through the barrier. The friction was subtle but insistent, the tip of his nose nuzzling the sensitive swell, sending electric sparks shooting straight to your core.
Your body betrayed you in an instant. Despite the layers of tactical gear, the pressure ignited a deep, aching throb in your lower belly, a reminder of how long it had been since anyone had touched you there - months of pent-up frustration bubbling up like a storm.
Heat flooded your veins, your clit pulsing faintly under the fabric, and you braced both hands against the cold, grimy wall behind him to steady yourself. Your palms pressed flat, fingers splaying for support as your knees threatened to buckle, the small room leaving no room for escape.
You bit down on your lower lip, the sharp sting grounding you just enough to summon a sharp retort - something biting, something to shove him away and reclaim the hate that felt safer than this unwelcome fire. But Bucky didn't stop.
His hands roamed bolder now, sliding up the curve of your ass cheeks, squeezing and massaging with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. The metal arm's cool grip contrasted with the warm insistence of his flesh hand, thumbs digging into the cleft through your pants, pulling you even tighter against his face.
The dual assault overwhelmed you, and instead of words, a soft, involuntary moan slipped from your lips - low and needy, echoing in the tight space like an admission you couldn't take back.
Bucky's eyes snapped open at the sound, dark and feral, locking onto yours with a hunger that mirrored the pollen's curse.
His lips parted slightly, brushing the fabric as he exhaled, the warmth seeping through to tease your folds. Your heart hammered, anger and arousal twisting into a knot that made your thighs clench instinctively, trapping his head between them for a split second before you caught yourself.
The proximity was torture - his broad shoulders filling the space, his body heat enveloping you, the faint stubble on his jaw scraping lightly against your inner thigh as he shifted. You hated him, hated this, but the ache between your legs screamed otherwise, demanding more even as your mind reeled.
"How long since you were fucked?" he demanded, the words rough and edged with amusement, his face still buried too close to your core, breath hot against the fabric of your pants. Bucky's question lingered like a taunt, his mocking tone slicing through the haze of heat that clouded your mind.
You ached to ignore him, to twist away and put even an inch of distance between you in this suffocating space, but there was something in his voice - low, insistent, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve - that made the answer spill out unbidden.
Your hands pressed flat against the cold wall behind you, seeking stability as your body betrayed you with a fresh wave of slickness.
"A long time," you confessed, the admission hanging heavy in the air, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe a year at least." The truth burned, a reminder of the isolation your life as an Avenger enforced, nights spent alone with nothing but echoes of battles to fill the void.
Bucky growled again, the sound primal and vibrating straight through you, his nose rubbing insistently against your crotch, tracing the outline of your pussy through the damp material. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine, your clit pulsing under the pressure as he inhaled your scent like a man starved.
He didn't stop, couldn't stop, the pollen driving him to claim every inch of your reaction.
"Why?" he asked, his voice muffled but demanding, eyes locked on yours from his position between your spread thighs.
You huffed through your nose, frustration mixing with the building ache that made your legs tremble.
"We don't exactly have the kind of job that is ideal for relationships, Barnes," you shot back, the words laced with bitterness, your forehead now joining your hands against the wall for support. The cool surface grounded you, a stark contrast to the fire he was stoking lower down.
He was still seated there, knees bracketing your calves, his broad shoulders forcing your legs apart as he leaned in closer. His metal arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open, while his flesh hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in just enough to bruise.
The tactical pants you wore felt like a cruel barrier now, chafing against your swollen folds with every shift of his head. You could feel the heat of his mouth through the fabric, his tongue darting out to press flat against the seam, tasting the wetness that had soaked through.
Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping despite your clenched jaw, your pussy clenching around nothing as his nose nudged your clit again, deliberate and teasing.
The hate simmered beneath it all, fueling the intensity, but the pollen stripped away the barriers, leaving only raw need.
Bucky's eyes darkened further, his grip tightening as he nuzzled deeper, lips parting to suck lightly at the material covering your entrance, drawing out more of your arousal with each pull.
"A year without this," he murmured against you, voice thick with his own torment, the pollen making his cock strain painfully against his pants, hard and leaking pre-cum from the prolonged denial.
He shifted, grinding his hips against the floor for friction, but his focus stayed on you, on breaking you down inch by inch. Your forehead pressed harder into the wall, sweat beading on your skin, the room spinning as the ache between your legs became unbearable, demanding more even as your mind screamed to fight it.
“And we can't all be a manwhore like you, Barnes," you couldn't help but fire back, the words sharp and laced with accusation as memories flooded your mind - of all those nights you'd seen him saunter out of the compound with a different woman on his arm, their laughter echoing down the halls while you buried yourself in mission reports.
Jealous?
No, not really. Just another layer of resentment piled onto the heap between you two.
Bucky chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest with a possessive edge that sent a shiver racing down your spine. It wasn't amusement; it was hunger, the pollen twisting his usual cynicism into something darker, more claiming.
His hands shifted, metal fingers cool and precise as they worked the zipper of your tactical pants, popping the button with a flick before tugging the fabric down your hips in one swift pull. Your underwear followed, dragged along with it, leaving your bare pussy exposed to the stale air of the room and his ravenous gaze.
The sudden coolness hit your heated skin like a shock, your folds slick and swollen from his earlier teasing, clit throbbing visibly under the scrutiny.
You gasped, instinctively trying to clamp your thighs together, but his broad shoulders wedged between them, keeping you spread wide. His flesh hand gripped your ass cheek, kneading the muscle to hold you steady, while the vibranium one traced the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
Before you could protest, his tongue darted out, flat and hot, lapping experimentally along your slit from entrance to clit in one long, deliberate stroke. The wet drag ignited every nerve, your knees buckling as a loud moan tore from your throat, echoing off the tight walls.
Your pussy clenched hard, fresh arousal leaking out to coat his lips, the taste of you - salty, musky - making him groan against your core. He didn't pull back; instead, he pressed closer, nose bumping your clit as his tongue delved deeper, spearing into your entrance to fuck you shallowly with it.
"Fuck," you whimpered, your forehead grinding against the wall now, nails scraping the surface as your body arched into his mouth despite the fury boiling in your veins.
The pollen's influence radiated off him in waves, his breaths coming ragged, but he was relentless, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. Each pull sent jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core, your hips jerking forward involuntarily, grinding against his face for more.
Bucky's cock twitched in his pants, the fabric tented obscenely as pre-cum soaked through, the ache of denial amplified by the scent and taste of you filling his senses. He blamed you for this - for the trap, for the pollen, for every release you had denied yourself over the past year - but right now, all he wanted was to bury himself inside you, to fuck the sarcasm out of your mouth.
His metal fingers dug into your thigh, spreading you wider, while his free hand palmed your ass, a single digit circling your puckered hole teasingly, not pushing in yet but threatening to.
You hated how good it felt, how his tongue curled inside you, lapping up your juices like he owned them. Your clit pulsed under the assault, building toward that edge too quickly, the confinement making every sensation sharper, inescapable.
"Barnes... stop," you managed, but it came out breathy, lacking conviction, your body betraying you as another moan escaped when he sucked harder, his teeth grazing your sensitive folds.
He lifted his head just enough to speak, lips glistening with your wetness, eyes wild and dark.
"Liar," he rasped, voice thick with lust. "Your pussy's dripping for it. Been waiting for this, haven't you? All that hate’s just foreplay."
Then he dove back in, tongue thrusting deeper, his nose rubbing circles over your clit as he ate you out like a starving man, determined to make you come undone right there against the wall.
“I hope you choke on this," you spat, the venom in your words diluted by the husky edge of pleasure threading through your voice, a betrayal from your own throat as his tongue worked you over relentlessly. The hate simmered, but the heat building in your core made it hard to summon the full bite, your body arching despite the sharp words.
Bucky laughed against your pussy, the vibration humming straight through your clit, sending fresh sparks of unwanted ecstasy racing up your spine. His breath was hot and ragged, fanning over your slick folds as he pulled back just enough to slide his flesh finger along your entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pushing inside with a slow, deliberate thrust.
The intrusion stretched you, filling the aching void that the pollen's haze had amplified in both of you, and you saw stars bursting behind your eyelids - white-hot bursts that made your vision blur.
Your walls clenched around the invading digit instinctively, gripping him like a vice as your body sought more friction, more relief from the building pressure. Bucky groaned in raw appreciation, the sound guttural and animalistic, vibrating from deep in his chest as he felt your pussy flutter and squeeze.
"That's it," he murmured against your thigh, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there before he pumped his finger deeper, curling it to stroke that spot inside you that made your legs shake. The metal of his other hand clamped down on your hip, holding you pinned in place, unyielding as your hips bucked forward to meet his rhythm.
One of your hands fisted in his dark hair, yanking hard in a mix of punishment and desperation, the strands pulling taut between your fingers. The tug only spurred him on; his eyes flashed with that pollen-fueled obsession, darkening as he added a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you wider, his thumb circling your clit in firm, insistent strokes.
He redoubled his efforts, thrusting faster, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the cramped space - schlick, schlick - as he finger-fucked you without mercy, his tongue joining back in to lap at where his fingers plunged in and out.
Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, bouncing off the walls as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The long drought of no sex made every sensation excruciatingly intense, your pussy hypersensitive, clenching and releasing around his fingers as if trying to pull him deeper.
Bucky's cock strained painfully against his pants, the outline rigid and leaking, but he ignored it, focused solely on unraveling you, on making you shatter under his touch. His free hand squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth, nose buried in your pubic hair as he sucked your clit hard, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.
"Come on, doll," he rasped between licks, voice muffled but commanding, the endearment twisted with possession. "Give it to me. Soak my face like the needy little thing you are."
His fingers hooked inside you, rubbing that ridge relentlessly, building the pressure until your thighs quivered, your grip in his hair tightening as the orgasm crested, threatening to crash over you in waves.
Bucky grazed your clit with his teeth, the sharp edge of the bite sending a jolt through your oversensitive nerves just as his fingers pressed firmly against your G-spot, rubbing in tight, insistent circles.
It was enough - too much, really - to shatter you completely.
Your orgasm ripped through you in seconds, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over the edges of your hatred, making your entire body seize up as ecstasy pulsed from your core outward.
"Shit," you swore, the word bursting from your lips in a ragged gasp, your voice cracking with the intensity of it all.
Your hand yanked harder on his hair, pulling with a violence born of the overwhelming release, and it drew a fresh growl from him, low and appreciative, vibrating against your throbbing pussy like a promise of more.
Your thighs clamped down around his head and the hand buried inside you, trapping him in the slick heat of your climax as waves of it rolled through you, your walls fluttering and squeezing his fingers in rhythmic contractions.
But Bucky didn't pull away; if anything, he leaned into it, his metal arm locking your hips in place while his mouth stayed latched on, refusing to let up.
He lapped at your release like it was the finest nectar, tongue delving between your folds to collect every drop, swirling around your entrance where his fingers still pumped slowly, drawing out the aftershocks until you were trembling, oversensitive and spent.
The confined room felt even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and his sweat, the pollen's grip tightening its hold on him as he savored you.
His cock throbbed visibly against the fabric of his pants, a dark wet spot forming from his own leaking precum, but he ignored it, eyes locked on yours with that feral, obsessive gleam.
"Fuck, you taste like sin," he muttered against your skin, voice rough and laced with triumph, his lips shiny with your juices as he finally eased his fingers free, only to suck them clean with deliberate slowness, holding your gaze the whole time.
Your chest heaved, breaths coming in sharp pants as the high faded, leaving a hollow ache in its wake - and a surge of fresh anger bubbling up beneath the haze.
You hated how good it felt, hated him for making your body betray you like this, but the pollen whispered promises of more, stirring the embers back to life even as you glared down at him, fingers still tangled in his hair.
Bucky surged to his feet with a swift, predatory grace, his body crowding yours in the suffocating confines of the room as he slammed you back against the cold wall.
The impact jarred a gasp from your lips, but before you could snap at him, his face hovered inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
That smug, carnivorous smile stretched across his lips, all sharp edges and feral pride, like he'd just conquered some battlefield and claimed you as his prize. It ignited a fire in your gut, not just the pollen's relentless burn, but pure, seething hatred.
You wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogant grin right off his face, to make him choke on his own triumph.
So you did.
You lunged forward, crashing your mouth against his in a kiss that was all teeth and fury, no tenderness, just raw, punishing force. Your lips bruised against his as you devoured him, pouring every ounce of your defiance into the clash.
At the same time, your hand shot down, palming his rock-hard cock through the straining fabric of his pants. You squeezed and stroked with deliberate roughness, feeling the thick length twitch and throb under your grip, the heat of him searing through the material like a brand.
A deep, guttural moan rumbled from his throat straight into your mouth, vibrating against your tongue as his body jerked forward into your touch.
It was your opening - you sank your teeth into his lower lip, biting down hard enough to draw a metallic tang of blood, the sharp pain making him hiss even as his hips bucked against your hand.
You didn't let up; instead, you plunged your tongue past his parted lips, invading his mouth with aggressive sweeps, tangling with his in a messy, desperate dance.
And there it was - the salty-sweet flavor of yourself on his tongue, mingled with the faint copper of his blood, a twisted reminder of what he'd just done to you. You tasted your own release, slick and intimate, as you licked deeper, claiming that evidence of your surrender right back from him.
Bucky's response was immediate and overwhelming.
His metal hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging in with bruising strength to hold you pinned, while his flesh arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against his so you could feel every inch of his arousal grinding against your thigh.
He kissed you back just as viciously, his tongue battling yours for dominance, sucking on it before nipping at your lips in retaliation. The pollen fueled him, turning the kiss into something animalistic, his growls mixing with your own frustrated whimpers as the room spun with the heat building between you.
Your hand kept working him through his pants, rubbing up and down the rigid shaft, thumb circling the damp head where precum had soaked through.
He was huge, pulsing under your fingers, and the way he shuddered against you only spurred you on, even as a part of you screamed to stop, to push him away. But the aphrodisiac haze blurred the lines, your body aching for more despite the venom in your veins.
Bucky broke the kiss just enough to rasp against your mouth, voice gravelly and laced with dark amusement, "That's it, doll - fight me all you want. Your hand's telling a different story." His words were a taunt, but his eyes burned with that same obsessive hunger, the pollen making him swell even harder in your grasp.
Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of Bucky's pants, the metallic rasp echoing sharply in the tiny room as you yanked it down with impatient force. The fabric parted, and without hesitation, you shoved your hand inside his boxer shorts, bypassing any barriers to wrap directly around his throbbing cock.
It was scorching hot against your palm, the veined length pulsing with urgent need, thick and rigid from the pollen's merciless grip on him.
As soon as your grip tightened and you began pumping him with fierce, unrelenting strokes - up from the base to the swollen head, then down again in a rhythm designed to overwhelm - he twitched violently in your fist, a low, animalistic growl tearing from his chest.
Bucky's face buried itself into the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping your skin as he inhaled deeply, his hot breath fanning over your collarbone. His body shuddered against yours, metal arm locking you in place while his flesh hand clutched at your ass, pulling you impossibly closer.
The confined space amplified every sensation - the slick slide of his precum coating your fingers, the way his hips jerked involuntarily into your hand, chasing the friction you denied him any break from.
You could feel the tension coiling in him, his muscles tensing like a spring about to snap, all because of that damn pollen turning him into a powder keg of lust.
A smirk twisted your lips despite the chaos raging inside you, the mix of loathing and this unwanted thrill making your voice drip with sarcasm as you taunted him right against his ear.
"What, gonna come like a horny teenager, Barnes?"
The words were sharp, mocking, meant to sting even as your hand kept up the brutal pace, twisting slightly at the top to rub over his sensitive tip.
You weren't sure if it was the pollen amplifying every touch to unbearable heights or the humiliating jab that pushed him over the edge, but Bucky came undone without a second's warning.
His cock swelled in your grip, and then he was erupting, thick ropes of cum spilling hot and messy over your fingers, soaking into his boxers and dripping down your hand. A ragged groan muffled against your neck as his body convulsed, hips bucking erratically while you milked every last spurt from him, feeling the way he throbbed and jerked with each pulse.
It was intense, almost violent, his release leaving him panting and trembling against you, the scent of his spend filling the air in the stifling room.
Even as he rode out the aftershocks, Bucky didn't pull away - instead, his grip on you tightened possessively, his lips brushing your skin in a way that sent unwelcome shivers down your spine.
The pollen still burned in him, his cock twitching half-hard already in your cum-slicked palm, refusing to soften fully. He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, that feral glint still there, mixed now with a dangerous satisfaction.
"Keep talking like that," he rasped, voice rough and edged with promise, "and I'll show you just how much more I can take, doll."
His words hung heavy between you, the hatred simmering beneath the surface even as your body betrayed you with a fresh wave of heat.
You weren't sure what possessed you in that heated moment, the air thick with the musky scent of Bucky's release and the lingering haze of the pollen's influence on him, but you withdrew your hand from his boxers slowly, your fingers glistening with his thick cum. Strings of it clung between your digits, warm and sticky, and without thinking, you brought them to your lips.
Your tongue darted out, tasting the salty bitterness as you licked it clean, sucking each finger into your mouth one by one, the act bold and uncharacteristic amid the storm of your mutual hatred. The flavor coated your tongue, a mix of him that sent an unwelcome spark through your core, your body still humming from his earlier attentions on you.
Bucky's eyes locked onto the sight, his blue gaze darkening to a stormy black with raw, unfiltered desire. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the super soldier serum surging through his veins alongside the pollen's relentless fire, keeping his cock rigid and insistent, refusing to let him soften even after spilling so intensely.
He watched you devour his essence like it was a challenge, a low rumble building in his throat, his metal arm flexing against the wall behind you as if anchoring himself from lunging.
Without a word, he shifted his hips forward, pressing the soaked fabric of his boxers - and the hard bulge of his erection - directly against your exposed pussy. The heat of him seeped through the thin barrier, grinding against your slick folds with deliberate pressure, the tip of his cock nudging your clit through the material.
You gasped at the contact, your thighs instinctively parting just a fraction before you caught yourself, the friction igniting fresh sparks of arousal despite the venom in your glare. He rolled his hips slowly, dragging his length along your wetness, soaking his boxers further as he pinned you there, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice gravelly and edged with that possessive hunger, his face inches from yours, breath mingling hotly.
The pollen drove him, made every brush of skin against skin feel like a necessity, but the serum amplified it all, his body a machine of endless stamina. He thrust shallowly against you, the outline of his cock teasing your entrance, promising more even as the room's confines trapped you both in this escalating torment.
Your hatred for him boiled beneath the surface, but your pussy clenched involuntarily at the sensation, betraying you as wetness gathered anew.
His hand clamped down on your hip with bruising force, fingers digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself against the storm raging inside him.
Bucky's stare bored into yours, laced with that scorching hatred that had always simmered between you two, yet tempered by a flicker of restraint - a momentary leash on the beast the pollen had unleashed. His breath came in hot bursts against your skin, the conflict evident in the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking under the strain.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your neck in a surprisingly gentle kiss, softer than anything you'd expect from him, a stark contrast to the aggression that defined your clashes. The pollen clawed at his mind, a relentless loop of obsession demanding he claim you right then, bury himself deep to quench the fire twisting through his veins like a live wire. But he held back, just barely, his body trembling with the effort as his cock throbbed insistently against your slick entrance through the damp fabric.
Something snapped in you then, a reckless surge born of the haze clouding your judgment, the ache building in your core overriding the venom you harbored for him.
Without a second thought, your hands moved to his waistband, yanking down his boxers in one swift motion. The material slid over his hips, freeing his thick cock to spring forward, still rock-hard and glistening from his earlier release, veins pulsing with the serum's unyielding vigor.
The act was your concession, your unspoken permission - no, your invitation - for him to take what he'd been grinding against so desperately.
Bucky's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing before it drowned in triumph and raw need.
He didn't hesitate.
With a single, assured thrust of his hips, he drove into you, his cock stretching your pussy wide as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The sudden fullness ripped a moan from both of you - yours a sharp gasp that echoed off the confined walls, his a deep, guttural groan that vibrated through his chest into yours. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, slick and hot, welcoming the invasion even as your mind reeled from the intensity.
“Been dreaming about fucking that pussy for years,” the words tumbled from his lips in a choked admission, almost a sob of pure, overwhelming pleasure, his voice breaking on the edge of desperation.
He stilled for a heartbeat, savoring the tight grip of you around him, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he fought to compose himself. But the pollen wouldn't allow it; his hips snapped forward again, pulling out halfway before slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had your back scraping against the rough wall.
Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, his metal arm bracing beside your head while his flesh hand guided your thigh higher around his waist, opening you up further for his assault. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the tiny space, mingled with your shared pants and the wet slide of him plunging deep.
He kissed your neck harder now, teeth grazing the skin as he marked you with nips, his obsession spilling over into every movement - hating you, wanting you, owning you in this fevered moment. Your body betrayed your fury, hips bucking to meet his, chasing the friction that built like a coil in your belly, the long-denied release hovering just out of reach.
Your words came out laced with sarcasm, a bitter edge cutting through the haze of pleasure as his cock drove into you with unerring precision.
“And what? Next you're gonna say you've been fucking all these women because I wouldn't give you the time of the day?”
A self-deprecating laugh bubbled up from your throat, ragged and broken between the moans he wrenched from you with every thrust.
His body moved against yours like it was sculpted for this exact rhythm, hips snapping forward to fill you completely, the thick length of him dragging along your inner walls in a way that sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids. Your pussy clenched around him greedily, slick and swollen, every slide pulling you deeper into the abyss of unwanted ecstasy.
Bucky's gaze locked onto yours mid-thrust, his blue eyes stripping away the layers of fury that had always clouded them when he looked at you. For the first time since you'd crossed paths in the Avengers compound, there was no trace of animosity - no venom, no guarded sneer.
Instead, something raw and unguarded flickered there, a vulnerability you couldn't quite name, or maybe refused to acknowledge in the heat of the moment. His metal arm pressed firmer against the wall beside your head, holding you pinned as his flesh hand squeezed your hip, guiding your body to meet his relentless pace.
“Doll, I've been in love with you since day one,” he confessed, the words spilling out like a dam breaking, his voice rough and strained over the wet sounds of him pounding into you.
He punctuated the admission with a particularly hard thrust, his cock slamming deep, the head brushing that spot inside you that made stars burst across your vision. Your back arched off the rough surface, a cry tearing from your lips as your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails on his sweat-slicked skin.
“And you've been hating me from the beginning,” he added, his breath hot against your ear, hips never faltering as he chased the friction, the pollen fueling his stamina to keep you impaled on him without mercy.
“Liar,” you shot back, the word a gasp amid the building tension coiling in your core.
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer even as your mind rebelled against the intimacy.
“You've hated my guts from the moment we've been introduced. I was so excited to be working with you, and you've been an asshole.”
The accusation hung between you, sharp and accusatory, but it dissolved into another moan as he ground his pelvis against your clit, the pressure sending jolts of pleasure radiating through your limbs.
Bucky's response was a low growl, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising kiss that swallowed your protests. His tongue invaded your mouth, tasting of salt and desperation, while his cock continued its punishing rhythm - pulling out almost to the tip before surging back in, stretching you wide with each invasion.
The tiny room echoed with the obscene symphony of your bodies colliding, skin slapping, breaths mingling, the air thick with the musk of sex and the faint, floral hint of the pollen that had trapped you here.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there as his metal fingers traced the curve of your breast, thumb circling your hardened nipple with deliberate pressure.
“Excited, huh?” he murmured against your throat, voice laced with a mix of amusement and something deeper, more aching. “You hid it well behind all those glares and sharp words.”
Another deep thrust followed, his cock throbbing inside you, the veins pulsing against your clenching walls as he angled his hips to hit that perfect spot again and again.
Your body betrayed you utterly, hips rocking up to meet his, chasing the orgasm that hovered just out of reach, your pussy fluttering around him in desperate need. The hatred that had defined your interactions felt distant now, eroded by the raw honesty in his eyes and the way he fucked you - like he was pouring years of unspoken longing into every movement.
But the words stuck in your throat, tangled with doubt and the remnants of your pride.
“Prove it,” you challenged breathlessly, your hands fisting in his hair to yank his head back, forcing him to meet your gaze. “If you've been so in love, why the hell did you act like you wanted me gone?”
Bucky's eyes darkened, not with anger, but with a fierce intensity that made your heart stutter. He slowed his thrusts just enough to torture you, rolling his hips in a deep grind that had his cock pressing insistently against your cervix, filling you so completely it bordered on pain.
“Because you made it impossible not to want you,” he admitted, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Every time you snapped at me, every mission where we fought side by side, it just made me crave you more. The pollen? It's just ripped the lid off what I've buried for years.”
With that, he surged forward again, picking up the pace, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.
The dual assault shattered your defenses. Pleasure built like a tidal wave, your moans turning into pleas as your body tensed, teetering on the edge. Bucky watched you unravel, his own release building in the way his thrusts grew erratic, his cock swelling thicker inside you.
“Come for me, doll,” he urged, lips brushing yours in a softer kiss this time, a stark contrast to the ferocity of his movements. “Let me feel you… show me you want this as bad as I do.”
And despite everything - the hate, the lies, the years of antagonism - your body obeyed, crashing over the precipice with a scream that echoed in the confined space.
Your pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock as waves of ecstasy ripped through you, your juices soaking where you were joined. Bucky followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural roar, his hot cum flooding your depths in thick spurts, marking you from the inside out.
He didn't pull away immediately, staying lodged inside you as you both panted, foreheads pressed together in the aftermath. The pollen's grip lingered, but for the first time, the air between you felt charged with something beyond lust - possibility, maybe, or the start of unraveling truths neither of you could ignore anymore.
“Admit it, doll. You don't hate me as much as you pretend,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your joined bodies, still slick and sensitive from your shared release.
His cock remained buried deep inside you, thick and unyielding, the pollen keeping him rigid despite the way your pussy fluttered around him in the aftershocks. He shifted slightly, testing the waters with a subtle roll of his hips that dragged his length along your oversensitive walls, reigniting the spark low in your belly.
This time, it was you who held his gaze, searching those piercing blue eyes for any flicker of deception, any hint that this was just another layer of his bullshit. But all you found was that same raw honesty from before, unguarded and intense, pulling you in despite the walls you'd built over years of clashes.
Your breath hitched as he moved again, a gentle thrust that made your clit throb against the base of his shaft, the pressure building anew even as your mind raced to process his words.
“Barnes, if you're lying -” you started, the warning sharp on your tongue, your hands pressing against his chest to create some distance, though your body refused to let go completely.
“Bucky,” he interrupted, his tone firm but laced with a plea that caught you off guard. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as he held your stare. “Call me Bucky. Just for once.”
The request hung there, simple yet loaded, stripping away the formality that had always armored your interactions. His metal arm stayed braced against the wall, but his touch on your face was almost tender, a stark contrast to the way his hips began to move with more purpose now - slow, deliberate slides that kept him seated deep, stirring the cum he'd spilled inside you into a messy glide.
You swallowed hard, the nickname feeling foreign and intimate on the tip of your tongue, like crossing a line you weren't sure you wanted to. But the haze from your release clouded your resistance, and the way he filled you so perfectly made it impossible to think straight.
“Bucky,” you whispered finally, the word tasting like surrender as it escaped your lips.
His eyes lit up at the sound, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he rewarded you with a deeper thrust, his cock pulsing inside your clenching heat.
“That's my girl,” he breathed, leaning in to capture your mouth in a kiss that started soft but quickly turned hungry, his tongue sweeping against yours while his pace quickened.
He pulled back just enough to nip at your earlobe, his breath hot as he confessed more against your skin. “See? Doesn't hurt, does it? And yeah, I know you've felt it too - the pull, the fire every time we butt heads. That's not hate, doll. That's us.”
Your defiance cracked under the onslaught, hips lifting instinctively to meet his rhythm as pleasure coiled tighter. His free hand roamed down your side, fingers digging into your thigh to hitch your leg higher around his waist, opening you up further for his thrusts. Each one landed with precision, the head of his cock nudging that sensitive bundle of nerves until your moans filled the cramped space again.
The room's confines amplified everything - the slap of skin, the wet sounds of him fucking into your soaked pussy, the shared pants that mingled with the lingering scent of sex and pollen.
But even as your body arched into him, chasing that building ecstasy, doubt lingered in the back of your mind.
“If this is real,” you gasped between kisses, nails scraping over his shoulders, “then why wait for some damn flower to make you say it?” Your words were a challenge, but they came out breathless, undermined by the way your inner muscles squeezed him, urging him deeper.
Bucky's response was a dark chuckle, his thrusts turning sharper, more insistent, as if to drive his point home with every plunge. He shifted his angle, grinding against your clit with each withdraw and push, the friction sending jolts straight to your core.
“Because I'm an idiot,” he admitted, voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climb toward release. “Scared you'd shoot me down - or worse, see right through me. But now? No more hiding.” His metal fingers trailed down to where you were connected, the cool vibranium circling your clit with expert pressure, making your vision blur.
The dual sensation overwhelmed you, your body trembling as the orgasm crept closer, faster than before.
Bucky watched every twitch, every gasp, his eyes never leaving yours, that unnamed emotion shining brighter now - love, maybe, or something just as terrifying.
“Say it back,” he urged, hips snapping forward harder, his cock swelling as he teetered on the edge. “Tell me you feel it too, doll. Let me hear my name on your lips when you come.”
You shattered under him, crying out “Bucky!” as waves crashed over you, your pussy convulsing around his length, pulling him under with you.
He buried his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled again, hot jets painting your insides while his body shook against yours. In the quiet that followed, with him still hard and nestled deep, the air felt heavier - not with hate, but with the weight of truths finally laid bare.
The pollen's grip finally began to loosen, its feverish haze fading from Bucky's veins like a receding storm, leaving behind a bone-deep ache and the lingering throb of his cock still half-hard inside you.
But even as the insatiable drive ebbed, he made no move to pull away, his body a solid, unyielding weight pinning you against the wall of the cramped room. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, flesh and metal holding you close as if afraid you'd vanish if he let go. You felt every inch of him - sweat-slicked skin, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, the way his breath ghosted warm over your collarbone.
He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, pressing soft, tender kisses along the sensitive column of your throat, each one light and reverent, a far cry from the bruising hunger of before. Your body, oversensitive and spent, responded with a shiver, your skin prickling under his lips as you panted softly, every nerve ending alive and humming from the multiple releases that had wrung you dry.
Satisfaction pooled heavy in your limbs, a languid warmth that made your eyelids droop, even as the reality of your situation crept back in.
"You know," you started, your voice husky and breathless, fingers idly tracing the ridges of his back muscles, "we're still stuck in this damn room."
"Yeah," Bucky murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your pulse point in another gentle kiss before he lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His blue gaze was clearer now, the wild obsession tempered but no less intense, softened by something deeper - affection, perhaps, or the raw vulnerability of what you'd just shared.
"So..." you continued, a teasing lilt creeping into your tone despite the exhaustion, your hips shifting slightly under him, feeling the subtle twitch of his length still nestled deep in your slick heat.
Bucky's flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw as he waited, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We could call for help. Or..."
"Or what, sweetheart?" he prompted, his voice low and rough, laced with that familiar cocky edge, though his touch remained gentle, almost protective.
You bit your lip, heat flushing your cheeks as you held his stare, the words tumbling out bolder than you expected. "We could wait for your stamina to come back and make up for all that lost time?"
His eyes darkened at that, a spark reigniting in their depths, and he let out a low, appreciative chuckle that vibrated through your joined bodies.
"Lost time, huh?" Bucky shifted then, not withdrawing but pressing closer, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind that made your breath catch, your oversensitive pussy clenching around him involuntarily.
The pollen might be fading, but the super soldier serum in his veins promised he wouldn't stay down for long - his cock already stirring, thickening slightly as blood rushed back, responding to your words like a challenge.
He captured your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a tenderness that belied the strength in his grip, his metal fingers splaying across your lower back to hold you steady. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the tight space.
"I like the sound of that," he admitted, voice gravelly with renewed want. "Calling for help can wait. We've got years of this tension to burn off, doll. Starting right now."
His hand trailed down between you, cool vibranium digits teasing your clit with feather-light circles, coaxing a fresh whimper from your throat as pleasure flickered back to life.
The room felt smaller than ever, charged with the promise of more, your bodies entwined and unwilling to part, the outside world forgotten in the heat of what was finally unfolding between you.
