come visit my garden!

the world is scary so i must be soft 23 | CST

[love-lilacs]

welcome to my garden!

hi, i’m SC!

twenty-three, she/her, self-described mournful woman

come pick some flowers! 🌸

want a custom bouquet? let's chat! 💐

don’t forget to tie it with a ribbon! 🌺

© love-lilacs. all writings belong to ME. do not copy, repost, or steal. and do not run my work through generative ai or i wish dishonor on you dishonor on your family dishonor on your cow (AND I MEAN IT!!)

[love-lilacs]

oh my gosh there’s 500 of you following me now?? that’s BANANAS! thank you to everyone you decided they liked my silly little writings enough to want to see more. yall are the coolest. love you! 🩵🥹

[love-lilacs]

speak up (don't leave me waiting)

pairing: tfatws!bucky x reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that. 

word count: 2.9k

prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution:  “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."

missed call: almost connection, the one that got away  → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been:  “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.” 

summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it. 

sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)

Bucky was going to have words with Sam. 

He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”

“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”

You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position. 

“Hey, feet down.”

You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”

Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”

Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything. 

“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him. 

"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that." 

Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add. 

The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments. 

“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you. 

Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”

“I’m a good driver!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”

Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS. 

“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”

Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.

“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio. 

It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders. 

The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement. 

You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night. 

The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”

You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.

“Sounds good.”

“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.

The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”

Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time. 

The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.” 

You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly. 

Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else. 

“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more. 

“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”

Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”

“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”

Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”

Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”

Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting. 

His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”

Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.

He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him. 

What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.

The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying. 

“Good shower?” He asks tentatively. 

You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like. 

“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”

Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”

“Go for it.” 

Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.

A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”

Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”

In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”

“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all. 

“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”

“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”

“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark. 

“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

 There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.” It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared. 

“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”

Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap. 

This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark. 

Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.

“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”

Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”

[tw1sters]

Sympathy is a Knife

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

▸ PAIRING: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, dubcon because of sex pollen, so much yearning, slight hurt/comfort, public sex, porn with too much plot tbh, possessive!bucky, degradation, filthy talk that border on dubcon but know that she wants to be there as much as him, breeding kink, insecurities, both virgins, bucky is nasty and a lil mean under the influence, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies ▸ WORD COUNT: 16.1K ▸ A/N: "this will be a short pwp," i say, famous last words. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab. dedicated to @artficlly in honor of pursuit of jade episode 37 iykyk — i'm gifting you the sex pollen by the stream that we never got <3 hope you enjoy this baby of mine. if you do, please let me know your thoughts (even if they are incoherent) through reblogs, comments, and likes!!

↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist

Princes James Buchanan Barnes has everything he could ever want. A palace fit for the king that he will eventually become. Mountains of jewels that shine brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Bespoke dress uniforms made from the finest fabrics, adorned with elegant aiguillettes and medals of his valor in battles fought and won. Countless women and men alike throwing themselves at his feet for the opportunity of him even sparing them the briefest of glances.

But the only one he truly wants, the only person he truly wishes to hold, is the one thing he cannot have — and it’s you.

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[love-lilacs]

YOU GUYS THEYRE IN LOVE!!!! the smut?? the yearn??

this might be the best thing i’ve read so far this year oml your honor i love them. another certified banger of a fic from tw1sters <3

[love-lilacs]

idiots to lovers or losers to lovers i just like when dummies are in love

[love-lilacs]

got a lil drunk at a baseball game yesterday and was consumed by the thoughts of baseball player!clark. that man is born to be a pitcher, have you seen his hands? don't worry, he's good at the plate too! nothing hotter than watching him go from pitching a perfect inning to slamming a home run. bet he looks good in those baseball pants too.

and he loves to see you in his jersey- his name across your back while he's hitting it from behind

[satlun]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES | THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021)

[love-lilacs]

color tag game!!

thank you for the tag @heldbybarnes!

(let's pretend like this isn't a month late- I was traveling abroad and had everything saved but forgot to post oooops. im so honored to have been included <3)

rules: Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image.Prompts: Color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, flower, song lyrics.

np tags but i love u: @kryptidfiles @pinksplace @blowingbarnes @barnesonly @maiamore @ihatelvis @delopsia and anyone else who wants to who sees this💜

[love-lilacs]

everybody here wants you

pairing: clark kent x reader

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. established relationship. smut. pnv. fingering (f receiving), fingering, pussy pronouns (briefly), mentions of blowjobs. jealousy but low-key as healthy as it can be. mostly beta read. pictures don't represent reader it was just for the Vibe.

word count: 2.9k

summary: clark honestly handles his jealously better than any man. and he's hot when he does so. and he loves you, but can't quite find the words just yet.

sc talks: this was supposed to be a cutesy little warmup and its not but oh well. clark is cute and obsessed with reader!! wanted to post a lil something bc i missed my superman and to celebrate my new theme :)

The bar might be loud, but you feel that quiet gaze of his press into your shoulders with gentle pressure. Clark isn’t mad at you, not at all. You know that. He might not even be mad at the man talking to you who is very clear on the fact that you have a boyfriend. You had thumbed over your shoulder at Clark when the man first sidled up expressing his interest. Clark had held up his pint glass in a mock salute, pride glowing in his chest at being able to be called yours. 

He knows you would call him over if you needed his help, and so far you haven’t, but you don’t exactly look thrilled with his conversation. So Clark just broods next to Jimmy, wishing your attention was entirely focused on him. Watching. Waiting. 

When the man steps closer to you, you step back, stumbling into a barstool behind you, and Clark takes that as his cue, hardly setting down his drink before making his way to you. 

You feel him before you hear or see him. His warm chest, pressing steadily into your back. You don’t have to look to know that it’s him as his voice rumbles against your back. He doesn’t speak to the nameless flirt, only to you. “All right, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks flush in that bashful ‘i can’t believe it’s you’ way. “Yes.” You gasp breathlessly, leaning back into him and gazing up at him. Your smile is hardly restrained as Clark lets his hands fall possessively to your hips, holding you in place. 

“She’s all good,” Clark tells him without looking away from your eyes, “Have a good night.” Clark offers sincerely to the other man, who is now bowing his head in slight defeat and moving onto his next targets; a group of girls who look to be fresh out of college and far too drunk for a Thursday night in Metropolis. 

To anyone else, Clark would have looked far too polite for someone who just watched their girlfriend get hit on, but you know Clark better. You can feel how tense his core is from the hand you have placed on his lower stomach. His arm is curled protectively around you, bicep cradles the back of your neck meaning only one thing. 

He’s jealous. 

So jealous, he leans down to press his nose to your pulse point on your neck, inhaling your scent before offering a gentle nip of his teeth. A reminder. One he would never verbalize, but to anyone watching the message is clear; “She’s my girl.”

He surfaces only a moment later, lips pouting ever so slightly. “Are you okay?”

You nod, cheeks flushing and slightly flustered. The bar continues to move around you, uncaring of the moment you’re sharing. Some hip-hop song from the 2000’s pulses in the background, Jimmy tries fruitlessly to get the Eve’s phone number, and you stare into his oceanic eyes with little shame. 

Clark’s eyes rake over you, studying you for any sign of delayed distress. He won’t find any- not as long as you’re in his arms.

You’re sharing the same breaths. Your embrace is a casual and fairly innocent one in comparison to what this dingy place usually sees, but you know him better. His hold is a claim. From the way his pupils are dilated, you can assume he’s tuned in to the pulsing of your heart. You’re sure he must be able to feel your nipples hardening against the thin bra and shirt you’re wearing, and you know he’s able to feel the warmth of your rapidly dampening panties as he presses his thigh between you legs. 

One soft kiss to his lips- far too chaste for your position (or his liking), has him dropping his arm to grab your hand and taking your purse as he pulls you out of the bar. He barely tosses a goodnight to Jimmy, and you wave at him, Eve, and Lois as you enter the warm Metropolis night. 

The streets are quiet and devoid of people despite the busting bar behind you. The birds have gone to bed, replacing their song with a quiet hum of crickets in the trees. You can’t control your laughter as Clark stumbles over an uneven sidewalk panel in his haste and nearly trip yourself, stabilizing with Clark’s hands on your hips. Despite himself, he’s laughing too. 

“What was that in there?” You tease, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “Practically dragged me out!”

There’s no disdain in your voice, just pure, unbridled giddiness that someone as handsome and loving as Clark feels as possessive over you as you are of him. Easily led, he lets you walk him backwards until his back hits the brick of a dark storefront. 

“I-. You’re just-” He stuttered, lips pulling into a sheepish smile that puts his dimples on display. His tongue darts over his pink lips, wetting the plush skin. 

“Yeah,” you murmur breathily, rising to your tiptoes and nosing along his jaw, “Me too,” you hum just before kiss him hard. It’s wet and hot and everything you love about him.

Love. 

These are the fairytale kisses you’ve dreamed of. Clumsy, but filled with passion and clicking teeth and take place under flickering streetlights on the too-hot summer nights in the city. The way Clark holds you close to him and you cup his chin. One of his arms wraps around your back, hand splaying across the spot where your shirt rides up and pulling you closer into him.

This is the kind of love the poets write about. It fills your body from head to toe, like a warm honey. Sweet and sticking to anything that touches your skin. The kind that makes you feel like you could get under Clark’s skin, never separated and you would still want to be closer. Never getting enough. The butterflies in your stomach must be multiplying with every kiss and lust filled look, because your pulse is everywhere. He is everywhere- in your fingertips, in your heart, in your lungs with every shaky breath.

You don’t separate when a car drives by, its honking blaring through the night, or when a gaggle of girls step outside, shrieking in laughter as they dart across the street. The world might as well not exist. Not with Clark’s arms around you. 

When you finally do separate, Clark’s canines glint in the low light from how wide his smile is. 

“What was that for? Not that I’m complaining-”

You shrug, smiling as you lace your fingers together once again and he falls quiet, looking down at you with that adoring blue gaze of his. 

“Let’s go home.”

You’re hardly through the door when you’re tugging your shirt off, pressing your hot skin to his chest as you shove at his own shirt. His arms encircle your body once you’re both freed from the cotton confines, lifting you up and kissing you deeply. The movement causes your denim shorts to ride up a bit, giving a delicious pressure to your aching core.

“Mine.” Clark mumbles, dropping you atop your mattress with a bounce. He hovers over you, propped up on his elbow with hair sticking up in all directions. 

“Yours,” comes your breathy echo.

His touch is featherlight, circling your nipple gently, then switching to the other side with little ceremony. Goosebumps rise across your skin and you squirm under the barely-there touch. Clark starts to trail his fingers down the swell of your stomach, tracing along the button of your bottoms. You almost whine impatiently at his teasing, but the sound doesn’t make it out before he’s covering the sound with his mouth, licking into your mouth and kissing with the fervor of a man possessed. Your shorts are unbuttoned and kicked off with little aplomb, disappearing somewhere in the dim room.

A gasp rips from your throat and your hand flies to his tousled dark hair when he carefully traces a hand down your slit and sinks his middle finger into you, down to the knuckle. “You’re so wet, honey. Feel so good.” His thumb presses gently to your clit, giving it the gentlest of circles as he curls his finger.

“Oh!” You sigh, “oh, Clark.”

He shudders, groaning at the sound and dropping his lower half against you. You can feel his cock, hard and hot, against your leg. 

Another finger joins the one buried inside your cunt, your hips canting to meet the rhythm Clark has set. Your body is putty, malleable and pliant in his hands. 

“You’re perfect.” Clark breathes into your neck, “so perfect. So pretty. All mine. Can’t believe that… that jerk thought he had a chance with you.”

You almost want to laugh at Clark’s censorship, but he presses his thumb harder against your clit, moving the nub gently and causing you to keen, letting out another high-pitched whine. 

“Clark, please.”

His motions don’t let up, continuing with that rhythm that he knows will get you there. “Let me hear it, sweetheart. No one else gets you like this. No one else will know how pretty you sound when you moan for me.” A kiss is pressed to your hipbone- an oddly chaste action compared to the filth between your legs.

The coil in your stomach tightens at his words, moans tearing from your lips with little care for the late hour or your poor neighbors. Wetness gushes from your cunt, surely dripping down his veiny forearm and releasing obscene squelches that would make you embarrassed if it was anyone other than Clark. All you can think of is Clark, playing your body in a perfect symphony to bring you to the peak. 

“She’s so wet for me, honey. It’s addicting. Can’t wait to taste her.” The words are quiet, said more to himself than you, but you catch it anyways.

The crescendo continues to build as you call Clark’s name over and over, as though he might disappear when you don’t. The coil in your stomach grows tighter and your cunt squeezes his fingers so much that he gasps. When you do come, it’s blinding. White hot pleasure courses through your veins as you sink your teeth into the muscle where his shoulder meets his neck, surely leaving bite a mark and moaning his name. 

The come down is just as intense, with you still canting your hips gently into Clark’s palm as you pulse and clench around him. His fingers roll your clit back and forth until you’re squirming away from the stimulation, humming out a quiet “too much, oh, too much.”

HIs hand withdraws from between your legs as you open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them to see Clark smiling down at you, absentmindedly grinding himself into your leg as he raises his fingers to his lips and sucks you clean off of him. He hums like he’s just been gifted the sweetest candy in the universe and despite your limp and spent body sinking back into the mattress, a renewed energy surges through your blood at the sight.

He maintains eye contact as he does so, your core pulsing desperately in response. You sit up quickly, eyes wild and ignoring the sensitivity between your legs as you flip Clark over, perching atop him. His mouth drops open, digging his fingers into your hips as you drag your still-dripping pussy over his abs. The ridges of his muscle catch your core just right and the damn menace notices, smirking as he tenses his muscles and begins to work you over his core. 

Your eyes snap open when a particular grind has his cock poking the plush of your ass, forgotten and leaking against his stomach. As if sensing your desire before you can act, Clark grabs your wrist from his chest, pressing a kiss to the inside and humming, “Not right now, baby. You can get your mouth on me later, but all I want right now is to feel that sweet cunt wrapped around me.”

Your lips part in awe, a shriek tearing from your lips as he brands an arm across your lower back and pulling your body into him, turning until you’re underneath him.

“You want me?” He asks, pulling his cock through your folds and tapping the head against your clit. Little sparks of electricity jolt up your spine at the action, wondering when the hell he learned that. Instead, you nod eagerly as he notches himself against you and begins to sink inside.

“Geez… you always are so damn tight for me. No one else can fill you like me. Right baby?”

“No, no one.” You moan, arching into him. “Cl-ahhh-rkkk, oh!” 

He bottoms out, hips pressing to yours and holding himself there. His hair falls out of its style, damp strands sticking to his forehead and dangling over you like short vines. 

“Quiet, baby,” Clark hums, leaning down to peck your lips as he starts to circle his hips. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors. They’d know how bad you want me.”

There’s an irony to that, considering he was the one who staked his claim over you at the bar. You don’t call him on it, too lost in pleasure as he pulls out all the way before thrusting back in, tip kissing your cervix delicately. He fits in you so perfectly. Warm and soft and so very him, veins rubbing against your gooey walls perfectly. His pace is slow at first, desperate to have you writhing beneath him. Clark can’t control himself, knowing the position that drives you crazy has him pulling your legs up over his shoulders. The movement has you clenching around him again, a litany of moans being released into the air.

“You might like that though, wouldn’t you? Letting me into your wet cunt in the bar bathroom where anyone might see us? You want them to know who you belong to?”

Clark’s thrusts speed up a bit, hitting your spots perfectly and bringing you closer ot the edge with every movement. His fingers find your clit again, circling quickly to bring you to another mind-numbing orgasm. 

“They’ll know,” Clark grunts, growing closer to his own peak, “You’re mine. My girl. My love.”

The words break over you like a wave, pleasure wracking your body as you cum around him. Clark doesn’t last much longer, burying his face into your neck and collapsing atop you. His groans are muffled as he empties his seed into your cunt until a white ring forms around the base of his cock and you’re dripping with his cum.

“That was good,” You hum into his ear, punctuating the sentence with a bite to his earlobe and relishing his shiver. “Think you could go again?”

Clark raises his head to meet your gaze, “Honey, I know I could. I’m insatiable when it comes to you.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, lips curling as you tug and roll your hips up against his still-twitching cock. “Then what are you waiting for, Kansas?”

Two orgasms later, with Clark panting into your neck and your legs still wrapped around his hips, you finally speak.

“You’re like the sun.”

His head his rises, gazing into your eyes as his cock twitches where it’s still nestled in your pussy. Clark presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavily with his eyes still closed. His forearms are bracketing your head, keeping him from dropping his weight entirely atop you.

You don’t think you’d mind that, actually. 

“The sun?” 

“Mhmm.” You hum, tracing an unintelligible pattern into his warm back and losing yourself in the calm of his sparkling blue gaze. “The sun. Warm and comforting. Like- like I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I didn’t have you. Like without you, things just… wouldn’t work.” Clark has his lips pressed together, studying you, and you tense ever so slightly, stomach dropping. “Sorry, that’s weird-”

Clark shuts you up with a kiss, as if its all he can think to do to get you to understand. 

“I know.” He says once the two of you have surfaced for air. “Me too.” He circles his arm around your waist and rolls, flipping so that you’re on half on top of him and pulling you into his chest in one fluid motion. “Me too.” You settle there, listening to the sound of his heart as sleep presses in around you. The curtains flutter with a night breeze, a welcome coolness against your hot skin.

“I don’t have all of the words for it, yet.” Clark finally rasps, breaking the silence. The two of you half-asleep, but the words are warm all the same. “It’s not going to be a checkbox. I don’t think there are enough words in any language to tell you. You’re my world.” He inhales shakily, “but when I do-” Clark presses his nose to your hair, lips brushing your scalp when he speaks. “I promise I’ll never let you forget it.”

You don’t respond right away, pressing yourself closer against his side and squeezing the hand that’s wrapped around your waist. When the words come, they’re whispered into his pec, “I hope you won’t either.”

[love-lilacs]

who are you?

i'm SC! i love lilacs (obviously, lol) and all other flowers, baseball, and writing. welcome to my blog!

who do you write for?

at present, i write for bucky barnes and clark kent (corenswet). previously, i've written for tyler owens (twisters, 2024), rhett abbott, and dr. frank langdon. i haven't let them go, don't worry! i return when i get fresh inspiration.

what don't you write about?

pregnancy, body image/self-esteem issues, rape, sexual assault, (most) body fluid play. (this is subject to change at any time)

that being said... are requests open?

yes! i can't promise that i'll write it, but I'm always open to discuss anything. my inbox is open even if you want to just say hi! :)

do you have a posting schedule?

gosh, i wish i did. unfortunately as a Busy Woman™ (a la sabrina carpenter), i simply don't have the time for it. i try to post as soon as i have something finished, but unfortunately, i handwrite 90% of my work (long story short, i have a lot of free time at my job) and transcribing it is something i do get around to, but it is a pain in the ass.

do you have a taglist?

i do not- simply because i cannot keep up with it :|

are minors allowed to read your work?

sadly, if you are not 18+, i ask that you do not read any of my work. this is to protect not only myself, but you as well. if i see that you are an underage or ageless blog, i'll have to block you :(

thanks for stopping by! i think that's all. if there's anything else, you can always ask!

[transfemininomenon]

hey boss i can't come in today it's a sunny day and there's a lovely breeze coming in through my window, yeah it's rustling the branches of the tree outside that's finally bloomed so it's pretty serious

[andshecanproveitwasolidrighthook]

alright im done put me in the heart locket

[phanerozoicfossilgardener]

As a writer I need everyone to know that whenever I write "exchanged glances" my intent is this

[pinksplace]

Tell Me I’m Your National Anthem

Bucky Barnes x Campaign Manager! Reader

Summary: Bucky isn’t sure when this campaign stopped being about winning, and starting being about spending time with you. 

Word Count: 15K

Authors Note: first fic in almost five years!! I’m back from retirement. Anyway, yes I know Bucky’s hair was long in thunderbolts but I don’t care!

Warnings: cursing, inaccuracies about American politics (it’s been along time since I was in a social studies class okay?), gratuitous use of italics, yearning, Alpine, mention of St*ve, and light violence, no use of y/n

You’ve always liked a challenge.

As a kid, if the teacher said to write six paragraphs, you’d push yourself to ten. In college, you had interned all four summers, double majored in Political Science and Marketing. Worked full time and still graduated with honors. You even made time to go to like three parties.

Nothing changed when you got into politics.

You took the first job you could get your hands on out of college, and have been running since.

Unfortunately you’ve been running with some of the most infamous assholes Washington has ever seen.

You had a talent for fixing campaigns, tweaking strategies, and saving reputations. This unique skillset was perfectly suited to saving the careers of politicians with questionable tweets, and more often than not, bright red, southern roots.

It wasn’t the “making the world a better place” politics you had dreamed of, you still hoped that a few of the assholes who had hired might find it in themselves to make a few good decisions while in office.

That was until you started working for Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes -former Avenger or something- was running for Congress and had asking your help.

Or more accurately, his Campaign manager was begging for it. An old friend, who was lucky enough to work with all of the good, kind people, you wished would hire you. All the people your candidates kept beating. You’d never had someone beg you to take their job before. So you agreed, part curiousity and part hope that maybe for once you’d get to see the side of politics you used to believe in.

You didn’t get your hopes up though. Preparing for the cycle to begin again. Another politician with skeletons in need of closets. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, and nothing you weren’t equipped to handle.

Oh how happy you were to be wrong.

Other than having no media training, Bucky Barnes was a good man. All of his baggage had already been aired out for the entire nation to see. It was a much welcome change. You’d always been paid to hide secrets, not use them.

However, this meant the Nation already had an opinion of him. Bucky’s reputation ranged from admired hero to public enemy number one. Nevermind the small subset of Winter Soldier fanatics who studied his every move and then dissected it all online.

You had spent a solid six hours just combing through forums to try and understand whether they loved or hated him. You finally gave up after finding one entirely dedicated to different versions of his prosthetic arm.

The only information this research did reveal was that people really, really like photos of him from his time in the service. The government’s Captain America archives made them easy to find.

Just like that your newest strategy was born. You didn’t like to lean so heavily on the veteran angle, but this felt like special circumstances. One of the first fundraising efforts you lead, was simply a release of t-shirts with him in his army fatigues on it. It sold out in twelve minutes.

Unfortunately, sepia stained Polaroids can only do so much heavy lifting.

While there’s no gentle way to tell someone ‘you’re perfect, now change everything’ Bucky took it well. Not enthusiastically, but he was open, which is all you could ask for. He didn’t grumble once when you sent him to an eight hour “media-training boot camp.”

He didn’t even argue when you picked him up afterwards and drove him to a Barber.

All things that further cemented his status as your favorite client.

Watching his hair fall to the floor broke a little piece of your heart. Alas, the short hair had tested better in focus groups, so off it came. It made more sense message wise too, helping consolidate the image of the 40’s soldier and this modern counterpart. Removing as many similarities to the Winter Soldier as you could afford.

“Can you take a little more off the back?” You ask. It’s easily your third interruption and you can almost hear the Barber roll his eyes.

“That okay?” You ask, the question directed at Bucky this time.

Favoritism aside, you were still deeply uncomfortable around each other. At least that’s how it felt. It had only been three weeks, but he was a quiet type. You were used to working with braggadocios, they always told you where you stood.

Bucky liked to watch. Usually giving you one word answers, if that. His stare is what made you uneasy, the weight of his attention was enough to make you falter. Not knowing what it meant was enough to make you second guess, you need to know what it means. Which means you need to know him. Then there was the handsomeness factor.

Today was exposure therapy. You’d worked with plenty of attractive clients before, none that made you fight a blush from eye contact. But that’s okay.

You’ve always liked a challenge.

“It’s just hair.” He replies, voice even and unemotional.

For a second you’re afraid the conversation will end as quickly as it started. You’re about to escape into your phone when Bucky finally makes eye contact with you in the mirror. You’re sitting against the wall behind him, close enough to watch, far away enough that you don’t have to smell his stupid fucking delicious cologne.

Professional distance.

“Besides. You’re holding my reputation in your hands. Whatever you want.” He smiles, as much as Bucky knows how to smile.

Whatever you want. That’s tempting, and three of your favorite words. Especially when coming from a man.

Stop. Professional.

“So if I suggested frosted tips?” You say, raising your eyebrows.

He huffs, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to a laugh.

The barber is nearly done, the effect the cut has on Bucky’s face already dramatic. He looks, young. Or at least the age he would’ve been if it wasn’t for all of- everything.

It’s still a little wet, you can see the ends curling as the barber combs through them and lifts them up to trim. You wonder if he left it long, if someone taught him how to take care of it, would it curl?

You do your best to ignore the stray drop of water that glides down the back of his neck, ghosting over his (now) perfect hairline.

The chair spins around to face you. The barber standing behind it with a satisfied smile, holding the comb triumphantly and letting out a little “Ta da!”

Bucky raises a eyebrow, and you’re startled when you realize- He’s waiting for your approval.

Your stomach burns with satisfaction. You like that a little too much too.

You nod, standing and walking over Bucky, and subsequently the barber. You smile, then hold out your hand.

“You mind?” You ask, though your tone makes it clear it’s not a question.

The barber grunts, giving you the comb and walking with a huff into the back of the shop, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You had called ahead, made sure they’d have the building cleared so you’d be the only ones inside during Bucky’s appointment. Too many variables and prying eyes otherwise.

Wordlessly, you begin to cut. There’s not much to trim, but the barber had left a few stray hairs, and his sides were uneven, which would’ve driven you crazy. It was a short cut, a little left on the top, specifically the front. Enough to let it sit naturally, but also long enough he could style with a smidge of a gel. Versatile, easy to manage for Bucky’s sake.

Then you look down at Bucky, realizing you had neglected to turn him back around, and find him already studying you. Suddenly feeling sheepish, you take a step back, spinning him around to get his opinion.

“You fixed the sides.” He says. You wait for noted but it doesn’t come. You realize that’s probably the closest you’d get to a compliment.

You reach over, putting the comb back and grabbing a small bit of gel. You rub it between your hands and before you can overthink it, run your hands through his hair. Giving the front a little bit of quaffing.

Almost satisfied, you put your hands down on the back of his chair. “You still trust me?”

Bucky lifts a hand to his beard, it’s scruffy, and while you don’t mind that (not even a little). It’s not exactly the look you’re going for.

“You can do it yourself, if you want?” You offer, very aware that this may count as over stepping.

He shakes his head, dropping his hand back into his lap. “I trust you.”

You reach over, grabbing a razor from the station and attaching the four millimeter guard. “The beard has tested well, specifically with your female constituents.” Fancy excuse for it would make you sad to shave it all off. “We don’t want to lose it all, just polish it a little.”

Bucky hums, lifting his chin to give you a better angle as you finally switch the it on. The way it shakes to life in your hand once again reminds you of all the faith he has in you. All of his eggs, super glued into your basket.

The buzzing goes quickly. Bucky is inhumanly still. While it normally unsettles you, you can’t help but be grateful. Especially given the next step.

You shut off the buzzer, and reach into the barbicide glass to grab the straight edge razor.

Thankfully in the time it takes you to finish prepping the razor, Bucky has grabbed the oil from the counter and applied it himself.

You give him a moment to settle back into the chair, and wait for him to give the ‘go ahead’ nod.

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you start on the top of his beard, tightening the edges just under his cheek bone until the form a sharp, smooth line.

“Are you normally this…” Bucky trails off, freezing as you get close to his nose, and subsequently his lips in all their blush pink glory (Not that you’re paying any attention to them).

“Hands on?” You offer, pulling back and cleaning the razor. It gives Bucky a chance to release the breath he was holding. He nods.

You hum. “Not, normally this literally. But yes.” You shape the other side as you speak, triple checking that they’re even. “I don’t normally have this much creative control though.”

“Does that make me a pushover?” He asks. Another borderline smile dancing on his face.

You use a finger to tilt his chin up, making sure to avoid eye contact as you do so. “Makes you the smartest client I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet talking won’t get you frosted tips.”

“Was worth a shot.”

You’re pleased to find that the more you talk, the easier it gets. However, the weight of your current position, isn’t lost on you. His attempts at breezy conversation isn’t enough distract you from the fact that his neck is ramrod straight. He’s hardly even breathing.

He must see you noticed his tension, “Haven’t let someone else shave me since before I was shipped out.” He explains, interrupting your study of his breathing patterns. “The first time.”

Shit. He really does trusts you.

It’s almost too much, overwhelming. This man who has been dragged through hell, is sitting here and letting you use a Sweeney Todd style razor on his neck.

You’re not sure what to say, how to acknowledge the hefty implications in his words. Trusting you with his career is one thing, this is his way of saying he trusts you with his life. You hum, your next swipe with the razor extra gentle.

You fall back into a comfortable silence as you finish. Drawing sharp lines to his neck until the edge of his beard is snug against his jaw. A neck beard is an enemy of the state as far as you’re concerned.

“All done.” You say, turning around and moving out of Bucky’s way so he can finally see his reflection. “A number two guard on your razor will keep it around this length.“ You offer while compulsively cleaning up the Barber’s station. You’re sure he’s watching you from the doorway of whatever room he disappeared into. But the only eyes you can feel on you are Bucky’s. “If you like it, that is.”

You finally turn back around to face him. You don’t know if he likes it, but it’s safe to say it’s exactly what you were going for. He looks cleaner, more professional, more like a politician.

But still Bucky.

All he does is hum in response, and your stomach drops to the floor.

He hates it. He hate it’s, he’s going to fire you, and then you’ll be back to helping assholes hide hush money and-

“You do good work.”

Deciding to become, or deciding to try and become a politician was something Bucky had yet to wrap his brain around.

His resume wasn’t that of your typical bureaucrat. No political science degree or volunteer work. Sure there was his time in the service, but last he’d checked the military had changed quite a bit since World War II. He had more experience in fighting U.S. forces than actually serving in them these days.

He knew better than to admit it out loud, but the choice to run for congress, was one he made a whim.

Part had been born out of desperation to leave Brooklyn. Another part was his desire to be useful. To make a good change for once, and do it in a way that didn’t involve voilence.

Bucky just wishes he’d done a little more research.

If someone had warned him about all of the paperwork and bullshit and he had to do just to run, (never mind the pile that would be waiting on the other side if he won), he may have reconsidered.

Bucky hated to admit it, but he didn’t start trying to win until you joined the team

Full of vigor and good intentions, you actually managed to make Bucky want to win this stupid thing. Your infectious energy (and the fact that you were completely overqualified) instilled a newfound confidence in his entire team. Everyone started doubling down on their efforts.

For fucks sake he even let you shave him.

Before he knew it, Bucky was only behind by five points instead of thirty.

Now he found himself in a pickle. Physically he was knee deep in mockups of lawn signs, poll numbers, and focus group answers. Mentally all he could think about was you.

You were talking, making expressive hand gestures as you tried (in vain) to explain what the statistics in front of him meant.

Bucky was too busy thinking about your fingernails to focus.

They’d changed overnight, from a soft pink to a bright eye-catching red. He wasn’t even sure when you would have had the time, you were with him at the campaign office until well after eight last night and you had beaten him there this morning.

“Bucky, do you understand what I’m saying?” You finally broke through, tone half exasperation and half exhaustion.

Luckily, his lack of experience saved him once again. As it so often did when he was too busy watching you, to actually listen. “You know I suck at the numbers stuff.”

Why red? Is red your favorite color? No, he’s pretty sure that green is your favorite, you wear it at-least once a week and your water-bottle has a single green sticker on it.

You gave him a small smile, “I think you could win Bucky.”

Why red? He remembered girls back in Brooklyn who would paint their nails red, talking about how they’d paint their lips to match. Subtle ways to get a boy to thinking about kissing them. He knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help the ache in his gut when the thought of it being for a date crosses his mind.

Wait what did you just say?

“I could win?”

“A few strategic events, some well timed social media posts and I think you’ve got it in the bag.” You confirm with a smile, it’s one he hasn’t seen before. Confident, almost smug. You’re good at your job and you know it.

“Holy shit.” Is about all Bucky can manage right now.

You finally sit. “I think it might time to find an apartment.”

He groaned. He had hated apartment hunting in New York. Too many people, not enough leases and he doesn’t exactly have a credit score.

“Can’t have a future congressman living in a hotel.” You say, clicking your tongue for emphasis. “Don’t worry I have a friend who can set you up.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling slack jawed.

“But, we’re still falling short in a few key demographics.” You explain, “We need to get you back to Brooklyn for a few days.”

He nods, sitting straighter and actually trying to read one of the papers in front of him, “Millennials?” He asks, pointing to a particularly sad pie chart. “I thought they liked me?”

“There’s a rumor on TikTok you killed Kennedy, true or not it’s been gaining some traction and it’s causing some of their trust to falter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you they’re not totally off base, but before he can you lift your hand and pinch your fingers together in a shushing motion.

Why are they red?

“Less I know, the better.” You say.

Fair enough.

“We’re also falling short on the older, male, right leaning side of the fence.” You explain, shuffling to bring forward a poll dated from a week prior. “Their wives love you, which means they don’t think you’re a man’s man.”

“How do we fix both of those in just a few days.” He asks, trying to ignore the way your manicured fingers tap against the laminate desk. He’s beginning to think it might be intentional on your end.

“That’s why you hired me.” You smile, “Just have your bags ready for Friday morning and make sure you pack a pair of jeans.”

He nods, knowing better than to ask you to explain when you’re in business mode like this. He hasn’t known you long, but there’s something about seeing you in your element that makes you shine a little brighter.

“I could win?” He finally doubles back, still not sure it’s entirely he believes it. Still not sure he wants it to. Still wondering why are your nails are red.

“Bucky, You have me on your side. You’re going to win.”

You had a friend at a local pet rescue in the city, and to say he owed you a favor would be an understatement. Getting them to let Bucky host an event was easy.

Getting Bucky to agree was even easier.

As always, your instincts had been right on the money, and it was a perfect match. Animals are an easy win with Millennials, if you only you could have gotten him a puppy interview.

The event was a huge success anyway, truly a publicists wet dream. The people loved him, and after only being there for an hour, a majority of the available cats had already been adopted.

Never mind the visuals, since arriving Bucky hadn’t gone five minutes without a cat in his arms.

“Had one back in the day, used to kill the rats in our building and sleep at my feet.” He had explained as he casually picked up a black little soot ball in his right hand, while the left deftly scooped up a little grey tabby. Each cat a limp noodle in his arms.

His big, strong, straining through the sleeves of his button up arms.

It’s not your fault, you’re pretty sure theres some kind of law about men being allowed to look this good while holding a baby- dog, cat, or human.

You change your train of thought, getting ready to go find the intern with the good camera and ask them to snap some candids of Bucky with the animals. When a voice stops you.

“Hey stranger.”

Jack.

Your ‘friend’ or more accurately, ex-boyfriend/shelter contact. You had hoped he wouldn’t bother coming, so you wouldn’t have to bother having this conversation.

“Jack! How are you?” You smile, turning around to face him, which sadly meant turning your back to Bucky (just as he was picking up a little scrawny, white kitten). Your people-pleaser smile in full effect as you bring him into a half-hearted hug.

He squeezes you back with a lot more enthusiasm than the interaction warrants. “It’s so good to see you!” He says, dragging out the ‘so’ for emphasis. “You’re a big shot now. Working with an Avenger and everything.”

You fight the grimace, you’d already been well established when you met Jack, he was just completely politically uneducated and didn’t believe in watching the news because ‘If something is that important, I’ll hear about.’

He also didn’t know the difference between Senate and the House of Representatives.

In hindsight it’s a miracle your relationship lasted as long as it did.

“Thank you again for letting us borrow some of these cuties.”

“No big deal, it’s a great chance to get some of the animals adopted.” He nods in Bucky’s direction. “Seems like he might be taking one home.”

You turn around, finding Bucky holding the white kitten in the crook of his elbow, the little thing is stretched out with its arms straight above its head, belly up and fast asleep.

You resist the urge to groan, finding a pet friendly rental in DC is a fucking nightmare.

Then you watch as Bucky looks down to acknowledge the kitten, ever so delicately scratching under its chin with his free hand.

Worth it.

“Turns out he’s a cat person.” You say, turning back to Jack.

This time you really take the opportunity to study him, all the ways he’s changed. He’s shorter than you remember. He also started dyeing his hair black. It looks bad. He’s less imposing and handsome than your brain dreamt him up to be.

It’s hard to find anyone handsome when they’re in the same room as Bucky.

Jack still has the same eyes, vacant. Bright and engaging, not a whole lot happening behind them.

You hadn’t ended on bad terms per se. It was mostly a mutual break up, with each of your agreeing your lives were just too different. He wanted a golden retriever, Sunday night pasta dinners, and a house so loud he never has to hear himself think.

You need quiet.

“That cat hasn’t let a single person pick her up since she got to the rescue. I’m not letting him leave without her.” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’ll take much convincing.” You smile. “It’s good to see you Jack.”

“Yeah you too, you look good y’know.” He says

Oh you know.

“Thanks, you look happy.” You mean it. “I should get back to work though. Someone needs to make sure babies get their foreheads kissed.”

“Like I said, you’re a big shot.” He pulls you into another just a little too tight hug. “You think he’s gonna win?”

You give Bucky another look, this time surprised to find him watching you. You can quite read his expression, but you never can. The sleepy little kitten in his arm is pawing at his chest trying to get his attention.

“Yeah I do.”

With that you finally escape, grasping onto Bucky’s attention like it’s a lifeline. You use the few steps it takes to reach him to shoot off a quick text, make sure there was nothing on fire, and then you put your phone back into your pocket.

Looking up you give Bucky a smile. “You know they have dogs here too right?” You ask, tone light and facetious.

“Who was that guy.” Bucky asks, always straight to the point.

“My contact here.”

“He seemed awfully friendly.”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip Barnes.” You smile, stepping a little closer, bringing a hand up to pet the baby in his arms. “If you must know, we used to date.”

He hums. “Seems like he’s still interested.” The kitten stands on his forearm, leaning against his chest while it stretches. “If you are I mean.”

You would laugh if you weren’t so surprised. The conversation was beginning to tip toe on that line of unprofessional, you could hear the sirens beginning to wail inside your head. But Bucky is looking at you with all of his attention as he waits for your answer. It’s the same stare that always makes you melt, so you ignore the alarms.

You’re not stupid, you know what he’s really asking.

Are you interested? Single? Looking?

You’re just surprised he cares about the answer.

“I know he isn’t.” You answer, choosing your words carefully, “He has two little girls at home and a gorgeous wife who wants all the same things as him.” You finally leave the cat in his arms alone, resisting the urge to coo as it reaches for you with its paw. “I would’ve kept him waiting too long for all those things.”

It’s a more honest answer than you would normally give, but it’s Bucky. You feel safe with him holding the truth.

He nods, and you notice the slight twitch of his lips. Like he’s fighting a smile.

“I think I have to adopt this cat.” He says, sparring you any follow up questions. He guides the kitten up to his shoulder, where it quickly makes itself at home.

“I already had one of the interns start the paperwork.” You smile knowingly.

“How do you do that?” He asks.

“Do what?”

He holds the kitten up to his face, staring as if it might answer instead of you, “Know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Bucky knew you only acted in the best interests of the campaign. Each event carefully crafted to boost morale, or fix a statistic you didn’t liked

However, for the first time he wondered if maybe you had chosen this event, just because you wanted to go. Okay maybe it wasn’t the entire reason, he was sure you could back it up with a graph and something about polling numbers if he asked.

But after everything you’d done for the campaign, he was inclined to let you have the win. Besides, seeing you in a jersey and jean shorts wasn’t something he felt like he needed to be upset about.

Don’t forget the baseball cap, which it really brought home for him.

Honestly the only thing that really pissed him off about today, was the fact that the first baseball he got to watch in eighty fucking years was a Yankees game.

His Ma would be rolling in her grave, and he told you as much.

“What are you a Mets guy or something?” You ask barely tearing your eyes from the field to look at him.

“Mets?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. He hadn’t found much use for baseball since rejoining the world. Watching it on TV felt too static, but he didn’t have the heart to go to a real game alone either.

“Guess not.” You answer yourself.

“Dodgers were my team.” He explained.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re on the West Coast now.” You say with an over exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan.” It’s not a question, but the way your voice lilts up at the end sure makes it seem like one.

He doesn’t mind taking the bait.

“My Ma used to bring me and my sister down to Ebbet’s every Sunday. Could never afford tickets but there was a great park right out the stadium, we could hear everything.” He said, feeling himself start smiling just remembering it. “I’d lay on the grass, close my eyes, and pretend I was inside.”

“I hope you know, I’m picturing this all in black and white.” You cracked, if Bucky wasn’t so caught up the memory, he’d notice that your voice was dripping with fondness.

“Very funny.” He responds.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Only got inside once, just me and Steve. We snuck in when we like fifteen. He was short enough to pass for a kid and I was fast enough to lose security after jumping the turnstile. Best game I ever saw.” He feels himself smiling while he pictures it, “Even though security kicked us out halfway through the fourth inning.”

“You got into a lot of trouble as a kid didn’t you?” You asked, turning yourself in your to face him. While at least as much as you can turn in a stadium seat.

“Steve did, I just felt guilty letting him get in trouble alone.”

“How selfless.” You joke.

“I’ve always been a man of the people.” Talking was so easy with you. Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself lately.

“I’m sorry but hearing you refer to Captain America as Steve is never gonna stop being weird for me.” You say, taking another sip of your drink. A beer, which had surprised him. He had pegged you for spirits.

“Hearing you call Steve, Captain America is never gonna stop being a total mind fuck for me.”

“Since when do you curse so much Barnes.” You ask, tilting your head.

“Since I have to sit through a Yankees game, sober-“ He nudged you with his elbow, reaching over to tap the bottle in your cupholder, “-and since you’re too tipsy to yell at me about it.”

You shrug, apparently not finding much fault with his argument. “It’s not my fault you have a supernatural metabolism.” You take another sip, grinning at him as you do so. “I don’t get a lot opportunities to drink shitty beer and eat greasy food these days, gotta take advantage.” You finish.

“I’m not judging.” He defends.

“Everything has to be a bit of mind fuck for you though doesn’t it?” You ask. No malice, just curiosity.

“Who’s cursing now?” He deflects.

“No seriously. I mean, it can’t be easy, and yet here you are, still trying to make the world a better place.” You say. For the first time ever, Bucky thinks you might just feel sorry for him. Not because of his past, but because of his decision to go into politics. Which is fitting for you.

“Sure, it’s hard.” He admits, “Ebbet’s is a bunch of apartments, people don’t go dancing anymore, the Dodgers play for LA, a hot dog costs a month’s rent-“ He pauses, taking a deep breath, “-and Steve is gone.” No matter how many times he says it, it still tastes bitter. You’re right, his entire world had been turned upside down, twice.

“Trying to be good is the only thing I still know how to do.” He finishes. His words hang between you for a moment, and he’s worried he’s said too much.

“People do still go dancing.” You finally respond.

“They don’t dance the way they used to though. I don’t think I could keep up now.” He says.

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.” You smile, “I’ll have to take you when this is all over.”

Bucky is too busy reading into that last sentence to try and respond to it.

A few minutes of quiet pass between you. You shake your head, taking another swig before speaking. “You don’t give yourself enough credit Bucky.” You say, finally leaving it at that.

Bucky is grateful, he wasn’t sure how he had veered so far off course. Somehow he’d managed to ruin a conversation that he swears could have been considered flirting.

Don’t get him started on how flirting as changed.

You’ve bumped his shoulder and laughed at enough of his jokes that the old Bucky would’ve asked you out by now. But he didn’t know if either of those things meant what they used to back then. He was pretty sure they did.

He was also pretty sure you’d had at least three beers. You’re the closest to relaxed he’d ever seen you. Laughing freely, not worried about optics, or the political implications of Bucky being seen eating cracker jacks. If he knows you as well as he thinks he’s starting too, you probably have some ‘no dating clients’ rule anyway. It wouldn’t be fair for him to make a move now, not when you could finally breathe.

Regardless of if you were flirting or not.

Besides you’re wearing jean shorts and it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything above your knee and staring at your thighs was the closest thing to drunk Bucky has felt in years. He isn’t of sound mind.

“You’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met,” You smile, and your hand reaches over to touch his that’s resting on top of his thigh. “And I’ve met a lot men.”

Bucky feels his brain get dangerously close to exploding.

Somehow, he still manages to find words. “It’s not all selfless.” He confesses. Turning the hand yours was resting on upwards and lacing his fingers through yours.

It’s as forward as his confidence can afford right now.

He squeezes your hand and then releases it. Bucky stands up and resists the urge to stretch his back because Jesus, these seats are uncomfortable. He gets ready to walk away, with the plan of shaking a few hands, and getting you a pretzel (for alcohol absorption purposes of course. It has nothing to do with an comment you made about craving one).

Before he leaves he bends over and whispers his last admission in your ear.

“I’m not trying to make the world a better place. I’m still trying to make him proud.”

8:00 A.M.

That’s when your flight leaves, which means it will board around 7:15 A.M.

So you should really be at the airport by 6 A.M. Your entire team has TSA Pre-check so it shouldn’t take too long but it’s better safe than sorry.

That means you have to leave the hotel by 5 A.M to get to JFK in time.

You need an hour to shower, and get ready so you look some version of human so you can hit the ground running when you land in DC. So wake up at 4 A.M.

You look down at your phone and sigh, 10:45 P.M. If you fell asleep right now you’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to move.

Surely it had nothing to do with the man sitting across the table from you. Bucky raises his eyebrows, giving you that stupid, handsome, knowing look.

“Your brain is working.” He says, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. This time you let yourself stare stare at them.

You had gotten back from the event a little over an hour ago. A charity gala for some businessman’s tax write off. It was a great opportunity for him to rub some elbows, smile and make small talk with all the right people. It was your last stop on his mini Brooklyn tour.

You had joined Bucky, acting as his -strictly professional- plus one. It was out of your normal scope of responsibilities, but Bucky had made a very convincing argument, something about how you were better with names, and faces, and how if you didn’t go he’d end up sulking in a corner all night.

It made the most sense for you to go. Keep Bucky company, feed him names and information. Maybe one quick dance.

It had nothing to do with the fact that saying no to him is quickly becoming impossible.

Definitely nothing to do with wanting to see him in a suit.

“I’m doing the math on when we need to get to the airport.” You tell him.

“Knew it.” He says, “Is that your way of saying we should call it a night?” He asks, but doesn’t move an inch.

He’s giving you an out.

You shake your head. “I’ve done more with less sleep.” You take a sip of your drink. You feel wide awake but you’re pretty sure it’s not from the alcohol. “What about you Barnes, need your beauty rest?”

Bucky smiles, he had shrugged his jacket off when you first sat down. At some point the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone. You’re not even sure when he took the tie off. “Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.”

You had worn a long black dress, formal enough to blend in without drawing attention away from Bucky. It also looked perfect on you, not that you were worried about that though.

You had drank, eaten, and made so much small talk you’d probably have a sore throat tomorrow. Yet when Bucky asked if you were up for a night cap, you once again found yourself struggling to get that two-letter word off your tongue.

You didn’t want say goodbye just yet, and there was something about having him all to yourself that you were starting to become addicted to. So you sat down at a table in the nearly empty hotel bar, and you couldn’t help but think about how you probably looked like a couple to the rest of the world.

“Can I admit something?” You ask, tilting your head.

Bucky nods. “Anything.”

“I didn’t think you stood a chance.”

Bucky almost chokes on his drink. “Jesus, that’s reassuring.” He scoffs.

“You had terrible optics, no political background, and everyone who I asked about you either hated you or was scared shitless of you.” You explain.

“I do have a bad history with politicians.” He cracks. “If I was so hopeless, why’d you take the job?”

Your walls are lowered enough that you give him the real answer. “Needed a change. Didn’t hurt that I thought you were cute.” You take another sip, you can’t tell if it’s the drink making your cheeks feel hot or him.

Bucky hums, if he was going to say anything else you don’t give him the chance.

“Bucky you’re my unicorn.” You sigh, cue another embarrassed sip, “You’re a good man, willing to take feedback, and running for the right reasons.”

You let your words sit there in the silence, biting your lip to force yourself to stop talking. Christ you’re nervous, you’re never nervous, why is he making you so nervous?

“The other guys must’ve been real assholes.” He says, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to him accepting the compliment.

“This is the first time in ten years I want the person I’m working for to actually win. I want you to win Bucky.”

You wouldn’t normally risk being this open with a politician, but you were beginning to feel like that word fits him less and less.

Or maybe it was the forced professionalism that’s ill suited.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you hate your job sweetheart.”

You’re already rolling your eyes when you hear it.

Sweetheart.

Your heart stutters, your fingers twitch, your face feels even hotter.

“Love the job, hate the people.” You manage to choke out, finally downing the rest of your glass in an attempt to collect yourself. Buy yourself a little time before you have to talk again. “I get the chance to help make the world better, by making sure the right people are in charge of it. But at the same time I’m the reason Whitmore ever got in office.”

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Whitmore? I fucking hate that guy.”

You nod, grimacing.

Preston Clay Whitmore IV. You worked for him back when he was running for Senate in Texas, and using all of his Daddy’s money to do it.

“It was my first job, I was his communications consultant. God I hated him.” You shake your head, “But I was fresh out of college, green and broke.”

“A deadly combination.” He offers.

“He thought he was the next Kennedy, and he talked like it. Every single interview, debate, and ad sounded like Preston thought he was gods gift to humanity.” You can still hear his catchy little stupid theme song now.

Whitmore’s a comin’ to Whip DC into shape!

“How’d you turn it around?” He asks, a smile playing at those gorgeous lips.

Okay maybe you are a little buzzed.

“I made him drop the Roman numerals to start.”

You weren’t super enthusiastic about him, and you certainly weren’t thrilled about being in the South. Yet Preston’s father knew all the right people, you knew getting him into office would mean a career. A great one.

You don’t mean to bore Bucky with all of the details of Preston’s campaign, of his miraculous win, and how he ended up being elected the youngest Senator in Texas’ history. But the way he listens, the way he asks you questions. You almost think he enjoyed it.

Suddenly he’s telling you about how he recently got his hands on a tape of one of Steve’s old USO shows, and how he wishes he could hold it over his head.

You’re telling him about how you worked two jobs in high school in order to save up for college.

Then he’s promising to take you to Wakanda someday, once things have settled down some, how it’s nothing like how you picture it.

“I’ve got a few friends from when I lived there.”

You swear your jaw almost hits the floor, “You lived there?”

“Yeah for a few years,” he laughs, “They helped straighten my brain out, made it possible for me to almost be like a real person.”

He smiles, finally polishing off his drink.

“Why do you drink if it doesn’t affect you?” You ask.

He shrugs, the glass still in his hand. “I still like the taste of a good drink, that’s why I didn’t bother with beer or any of the crap being served at the game the other day.” He puts the cup back on the table.

“I think it still has a placebo effect on me too a little bit. Even though I can’t metabolize it, I still feel like it smooths the edges.”

You nod, understanding.

You can’t help but finally look at your phone again.

1:45 A.M. Shit.

You look back up and meet Bucky’s knowing gaze.

“We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” He asks, this time he shrugs his jacket back on.

“Afraid so.” You answer, voice softer than you expected. “You have to go back to your apartment or can you get a room here?”

He shakes his head, “I got a few things I wanna pack up, plus I have to get Alpine ready.”

You smile, brightening at the mention of your new favorite feline. “You decided on a name!” He nods, his smile just as wide.

“Can I walk you up to your room?” He asks, finally standing.

God you almost forgot just how tall he is.

“You don’t have do that Bucky I’m all the way on the 8th floor.” You stand too, at some point you had kicked your heels off and you can’t be bothered to force them back on, instead leaning down to pick them up in one hand.

“Humor me. Please?” He gives you the eyes, ones you can only describe as begging. The ones he uses whenever his not getting his way, “It’d make me feel less guilty for keeping you up so late.” He takes the shoes out of your hand as he speaks, completely dwarfing them in his grasp.

“I guess it is the least you can do.” You joke, starting to walk towards the elevator.

The ride up is spent in silence, but not the awkward kind, like the day at the barbershop. It’s softer, warmer, like the air between you is humming.

Your room is all the way at the end of the hallway, and if you were in tune enough with your body to remember just had badly your feet hurt, you’d probably complain about it.

But right now, with Bucky so close so you can’t bring yourself to worry about a blister.

However, it was only a matter of time before you got to your door. While digging the hotel key out of your purse, you turn around to face Bucky.

“Thank you again, for tonight. And for walking me up to my room.” You nod toward the door, still not moving to open it.

When had he gotten so close? Less than a foot was between you now.

Bucky smiles, looking down at the floor, then back up to you. “Least I could do after you saved me from a night of getting people’s names wrong.”

You laugh, “Seriously, I had a really good time tonight Bucky.”

You feel yourself leaning into him, it’s not entirely conscious. The smell of his cologne is drowning out the voices screaming: Back up! Move away! Too close! Danger! Danger! Danger!

But he’s leaning in too. With him, it feels the opposite of scary.

“Me too.” He says, his voice is so soft now, and you know this proximity isn’t lost on him.

You feel yourself move before you can actually think about it, your heels lifting up from the ground, your hands rising and settling on his broad shoulders.

And then you kiss his cheek.

As you pull away, it’s like you’re stuck in slow motion. A slow sink down while your hands drift from his shoulders to his pecs.

Your eyes are shut, too afraid to open them and see his reaction when-

Bucky leans down and presses his head against yours, forehead to forehead. His chest brushing against yours as you each breathe, or in your case, try to. His eyes are closed too. His brows scrunched like when he’s thinking really hard about something.

Your body feels like a live wire when he’s this close. All rational thoughts are completely overwhelmed with the desire, no- the need to kiss him.

You angle your head, tilting your chin and just like that- contact.

He only takes a few seconds to respond.

He’s softer than you imagined, catching your top lip between his and treating it with such care and the whole moment feels so much more, gentle, than you had expected it to.

Not that you had been thinking about it or anything.

He pulls away, but you’re quick to grab one of his a lapels, ensuring he can’t go far. You do your best to read him, before either of you can open your mouths and ruin this.

You can’t decide if he wants to kiss you again or apologize. You’re not sure which you want either.

“I don’t do this.” You say, sounding a lot more breathless than you intended. “Kiss clients, I mean.”

“I know.” He says.

“We really shouldn’t do this.” You add, not sounding even a little confident.

“I know.” He says.

“I have a rule about it.” You try, sounding even weaker.

“I figured.” He says.

But Bucky has made up his mind, with his free hand (which had at some point made its way to your hip), he slowly guides you until your back is flat against the door to your room.

Your hands are still frozen, clutching his jacket. Your knuckles almost white with tension. Your noses are almost touching.

“Just one more.” He says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips back to yours.

Distantly you hear him drop your heels, and feel his hand come up to cradle the side of your face.

He’s not as gentle this time, the force behind his kiss is greater. It’s more confident, hungrier. You can’t help but melt into it, hands climbing until they find a home behind his neck.

You’re hungrier this time too.

You feel your body filling with want and need. The urge to bite and claw him, then kiss and stitch him back together. If you were anyone else you could let it consume you. Part of you wonders if he would let it consume him. The way he’s kissing you, it’s like he already has.

When you break for air, you’re suddenly aware of just how tightly he’s pressed himself against you. How delicious warm, firm, and broad he is.

He drops his head against your shoulder, pressing it into the crook of your neck. You feel him release a long, deep sigh against your neck as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

You allow yourself to run your hands through his hair, just once. Working up the strength to get the words out.

Bucky presses one last soft kiss to your neck and then detaches himself from you.

Wordlessly, he picks up your heels, fixes the strap that had fallen off of your shoulder, and manages to grab your long discarded key card.

He fixes you with a look, one that you hadn’t seen before. It’s reverent, deep, and knocks any words you had out of your mouth.

“After?” Is all he asks.

But you know what he’s asking. “After.” You answer, a firm nod to accompany it.

You don’t need to say more than that, as if the kiss had also created your own short hand.

He smiles, and leans forward to unlock your room. Propping the door open with one hand, he waits until you’ve stepped inside it to hand you your heels, and your key card. As if he can’t resist, he also presses one last chaste kiss to your forehead.

“See you in a few hours sweetheart.” Finally he turns around and he leave.

You stand in the door way dumbfounded until you hear the elevator ding, and then you finally close it.

Your typically nighttime routine takes twice the time it should, with frequently interruptions of muttering “what the fuck was I thinking?” and deep reflective pauses to try and remember what his lips looked like when they were well kissed.

When you finally fall onto the bed, the last thing you see is the digital clock blinking at you, or more accurately taunting you.

2:30 A.M.

“Shit.”

Bucky is Dragging.

He didn’t make it back to his apartment until after three, the walk took him twice as long as it should have because he was too busy thinking about you.

What else is new?

However, this time, his thoughts were clouded with memories, instead of hypotheticals. He remembered how you felt beneath his hands. How you tasted. How you smiled against his lips. How you wanted it as badly as he did.

By the time he’s packed, and the cat is finally stowed away in her travel carrier (a mesh backpack one of the interns had picked up) it’s time for him to head to the airport.

Safe to say the lack of sleep isn’t helping his clarity.

He’s trying his best to listen to what the flight crew is saying, Something something cat, something something landing, something something drink service.

He’s too busy ogling you. And too tired to try and hide it. You were sitting across from him, nose deep in a packet someone had handed to you while boarding.

Normally Bucky would try to sleep on this flight, after all he had kindergarteners to read too once he got to DC. Or something, he honestly wasn’t even sure what he’s rushing back for. All that matters is that he should be sleeping, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.

Since sitting down you’d been able to spare him a glance, and a tight smile, but that was it.

Maybe you had changed your mind? Sure, your agreement last night wasn’t super fleshed out, but he thought the implication was clear.

After, meaning after the campaign.

He just needed to make sure. God it made him feel like a little boy, even just to admit it to himself.

He clears his throat, and waits for you to finally meet his eyes. “You get any sleep last night?” He asks, if the way your eyes droop are any indication the answer is no.

You shake your head, “About an hour, if I’m lucky.” You tell him, but you smile again, this time it looks more like your own. “You?”

He shakes his head, “Too much to think about.”

You hum, and he knows you’re acutely aware of the staff surrounding you in the plane. Each one is either napping or too engrossed in their own tasks, but still too risky.

“You’re in the home stretch now, little more than two weeks to go.” You say. Placing the files you had been pouring over to the side. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Despite the mention of the rapidly approaching election, Bucky can’t help but relax as you talk. “I was thinking about after.” He says. It’s as on the nose as he can get.

Your smile widens. “You need sleep to get to after, Bucky.”

“Too nervous.” He shoots back.

You shake your head, stretching your legs out in front of you, until the toe of your shoe touches Bucky’s.

“No reason to be nervous. It will still be there.”

That was all he needed to hear.

“It’s worth waiting for.” He says. It didn’t quite make sense in the conversation you’re having out loud. But in the real conversation, the one being had under a layer of professionalism, he’s saying:

You’re worth waiting for.

Based on the way you duck your head, embarrassed. He knows you heard the second one.

“Before you try to sleep, there is something else we should talk about.”

And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the professional. Your voice changes in a way Bucky can’t quite define, but he’s been spending enough time with you that he can hear the difference.

“We’re going to up your security, we have three more guards who will be joining your rotation when we land.”

It catches Bucky totally out of left field. “Wait, what?” He asks.

You nod, “I know it sounds dramatic,” you try to appease him, as if you can already hear the argument on his tongue. “But there have been three credible threats made against you in the past forty-eight hours.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Is it really neces-“

“Yes.” You cut him off, “I don’t care that you’re built like a tank Bucky.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his face at that, “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He relents, and he feels the shit-eating grinning that’s still plastered across his face. “Any thing else?”

You smile, pleased. “The social media team has drafted a post about Alpine- just stating you’ve adopted her and laying on the cuteness factor. Permission to post?”

“Yea that’s fine.” His eyes dart to the seat next to him, where the little creature is curled in a ball. It’d only been a few days, but it was nice to have a cat again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You nod, pulling out your tablet and he hears your (now French) nails tap at the screen.

Were they like that last night? He was pretty distracted, but he surprised he didn’t notice. The novelty of getting to touch you had turned just about everything but the memory of your lips to mush.

“You’re going straight from the airport to Howard Stark Elementary. The plan is for you to tell a few jokes, color a few pages, and read them a Doctor Seuss book or something.” You explain, “It’s grandparents day so there will be other people your age.” Bucky would have believed you if it weren’t for the way you started smiling at the end of the sentence.

It was more of smirk actually. Like you thought you were hilarious.

Even when it was at his expense he was inclined to agree. He doesn’t let it show though, keeping stoic until you break.

“Kidding.” You promise. “Then it’s off to a luncheon with a few of the other candidates. You should be done by three, and then you’re free to nap.”

“Thank god.”

“You mind if I put a suit fitting in your calendar for this week?” You sound like you’re asking, but Bucky knows it’s really just your way of telling him it’s happening. “You should have a new suit ready for election night.”

You make a good point. He had plenty of suits, but he wouldn’t mind having something a new for the big day. “Only if you help me pick it out.” He offers, playing right into your charade of his control.

“Of course.” You agree, standing up and your arms above your head. It causes your blouse to ride up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Then you- as casually as possible- look around.

You must be satisfied by what you see, because when you walk next to Bucky’s seat and lean down so you’re next to his ear. He feels your warm breath hit his skin, and the smell of your perfume has the hair on his neck standing up. He almost doesn’t hear what your whisper.

“As if I’d miss the chance to see you in a suit.”

Then you’re gone, turning around and making your way up to the bathroom as if you didn’t just send him into a tail spin.

Maybe flirting hasn’t changed that much.

You were honest on the plane.

Hell would freeze over before you miss a chance to see Bucky in a suit. Especially after the other night.

But it wasn’t just your new obsession driving this shopping trip.

He was going to win. You wanted him to look devastatingly handsome when he did.

You could feel it now, it was completely in his grasp. You were used to quick results, but this had been unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You’d never seen a candidate jump this far into the lead after only two months.

The numbers looked great. You felt confident saying that despite your very unprofessional bias.

Speaking of-

You’d been back in DC for a week and still hadn’t been alone since. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it since the plane.

Did that even count?

Sure, you’d stared at eachother about it, and smiled about it, and brushed eachothers hands about it, but no words had been spoken.

Inside this shop was the closet you’d gotten to privacy. Just you, Bucky, and the old man measuring his inseam.

Much to your surprise, the tailor, Eddie, was Bucky’s pick.

Even more surprisingly, the two of them hadn’t shut up since you walked in the door. You had sat down on one of the chairs in front of the mirrors while Eddie began the fitting. Trying your best to figure out who the hell replaced Bucky with this middle school girl.

“So,” you ask, after a lull in their conversation finally presents itself. “How did you two meet?”

Eddie perks up, as if he just remembered you were there. “We live in the same old folks home.” He tells you, just as Bucky is saying “Neighbors.”

If you had a water you would have done a spit take.

“I’m sorry the same, what?” You ask, lifting a finger in Bucky’s direction as you add “just Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, completely oblivious, as most old men are. “We live in the same apartment complex. Lincoln Estates.” He confirms, too busy measuring to notice your smirk. “Boss man over here just moved into the penthouse.”

“Bucky you told me you moved, but you never said where!”

“On purpose.” He says, voice flat.

Before you can comment, Eddie continues. “Yeah it took some convincing to get the HOA on board, but he technically meets the age requirement. Plus I told them having a congressman in our building might actually get the city to do something about the messed up sidewalk.”

It’s like Bucky can see the jokes forming in your head, “It’s an active adult complex!” He defends, jostling so much that Eddie has to pull him back into place.

“Mhm.” You hum, biting your lips to keep from laughing. “It’s a beautiful building, its by the hospital right?” You ask.

Eddie nods, “Yeah, it’s great! We also have a physical therapist who works out of the building. Plus, there’s a proposal to add a pickle ball court on the roof.”

You nearly choke. “That’s amazing!” You add, completely overdoing your enthusiasm.

Bucky melts in front of you, his face a brighter shade of pink with each passing comment.

Eddie taps Bucky’s shoulder, “Almost done, just gotta run to the back for a few minutes.” It’s innocent enough, but Eddie winks as he says it.

As soon as he’s gone Bucky speaks, “They were pet friendly.”

You don’t ease up, “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“That was the plan.”

“So you were just going to let me figure it out when I saw shuffleboard in the lobby?”

“Why are you in my lobby?” He fires back.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no shuffleboard in the lobby.” He laments,“Honestly, the apartment itself is normal.”

“Are there handle bars in your shower?” You ask.

Bucky sighs, it’s obvious he will not be winning this round, “They’re very convient.”

You stand up, walking over to a display of ties. You run your fingers over the different fabrics, stopping when your fingers land on a baby blue one. “Bucky do you know how much of your appeal as a candidate relies on the fact that you’re not an old man?”

“I thought my appeal was being an Avenger.”

“Avenger adjacent.” You add, part of your job is to keep him humble afterall. “Yes, that’s a lot of it too, but so is your physical age. If we take out the popsicle years, you’re about to become one the youngest senators on the floor.”

“Popsicle years?” He asks, making that stupid, cute questioning face he always gives you.

You give him a quick, but apologetic look, realizing how that sounded, “Seriously Bucky, just try to keep a low profile in the building for a bit. Last thing we need is someone’s Nana spreading gossip about you.”

He winces and you fix him with a stern, ‘What does that mean?’ look.

You grab the blue tie and walk over to Bucky. “I promised to bring Captain America to the next Barbecue.” He admits.

You’re standing in-front of Bucky now, so close your toes almost touch. Wordlessly, you bring the tie up and around his neck, tucking it under his collar. “You like it there?”

He nods, “I do.” You can feel the weight of his eyes as you begin to tie his tie. You try you best to focus on the steps, but the way he’s staring makes it hard not to mess up. “They play music I actually know, and treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

You smile. “Then that’s all that matters.”

He smiles back. Clearing his throat as you finally pull the knot tight. You let your hands linger this time, the way they had wanted too that day in the barbershop. You rest your palms against his chest, finally lifting your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still pissed you didn’t tell me though.” You tease.

“Promise not to do it again.” He says. His tone isn’t quite as airy as yours.

Just as you’re about to back up, his hands find your hips. The short distance between you feels so charged, trying to come up with any words feels impossible.

You have a rule and you already broke it once. You’re not trying to get in the habit of breaking it again, not when you’re so close to the finish line. But you can smell his cologne, feel his breath, and it all makes you dizzy.

You should say something. Tell him you shouldn’t, tell him it’s not a good idea, tell him Eddie will be back any second.

“Hi.” You whisper.

Fuck that is not what you were gonna say.

“Hi.” He smiles back, pulling you just a little closer. He looks down at the tie, “Blue?”

“Matches your eyes.” You try and make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, a futile attempt attempt to break the tension. You realized it had the opposite effect of when you feel his grip tighten.

“Bucky.” You warn, but still not dropping your hands.

He ignores it. “What if I fire you?” He asks

You laugh. Unable to help it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.” You exhale.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “One week, then you’re taking me dancing.” He says. You tilt your head up towards him, l body all but melted against him at this point and you give in. Leaning up onto your toes you’re just about to press your lips to his when-

“All right Buddy you are all set!” Eddie’s voice booms as he walks back into the room. You and Bucky jump apart like guilty teenagers.

Bucky recovers quicker than you do. “That’s great Eddie, what do I owe you?”

You pick up your bag, and do your best to try and fight the heat in your cheeks. “It’s my treat.” You insist, reaching into your purse to grab your card.

“No way.” Bucky fights back, his wallet is already opened on the counter.

“I’m the one who insisted you get a new suit Bucky.“ you fight back.

“It’s my treat.” Eddie says. “Consider it your house warming present.”

You can tell Bucky is stunned, “You sure it’s not a bribe to get that sidewalk fixed?” He jokes.

“Next one is free if you pull off that miracle.” Eddie smiles, and then not so gently adds, “Now get out of my shop and go flirt somewhere else.”

You laugh, embarrassed. “Thank you Eddie.” You look over at Bucky. “You do good work.”

“I know.” He winks.

The sun beats down on you as you step outside. Eager to get to air conditioning, you walk ahead of Bucky, joking about how he was going to sweat through his new suit.

He’s about fifteen feet behind you, halfway through a comment about how he won’t miss New York winters (as if DC is that much warmer) when you hear the car come to life. Your hand is a foot from the door when the world erupts.

There’s a sudden breeze, then a flash of heat. You feel yourself fly through the air, before you back crashes into something hard and jagged. Then you hear the blast, the reverberation of it shaking the ground you landed on.

Your body starts to catch up, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Your leg is throbbing and you can feel yourself coughing, but you can’t hear a thing over the ringing in your ears.

You look around, trying to find Bucky, but everything is covered in a blanket of smoke. Distantly, you register the car. The entire frame is on fire and either it flew across the street, or you did.

Then it all goes black.

It was like the entire thing had happened in slow motion.

One second you were laughing, smiling at him like you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else- the next thing he knew you were rumpled against a brick wall, covered in dust, blood, and your leg bent beneath you in a that definitely wasn’t natural.

Bucky was far enough away that he only had a few bumps and scrapes. He didn’t even need stitches.

You weren’t so lucky, and you didn’t even have serum on your side.

Every single Doctor who came to check on you marveled at the fact that you had managed to get away with just a few broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, and a fractured leg.

Nothing absolutely this felt lucky to him. He spent three hours waiting for you come out of surgery. It felt like you had been seriously hurt, and it was his fault.

If he had gotten to the car first. If he hadn’t sent the extra security home early. If he had taken a separate car instead of making some lame excuse about saving gas just to be closer to you. This wouldn’t have happened.

Bucky has never needed help with coming up with new and inventive ways to feel guilty and he had plenty of time to do so while he waited for you to wake up.

As an act of contrition he forces himself to just watch. Watch you breathe, watch your fingers twitch, watch your monitors and try in vain to decipher them.

No pacing, no yelling, no tracking down the men who set it all up. None of the things he’d have done if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hear your voice in his head telling him not to.

Telling hum how violence doesn’t suit him, doesn’t match the Bucky he’s become. A man he’s trying very hard to be right now.

You also keeps telling him to call his therapist, but that’s not happening.

Somewhere around hour two he had taken off the tie, it was dirty, dusty, and speckled in your blood from when he lifted you out of the rubble. Now he just kept wrapping and unwrapping it in his hands, anxiety radiating off of him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s doesn’t matter how many people tell him you’re going to be fine. Their words don’t change how small you look in the hospital bed, how cold your hands feel when he tries to hold them. The bruise from where you hit your head looks brighter every time Bucky can bring himself to look at it, dark purple staining your forehead.

He’s exhausted. A few hours of sleep would do him a world of good, but he can’t sleep until he sees the whites of your eyes.

Bucky has always hated hospitals. He hated them back in when he’d go visit Steve as a kid. He hated them in the war, when they were just tents help to other by rope and a bandaid. He hated them in Wakanda, when he was getting his bearings, relearning how to be human.

He hated them most, when he was a visitor. Being patient comes with a certain degree of acceptance. There’s a surrender that comes with being a patient too, being able to let someone else make all the hard decisions for him.

As a visitor there is no comfort. He sits in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, and waits. He waits for doctors to come with news, he waits for you to need anything. Waits to to feel useful. The rest of the waiting is just a reminder of how no matter what he believes, what he trains for, or what he does, he has no control.

Looking at you here, connected to tubes is a reminder of why he has can never let his guard down. He knew better than to get close, he certainly knew better than to start whatever this thing between the two of you was. He’s already convinced himself that he’s going to get as much distance from you as possible as soon as-

You wake up, or more accurately you groan into consciousness.

Your eyes crack open, lips parting like you’re trying to speak. At your side your hand lifts, stretching as much as it can towards him.

Bucky grabs your hand, holding it between both of his. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers.

You hum, craning your head with a wince towards the untouched glass of water on your table. Bucky grabs it wordlessly and brings the straw to your lips, “Small sips.” He encourages. You nod, closing your eyes as you drink.

When you finally pull away, you fix him with a worried look, as if he’s the one laying in the hospital bed.

“You look,” You clear your throat, “-like shit.” You voice is hoarse. He knows how smoke inhalation feels, like swallowing around glass. That’s without having been intubated.

Bucky is sure his relief is palpable, his entire body unclenches. “Then you probably shouldn’t look in the mirror sweetheart.” He says, presenting you the cup for another sip. This time you take the cup from his hands. “You got one hell of a shiner on your forehead.”

You lift a hand to your temple, recoiling when you make contact. “I’ll get bangs.” You say, not giving it another thought. Dropping your hand back to your side, you take a deep breath, or you try too, but a wince interrupts it. “It was really bad wasn’t it?” You ask.

Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. He doesn’t want to say that you’ll be in a boot for at least three months. That you’ll be out of work for two. Doesn’t want to tell you that if you had been six inches closer to that car you’d be dead.

“What happened?” You whisper.

Of course you don’t remember, you were ten feet into a brick wall, how could you? Never-mind the concussion to the mix.

“Car bomb.” He explains, “Turns out you were right about needing the extra security.”

“Add it to the list.” You smirk at that, lips cracked from dehydration. You look down, noticing the bump of the bandages around your leg. You bring a hand to your ribs, gently feeling at the wrap there as-well. “Shit.” You whisper.

He nods. “Was worse than really bad.” One of his hands crept up to cradle your hand, two fingers pressed firmly to your pulse. He needs to feel anchored to this moment, to the reality that you’re okay.

He’s fixed his gaze on the blankets covering you, when all of sudden you start to cry.

Your chest heaves with silent sobs and a few scattered tears run down your cheeks. Then you let out a pathetic whimper than Bucky can’t for the life of him understand.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He tries to soothe, moving so he’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to your legs. He brings a hand up to cradle your face, sweeping away the tears with his thumb.

You nuzzle into his palm, resting the entire weight of your head against it while you mumble something.

“Honey I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, buts it’s okay. You’re okay now, everything is fine. You’re only gonna be in a boot for three months! The rest will heal on its own with some rest.” He explains, smoothing your hair as he speaks.

“I almost died.” You explain, slower this time. “And now I’m gonna have bangs when you win!” You add, sounding even more wrecked.

Already thinking about work. You’re still you. Under the scratchy voice and bruised skin, you still have all of your priorities out of order. You still have your sparkle. Something Bucky had spent the last several hours afraid you’d lost.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He promises, “We have a week until the election, no need to pull out the scissors just yet.” He reminds you.

“Six days.” You bite back. The ghost of a smile on your face as you calm down. You nod towards the nurses chart on the wall, “It’s tomorrow, only six days left.” You explain.

“My apologies.” He jokes. Dropping his palm from your face back to your hand.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you?” You ask, eyes looking him over, taking in his disheveled state. Bucky nods, fighting a yawn as you say it. You give him a real smile this time, all of your warmth directed squarely at him. “Better not be blaming yourself Barnes.”

God, you know him better than he gives you credit for. “That’s because it is my fault.” He admits, suddenly finding great interest in the floor.”

“No.” You say, voice firm.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t-“ He stops, choking on the words.

“Did you put the bomb in the car Bucky?” You ask. Tone sharp and unyielding. He instantly recognizes it, having heard you use with anyone who tries to challenge you. He’s never heard anyone succeed.

“No.” He answers, still unable to look at you. “But that doesn’t change-“

“Bucky.” You interrupt, “Look at me.” He listens, as always. “This is not your fault.”

He wants to fight with you, to yell that is, to give you a hundred different reasons why you should run in the opposite direction.

“I got hurt, because someone wanted to hurt you.” Knife - twisted. “Both of those things can be true, without it being your fault. Okay?”

He nods, “Okay.” He says.

“It’s my pity party, don’t make it about you.”

He almost laughs at that, there’s something about you that makes wallowing so much harder. Besides, you’re you’re giving him that smile, how could he.

So he chooses to believe you, at least until the voices start up again.

“I talked to your boss.” He says.

“Oh?” You ask.

“Some wannabe congressman.” He elaborates.

“Oh!” You giggle, catching on. “How’d it go? He’s a real hardass.”

“He was tough,” he plays along, “But I managed to convince him to give you PTO for the next four months.”

“Wow.” You pretend to be surprised, “That’s very generous considering my contract is up in a week.”

“Mmm, he said something about that too.” You widen your eyes, “Said he had big plans for you.”

You nod, smiling wide. “I can’t wait to hear them.” The second half of your sentence is lost to a yawn.

Bucky feels lighter as he watches you snuggle into the blankets. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl in next you, but he’s been fighting those kinds of thoughts since Brooklyn. He hasn’t earned the right to that domesticity- yet.

“You should go home. Sleep, feed your cat. Maybe go crazy and take a shower.”

He nods, already picturing the stink eye he’d get from Alpine when he got home. He still wasn’t used to having a roommate. “A shower is probably a good idea.” He says, standing up.

“Thank you,” you say, and Bucky looks at you quizzically. “For staying,” you explain, “I was so worried about you, waking up and seeing your face was-“ You stop, and he watches you search for the right word. “Everything.”

He leans over, kissing the crown of your head, something thats quickly become a habit. “No where else I would have been.” He answers. “Call me later?” He ask.

You nod, “I promise.”

This was arguably worst than being in an explosion.

Okay maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but never in your career had you been forced to watch your victory from the comfort of your deeply uncomfortable couch. If this injury has taught you anything, it’s that you really need to invest in better furniture. It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually spend time in your home.

You also didn’t have any food in the house, which is why you were still waiting on your third DoorDash of the day. No pity party was complete without a snack.

Back to the torture at hand.

On your screen, in gorgeous technicolor you watched in real time as it was revealed that the voters chose Bucky as New York’s newest Congressmen.

He had given a wonderful speech, short, succinct and powerful, like him. You had proofed it so of course it was perfect. Then as the crowd applauded you watched as the team you had spent the last several weeks of your life managing, celebrated without you.

Blue confetti rained down, getting tangled in his hair, and blurring with his gorgeous blue tie (you had a replacement delivered to him after seeing how ruined it was at the hospital). Sure they had all been calling and texting you throughout the night, you knew they missed you. Almost all of them had already sent you a congratulatory text

Almost all.

The entire day, the one person you didn’t hear from was the person you wanted to talk to the most.

Bucky was avoiding you.

At least you think he is, he wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You knew first hand how chaotic election days were, add to that how Bucky often forgot his phone even existed. A week ago you would’ve written it off as nerves clouding his mind. Two months ago you’d have forgiven it as him having other people to celebrate with.

That was before three things happened:

1. He kissed you so well, you forgot you’d ever been kissed by anyone else.

2. He spent all night at the hospital, waiting for you to wake up.

3. He spent all week texting, FaceTiming, and calling you non-stop. Partly because you were working remotely to get the campaign across the finish line. Partly because ‘he needed to hear your voice again.’

‘Needed too’ until this morning.

He was all vague promises of a plan and sending you cute photos of Alpine, until today.

Maybe this was his plan, ruin you for all other men, and then ghost. You were pretty sure he doesn’t even know what ghosting is, but it’s happened to enough times that you’re skeptical.

To top it all off, you can’t event drink. Your special cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics ruling it out completely. It was a sad predicament, just you, the dry bowl of cereal you had for dinner, and the eleven o’clock news.

It had been almost forty-fives minutes since the results were annouced, and still no word from Bucky. After triple checking your ringer is on, you shut the TV off. It was almost time for your next dose of Tylenol, hopefully it would give you the extra push towards sleep.

Knock knock knock.

For a moment you panic, no one knocks on your door. You don’t know your neighbors, and then you remember.

DoorDash!

Sacrificing grace for speed, you hobble over to the door. You weren’t used to maneuvering with the boot, still cringing everytime time it scraped against the floor.

You opened the door without thinking, looking down expecting to see a brown bag of greasy comfort. Instead you see black dress shoes.

Ones you instantly recognize, you bought them after all.

Your eyes work their way up slowly, clocking the brown bag clutched in his hands. Then the rest of the way to his handsome face.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party somewhere Bucky?” You ask.

He gives you that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah I should be.” He says, and despite how pissed you were five minutes ago, you let him in.

In all your time together you had never felt scared of Bucky. Nervous? Sure, but never scared. Except for right now. Staring at him in your apartment, watching him put the bag of food on down, you were scared. Not of the man, but of your very big, heart pounding in your chest feelings for him. Scared because you had let yourself fall, hard. You had let yourself plan and dream and fall asleep every night thinking about how you would grab him and kiss him the second they announced he won.

Then he ignored you all day. Had he finally realized your organization was annoying? That having a plan A, B, C and D wasn’t called being prepared and was actually called being crazy.

He was watching you too now, and despite your fear, it was like your body came to life under his gaze. A week without seeing him in person made being this close feel electric. Then Bucky broke your gaze and it was like all the sparks died.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person.” He explains, coming closer.

A sense of doom creeps up your neck as you watch him approach. You’re stuck in the entryway, as if the boot on your leg has become a cement block and your body can’t be bothered to try and move it.

This is it, you think he’s here to tell me, whatever this almost was, is over.

“You’re fired.” He says, his voice is monotone but his face is wearing an expression you can only describe as a satisfied grin. It feels a little tone deaf given the circumstances.

You open your mouth, hoping to find a biting comeback, or even a sour ‘congratulations’ would work, anything to show him you are not on the same wavelength when lips find yours.

Bucky kisses you, and it’s so obvious he had been holding out on you in Brooklyn. He’s cradling your face in between his palms, but this time he’s not holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s not the desperate hunger and grabby hands from New York

This time it’s all softness. It doesn’t take long for you to melt, hands finding his neck and making a home there. You both relax into the kiss, all of the stress, the tension, and blurred lines finally lifted. All that’s left are two people.

You kiss Bucky in until your lungs feels like they will explode. Pulling away Bucky follows you, trying to chase your lips- briefly succeeding, before finally settling for resting his forehead against yours.

You catch your breath, lungs weak, leg going numb from standing on it for so long. lips smiling so wide you’re afraid your face might split in half. Delirium.

“You skipped your party to fire me?” You ask. Tone light, giggles interrupting each word.

Bucky nods and his hands travel to your waist, where they plant themselves firmly. He lifts you and brings you that last foot forward so your chest is pressed to his.. “Knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate.” He explains, lips brushing yours as he says it.

You want to ask him more questions, does he have to leave? can he stay forever? what does this mean? was the food still hot when he brought it in?

Instead you kiss him again. When you break away this time it’s because your lips are numb.

“I know today was crazy, and I should have called you back, I wanted to so badly. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to handle hearing your voice without coming here.”

It sounds a bit dramatic, but he says it so earnestly, you don’t question it. “That’s a good reason.” You whisper, “If you had come here and kissed me like that I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

Bucky tried to kiss you again, but it’s sloppy, both of you smiling too much into the kiss. “You gonna keep me?” He asks.

You nod, shoving the suit jacket down off of his shoulders you can you rest your hands there. Feel all of the strength and power there. Bucky is pliant under your touch, letting it fall to floor with a soft thump. “Yeah, Brooklyn’s gonna need to find someone else.” You answer, “Besides you ruined my job, how am I ever supposed to work with someone else now that I’ve had you.”

Bucky kisses you again, one hand snaking up under your shirt to ghost over your ribs.

“Had an idea for that.” Bucky says he pulling away, but still not detaching. You tilt your head, silently asking him to go on. “Gonna need to adjust my team, now that I’ll be sticking around in DC. There’s one job I need to fill.” He said explains, “You’d be around me constantly, telling me what to do and what not to do.” You smile.

“I do have some recent experience with that type of work.” You offer, “Need me to email you my resume?” You ask, bringing one hand up to scratch your nails down the back of his neck. You watch gleefully as he shivers beneath your touch.

He shakes his head, “You’re overqualified.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Chief of Staff.”

If it wasn’t for the boot (and the concussion) you’d jump on him. Spend every day with him, and actually do good?

“I accept!” You answer, pressing your chest against his, afraid the ball of light forming inside of it will explode if you don’t glue yourself to him.

After months of calculated touches, and fighting your instincts, the freedom to hold him is addictive.

“Thank god.” He whispers and kisses your forehead, neither of you have stopped smiling. “There’s one other job though.” He says. “It would mean sneaking around, and flying under the radar.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You say.

“Mhmm, it is. Comes with the risk of spending even more time with me, maybe forever.”

“Don’t think that’s long enough.” You respond, distantly wondering who is this sappy, boy-crazy girl and what has she done with you?

Bucky squeezes you again, as if he’s making sure you’re still real. “I’ve got a lot of shit to unpack, you sure you wanna take all that on?”

You nod fervently, “I can handle it Barnes.”

He presses one more kiss to your lips. “I know better than to doubt you.”

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I have no expectations posting this, I just started writing and couldn’t stop! I love these two so much. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck, love you say it back

Masterlist!

[love-lilacs]

pink i need you to know that this fic has not left my mind for the week since i’ve read it and i just about lost my shit when i couldn’t find it. genuinely searched for an hour. i do gotta be up in 5 hours but idc idc this is how im gonna be sleeping now

[love-lilacs]

— 18+ mdni - smut, congressman!barnes, pussy pronouns, unofficial relationship, oral (f!receiving)

It was a stupid argument that escalated into something bigger. 

“She was practically draped over you!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly! You didn’t do anything! You didn’t push her away and then you have the nerve to snap at Sam when he was just being nice to me!”

“Sam doesn’t do nice, sweetheart, he just wants to see you naked.”

You gape, jaw practically on the ground as you tug another hairpin from your hair, sending a large chunk of hair tumbling from the updo. “And that’s my fault?”

Bucky leans in the doorframe of your bedroom, arms crossed and jaw tensed. Somewhere between the apartment door and here, he’d taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. If you weren’t so boiling mad, you’d be jumping his bones and pulling him into your sheets.

“You don’t understand.” Bucky grumbles, jaw ticking as he speaks. 

You narrow your eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror before whirling around. The last of your hairpins drop mindlessly from your hands onto the dresser with a small clatter that is entirely drowned out by the deep intake of air into your lungs. 

“I don’t understand?” Your voice is low, dangerous, arms crossed over your chest.

Bucky should feel like he’s in danger. Like he’s about to get mauled, because you’ve got him cornered. He fucked up and he knows it, and with the one move he has left, he stalks towards you. Your chin raises to meet his gaze, unknowingly pushing your breasts higher into his view, the sight of the soft swell sending his blood rushing south.

“You don’t understand what you do to me,” Bucky husks, tilting your head back by your chin. Your jaw is still set, stubborn to the very end, but your blown pupils give you away. You want him just as bad. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. He kisses the corner of your mouth, but is deterred from your lips when you turn your head away from him, jaw still set in determination not to give into him. 

He only smiles, kissing your neck and sucking at the spot he knows turns you to mush in his hands. Bucky lets his hands roam over your curves, mapping the skin of your waist and holding your body against his own. 

“Come on doll, you mad at me?” He punctuates the question with a bite to the soft skin of your neck, soothing it with a gentle suck and eliciting a small moan from you. Bucky smiles into your skin, letting his lips brush against you as he teases and gropes at your body. “You mad at me?”

Bucky thinks he’s got you exactly where he wants you. Pliant and soft, ready to forget all of this and fall into the bed to become a tangle of sheets and limbs until neither of you can do anything but say each other’s names, lost in pleasure. 

He’s wrong. 

Bucky is pushed onto his knees before he can even think. You look flushed, dress strap hanging loosely off of your shoulder and hair messy from his touch, but through it all, despite your body begging for him, your face is set in a hard line of determination. A small smile plays at your lips, leaning down to peck his lips sweetly. He slowly flexes his metal hand, itching to touch you.

“Something you want, Barnes?” The taunt is smug and it becomes clear to you that the both of you know exactly who has the upper hand here. 

Bucky rests his hands on your bare thighs, fingertips just shy of the edge of your lacy panties. He doesn’t even know you’re wearing the lacy blue ones that drive him crazy. Yet. 

“Please, baby. Let me get my mouth on you, I’m sorry. Let me I’ll prove just how sorry I am.” 

You tilt your head playfully, pretending to consider the proposition. Like you don’t want his mouth on your cunt as much as you want to breathe. Like he doesn’t know how to make you cum like anyone else. 

Your foot lifts from the ground, still in the obscenely high and uncomfortable heels you put on to try and make yourself seem not as quite as short compared to him. Holding his gaze, you draw the toe up his leg, over his thick thigh and brushing across the bulging erection his dress pants do little to hide.

Try as he may, he cannot contain the shudder that runs through the body at your slight touch, subtly moving his hips in a pathetic attempt to chase the pleasure. It disappears as you raise your knee higher, resting your foot on his chest. The action lifts your dress enough to expose your core to him, soaked through the lace and glistening in front of him. His eyes are locked on the treat between your legs, tongue darting out to wet his plush pink lips. 

“See something you like?” You giggle, spreading your legs wider and pressing your foot into his chest to keep him at bay. A groan rumbles through his chest as you push your hips back, resting on the ledge of your dresser. “Words, Barnes.”

Bucky swallows, kissing your ankle remarkably chastely for the vulgarity spewing from the two of you. “Yes. Yes. I can see how bad she wants it, angel; you’re so wet. Just spread your legs and let me eat.”

Hungry kisses make their way up your leg, Bucky’s stubble grating deliciously against your legs. His offer is tempting, and you’ll give into him, but you need to have your own fun too. Make him feel a little bad. The sight of such a big, powerful man on his knees for you does something to you every time.

“Beg. Maybe I’ll consider.”

Bucky’s pride evaporates like smoke on the wind. “Please, doll, please. Let me get my mouth on your sweet pussy. It’s all I can think about. I don’t care about anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll die happy between your legs if you let me. She tastes so sweet. The sweetest honey. I know you want it too, I can see her clenching. Like a heartbeat between your legs, please-” 

His lewd words and promises make something stronger settle in your chest. Who needs simple when you have this? 

You smirk, holding his gaze as the kisses grow hotter and wetter up your leg. “Please, baby…” Bucky gasped, pressing his body against your other leg. 

A small nod from you is all it takes for him to surge up, pushing your dress up and and pulling your panties down in one smooth motion. “Thank you, darling.” Bucky grins, yanking the panties from your ankle and putting them in his back pocket. He attaches his mouth to your cunt and sucks, making out desperately with your pussy. HIs hands are possessive, pulling you closer to him with possessive hands on your thighs. 

Bucky’s mouth is worshipping, licking and sucking with an unabashed fervour. It’s equally worshipful and claiming. 

You can have your fun now, Bucky thinks smugly, with your hands fisted in his hair. Each groan and filthy word he says against your clit promises a long night, an unmissable dominant tone and a humiliating fire in his icy blue eyes.

You’re in for a long night.

[robertfagden]

actually im doing really well except for the fact that everything makes me sad and the things that dont make me sad make me angry. but other than that im fine

[love-lilacs]

come find me again - bucky barnes x reader

pairing: prince!bucky x princess!reader

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. 

[love-lilacs]

part two is up now!!