“shit… this is so fucking bad,” hiromi groans behind you, voice low and strained like he’s trying to hold onto the last thread of his sanity. his big hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into you from behind, the wet slap of his hips meeting your ass echoing obscenely through his dimly lit apartment. you’re bent over the back of his expensive leather couch, tits pressed into the cool material, ass up and spread wide for the much older man you’d only seen for the first time this morning at the Tokyo District Court.
he looked like sin in that black judge’s robe — sharp features, tired eyes that still burned with intensity, salt-and-pepper hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his hands through it too many times during a long trial. now that same man is balls-deep inside you, thick cock stretching your soaked pussy with every brutal thrust.
“you’re… fuck… you’re half my age,” he pants, voice rough but still carrying that precise, lawyerly tone even while he’s rearranging your guts. one hand slides up your spine, pressing you down harder as he snaps his hips forward again, driving so deep you feel him in your stomach. “this could be career suicide. conflict of interest, abuse of authority… technically i’m not supposed to even look at you like this after seeing you in my courtroom today.”
you moan loudly, pushing back against him, drunk on the way his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. your juices are already dripping down your thighs, the couch creaking under the force of his thrusts.
hiromi doesn’t stop talking. he can’t. even buried to the hilt in your tight, dripping cunt, the man is still a fucking judge.
“legally,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in with a filthy squelch, “this could be construed as misconduct under Article 49 of the Judicial Ethics Code. improper relationship with a party present in court… shit, you’re so fucking wet—” his voice cracks for a second as your walls clench around him. he keeps going, hips never slowing. “if anyone found out i brought you home and bent you over like this… fuck, i could face disciplinary review. suspension. maybe even disbarment.”
his pace turns punishing, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back deeper. the new angle makes you cry out, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy spot over and over. sweat rolls down his bare chest, dripping onto your back. his balls slap loudly against your clit with every deep stroke, the obscene wet sounds mixing with your broken moans.
“and yet here i am,” he continues, almost like he’s arguing in court, “fucking you raw like some desperate old man. no protection. no restraint.” he leans over you, chest pressing to your back, lips brushing your ear as he growls, “you have no idea how many rules i’m breaking right now, sweetheart. how many statutes i’m violating with every thrust.”
you’re losing it. your thighs shake violently, pussy fluttering wildly around his thick cock. the pressure is building fast — hot, overwhelming, unstoppable. every brutal snap of his hips pushes you closer to the edge, his words only making it filthier, hotter.
“hiromi— fuck— please—”
“please what?” he rasps, still pounding you mercilessly. his free hand slides around to rub tight, messy circles on your swollen clit. “you’re going to cum on a judge’s cock? right after i just spent all day upholding the law? this is textbook abuse of power. i should stop. i should pull out right now and—”
“shut it,” you snap breathlessly, voice cracking into a desperate moan as your orgasm crashes dangerously close. “shut the fuck up and fuck me, hiromi.”
something in him snaps.
“fuck,” he growls, all composure gone. he straightens up, grips both your hips with bruising force and starts railing you like a man possessed. no more legal talk — just raw, animalistic pounding. the couch scrapes against the floor from the sheer force. your pussy gushes around him, creamy white ring coating the base of his cock and dripping messily down his balls.
“you want it messy?” he snarls, voice dark and dangerous now. “then take it.”
he fucks you harder, deeper, hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy smacks. your juices spray a little with every thrust, soaking his thighs and the floor beneath you. one of his hands comes down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoing as he watches the flesh jiggle. then again. and again. red handprints bloom on your skin.
you’re sobbing now, completely overwhelmed, tears of pleasure streaking your face. “i’m— i’m gonna—”
“cum,” he commands, voice rough and low. “cum on my cock while i ruin every ethical boundary i have left.”
your orgasm hits you like a freight train. you scream, body convulsing violently as your pussy clamps down around him like a vice, gushing slick all over his thrusting cock. your vision whites out. your legs give out completely, but hiromi holds you up, fucking you straight through it without mercy. the wet, squelching sounds are downright pornographic as he keeps driving into your spasming heat.
“that’s it… good girl,” he groans, teeth clenched. “fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”
he doesn’t stop. he flips you over suddenly, laying you flat on the couch and spreading your legs wide. he hooks one of your knees over his shoulder and sinks back in with one brutal thrust, folding you in half. the new angle makes you see stars as he pounds even deeper, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
his hair is a mess, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your tits as he looms over you. his eyes are wild, dark with lust and that lingering conflict.
“this is going to destroy me,” he mutters, almost to himself, but he keeps fucking you harder, chasing his own release. “one look at you today and i threw every principle out the window… shit—”
you’re still twitching from your orgasm, oversensitive and whimpering, but he doesn’t slow down. his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm, forcing another peak to build right on the heels of the first.
“hiromi— too much—”
“you told me to shut up and fuck you,” he growls, leaning down to bite your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin. “so take it. take every fucking inch while i ruin this pretty pussy.”
the wet slap of skin is relentless. your mixed juices drip down onto the couch, creating a soaked mess beneath you. his thrusts turn erratic, deeper, more desperate as he nears his limit.
“gonna cum inside you,” he warns, voice strained. “fill you up like the reckless old man i am tonight.”
you nod frantically, nails raking down his back as another orgasm rips through you. you cry out his name, body arching hard, pussy gushing around him again.
hiromi groans deep in his chest and buries himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he cums hard. thick, hot ropes of cum flood your pulsing cunt, spilling out around his cock with every twitch of his hips. he keeps grinding deep, pushing every drop inside you like he’s claiming you.
for a long moment the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the wet drip of his cum leaking out of you onto the ruined couch.
hiromi rests his forehead against yours, still buried deep, breathing hard.
“this… was highly illegal,” he mutters, but there’s a dark, satisfied smirk on his lips. “and i already know i’m going to do it again.”
he kisses you then — deep, messy, and hungry — like a man who just broke every rule he believes in… and fucking loved it.
Ⓒfayelero all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !
Hey Barbie!! I've been looking for you everywhere!
Calm down, no need to stress! You look perfect as always Barbie! I'm sure every person in the house will be drooling over you as soon as we walk in.
How many Boys? Well, when I scooped the scene, there were eighteen bedrooms to choose from!
Oh please, that's nothing! Mojo Dojo has like- a bazillion bedrooms, now come on! They're waiting for us inside!
April 10th✶⋆.° The Hand Plants, The Heart Reaps @buckytakethewheel
౨ৎ Paring: Landscaper!Bucky X Home Owner! Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You never planned to return to the quiet countryside, let alone inherit your late grandmother’s weathered cottage and overgrown garden. Stressed and city-worn, you hire local landscaper Bucky Barnes to tame the chaos in order to honor her memory. But what begins as a simple restoration blooms into shared stories of loss, second chances and a path to starting over.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) strangers to lovers; slow burn; she falls first/he falls harder
April 13th✶⋆.° Silver Linings @ornateglass
౨ৎ Paring: Miner!Bucky X Well Off!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: A lucky strike sets your family in the lap of wealth, drawing you into a world of status, expectations, and away from your childhood friend, Bucky. As a worker in your father’s mine, he knows he’d never have approval for your hand. Will his feelings stay buried? Or will love find its silver lining?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Set in 1885, friends to one-sided enemies to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn hurt/comfort
April 14th✶⋆.° Earned It @phoenix-in-writing
౨ৎ Paring: Massage Therapist!Bucky X Client!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Vacation fling, porn with zero plot, inappropriate use of massage oils + towels
April 15th✶⋆.° Slippery Slope @stanmarvelous
౨ৎ Paring: Ski Instructor!Bucky X Student!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) pushing professional boundaries, strangers to lovers.
April 16th✶⋆.° Jungle Fever @ornateglass
౨ৎ Paring: Zoo Keeper!Bucky X Horticulturist! Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Two shy, clumsy people secretly in love with each other and a bottle of pheromone spray. What could possibly go wrong?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT)Sex pollen, friends to lovers, mutual pining
April 17th✶⋆.° Smartest In The Room @colettebarnes
౨ৎ Pairing: Substitute Teacher!Bucky X Student!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb : James Barnes, the substitute professor no one asked for, seems determined to prove you’re nothing more than predictable. You think he's condescending. And yet somehow, every argument between you feels less like an academic debate and more like a problem neither of you wants to solve. Because whatever this is, it has an expiration date.
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Inappropriate workplace relationship, power imbalance, grumpy!Bucky to soft for reader!Bucky
April 20th✶⋆.° The Long Way back To You @phoenix-in-writing
౨ৎ Paring: Veterinarian!Bucky X Best Friend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: After years of traveling abroad, you are called back to your hometown to help settle your grandmother's estate. You expected to quickly sell the house and return to your life in the city, but an injured bunny leads you straight back to your high school sweetheart...and a life you thought you wanted to leave behind.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to strangers to lovers, second chance love, a jealous boyfriend, slight hurt/comfort
April 22nd✶⋆.° Dead Stop @buckytakethewheel
౨ৎ Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky X Mechanic!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes doesn’t do favors. Everything has a price; that’s how he’s kept his garage and himself intact since the end of the world. Then there’s you, the rival mechanic down the road who refuses to take a single scrap of bread for a radiator flush. But when a freak storm destroys his workshop, Bucky's left with nowhere to go but your grease-stained bay and forced to face every choice he's never allowed himself to make.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) apocalypse au; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; mentions of death & end of the world
April 23rd✶⋆.° Love, B @planetbucky
౨ৎ Paring: Librarian!Bucky X Professor!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Bucky Barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. Four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… If not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. That’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) younger man x older woman; college au; secret admirer trope; public indecency
April 24th✶⋆.° Taming Bullet @elixirfromthestars
౨ৎ Pairing: Ex Racer!Bucky X Childhood Best Friend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and go back to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made years ago back in his college years, is the cause of that.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) childhood friends to enemies to …?, ex best friend’s brother, second chance romance, reunion & revenge
April 25th✶⋆.° Vital Refractions @sheriff-bodecker
౨ৎ Pairing: Paramedic!Bucky X Coworker/Bestfriend!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You and Bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. But after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not detailed), miscommunication, friends to something to lovers, arguments!!
April 26th✶⋆.° Human Nature @sunday-bug
౨ৎ Pairing: Ranger!Bucky X New Ranger!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) grumpy x sunshine, age gap, he falls first
April 27th✶⋆.° Slow Ride @barnes-babydoll
౨ৎ Paring: Tow truck driver!Bucky X Rich girl!reader
౨ৎ Blurb: James Buchanan Barnes. Charmer. Tow truck driver. Oh, and someone who completely grinds your gears. You hope your first encounter with him is the last. Until…the accident. Accidents happen. No biggie. You didn't break anything when the airbag deployed. Maybe your ego is a little bruised, but you'll be just fine. The worst of it isn't even the damaged car; it's the fact that when you call for a tow, that same man with the annoyingly perfect smile and ego the size of Jupiter shows up to help you. It seems like the universe is either out to get you or trying to push you and Bucky together.
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, minor injuries
April 28th✶⋆.° La Petit Mort @miraclediviner
౨ৎ Paring: Mortician!Bucky X Lady Death!Reader
Blurb: With 13 years of private practice experience under his belt, Bucky had built a solid routine for himself. Be in the building by 5:00 am, meet families through the mornings, take care of cremations through midday, and embalm bodies through the evening. Its stability, he's never strayed from it. That is, until an unfamiliar companion lurking in the mortuary's halls visits him in the dead of night.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Strangers? to lovers, angst... , unexpected visits, death, public sex
April 29th✶⋆.° Drive You home @navybrat817
౨ৎ Paring: Taxi Driver!Bucky X Passenger!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a taxi driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) Pining, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, sick family member
April 30th✶⋆.° Classroom Management @ladymiseryy
౨ৎ Paring: Coach!Bucky X Teacher!Reader
౨ৎ Summary: Coach Barnes is everyone’s favorite. The students love him, parents love him, you love him. How could you not? He’s kind, funny, undeniably, tragically handsome. And your best friend.
You only wish you loved him a little less. Maybe then you could move the fuck on.
౨ৎ Themes: (SMUT) friends to lovers, jealousy, pining, not so unrequited love
April 31st✶⋆.° South of the Sun, East of the Nile @miraclediviner
౨ৎ Paring: Archaeologist!Bucky X Archaeologist!Reader
౨ৎ Blurb: Between early morning, dust behind your eyes, and uncomfortable cots, your dream job is turning out to be different from what you hoped. Lucky for you, a fresh opportunity has fallen into your lap. You're being sent to the Temple of Bastet with new technology to look for lost artifacts. Bad news, the co-leader of your expedition is the infamous Bucky Barnes. Casanova to some, shit head to others. A career-defining opportunity lies before you. Do you have what it takes to get the job done?
౨ৎ Theme: (SMUT) Co-workers to lovers, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, one bed trope
So Barbie, what do you think? Pretty hot right!
*Sigh* So many boys to choose from, so little time. That's alright, we'll just have to handle this buffet-style!
Hey! Sharing is caringbaby, what's mine is now yours!!
I gotta gotta go! I have a Tea party at eight, but the boys said that they're excited to see us on the 10th for their month-long party!
DO YOU WANT THE HOUSE TOURRRRRRRR I CAN TAKE U TO THE FIRST SECOND THIRD FLOOOOOOOR!!
we have all worked so hard to bring Bucky’s Dream house blog side and I’m so excited to see what everyone pulls out of their magical hat!!!!
The biggest thanks in the world to @buckytakethewheel and @barnes-babydoll for pulling through with our beautiful graphics I couldn’t have done it without them both!!
Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 6.3k.
Note: Another story that comes to an end. Thank you so much for accompanying me on this journey❤️
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She walked without a destination in mind, letting her feet carry her through the streets as the sky shifted from pale blue to dusky purple.
The air was cool, sharp enough to cut through the fog in her head. She'd needed this. Needed to get out of the house, away from her phone, away from the loop of thoughts that had been circling since she'd read his message.
Sorry. Had a situation with the power. Crazy afternoon.
It wasn't a lie. She believed him. But it also wasn't an answer.
She'd asked if he wanted to see her. He'd read it hours ago and responded with an explanation for why he'd been unavailable, not whether he actually wanted to spend time with her.
The distinction hurt.
She turned down a side street, passing houses with warm lights in the windows, the faint sounds of dinner being made, lives being lived.
She thought about the past week.
Bucky had been tired. More than usual. His texts were shorter, his availability thinner. And she'd told herself it was just stress, just the bakery, just the accumulated weight of long days and early mornings.
But then there was the other night.
She stopped at the corner, shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets.
Was she being paranoid? Reading too much into things?
Maybe.
Or maybe she was finally paying attention to what had been right in front of her.
She walked another block, her breath misting in the cooling air.
The worst part was not knowing what this was.
If he wanted to end this, if he'd realized she wasn't what he wanted, or that the effort was too much, fine. It would hurt like hell, but at least she'd know where they stood.
At least she could stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But this? This slow fade, this careful distance, this polite withdrawal - it was worse than honesty. It left her in limbo, second-guessing every interaction, wondering if she was being clingy or if her instincts were right.
She was a grown-up woman.
She deserved clarity. Deserved to know if there was something to fix or if she was just prolonging the inevitable.
And if he couldn't give her that -if he was going to disappear on her piece by piece without ever actually saying the words- then she needed to know that too.
She stopped walking.
Stood there on the sidewalk, keeping her hands in her pockets, staring at nothing in particular.
Tomorrow.
She'd go tomorrow. Not text, not call. In person, where he couldn't hide behind short messages and excuses.
She'd ask him directly: What's going on?
And whatever he said, at least she'd know.
Her chest felt tight at the thought. Because there was a very real chance that the answer would be I want to end this, or some other version dressed up in kinder language. And she didn't know how she'd handle that.
But she also knew she couldn't keep doing this.
Couldn't keep reaching across the space he kept putting between them, hoping that eventually he'd meet her halfway.
She turned and started walking back toward home, her pace steady, purposeful.
Tomorrow, she'd go to the bakery. After the morning rush, when things were quieter. And she'd ask.
And whatever happened after that… they'd deal with it.
----
The morning rush had come and gone.
Bucky stood behind the counter, restocking the breadstick basket without thought. Oregano, onion, seeded, garlic. The same order every time, the same arrangement that made it easy for customers to see what they were grabbing.
His hands moved on autopilot while his brain was somewhere else entirely.
He'd told himself he was going to call her today.
Had woken up with that intention, solid enough that he'd actually believed it this time. He'd get through the morning rush, clean up, and then he'd call her. Apologize for being distant. Try to explain without making it worse.
Except now it was past ten, and he still hadn't picked up the phone.
He grabbed another handful of garlic breadsticks from the tray behind him and started filling the gaps in the basket.
Garlic.
He paused, holding one of the breadsticks, pressing his thumb against the golden-brown surface.
The first time she'd come in and bought them, he'd given her one to try. Watched her bite into it, watched her eyes widen slightly as she said That's really good.
And then she'd made that comment -self-conscious, a little awkward- about not having to worry about smelling like garlic around anyone.
He had flicked his eyes to her lips before he could stop them, and thought about it for days after.
He set the breadstick in the basket and reached for another handful.
He'd put some extra in the bag, because she stood up for him when that asshole from the town council had been nitpicking prices, and she hadn't had to. It wasn't flirting or trying to send any weird message.
And then Dotty had walked in.
James here is single.
He clenched his jaw, setting another breadstick down harder than necessary.
He could still feel the heat crawling up his neck, the way his ears had burned as Dotty announced his relationship status like she was introducing him at a town meeting. And she'd been standing right there, holding her bag of breadsticks -the ones he'd just put extra into- watching the whole thing unfold.
He hadn't been able to look at her.
Had rung up Dotty with his shoulders hunched, wishing he could disappear into the floor, and when she'd asked him about Pink Valhalla, he'd barely managed to string a sentence together.
And later, when she'd asked what his thing was, he'd suggested Will's.
Because it was the only place he could think of where he might actually see her again outside of the bakery, and he'd been too much of a coward to just ask her outright.
He exhaled through his nose, shoving the memory aside.
It had been easier then. Simpler.
Before he'd gotten in his own head about all the ways this could go wrong. Before Steve's visit had reminded him of every reason she might decide he wasn't worth the effort.
Before he'd started pulling away because it felt safer than waiting for her to leave first.
He grabbed the last handful of breadsticks from the tray and was reaching to place them in the basket when the bell above the door chimed.
He looked up.
And there she was.
----
She looked tired.
That was the first thing he noticed. Not angry or upset, just tired in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
She didn't move toward the display case. Didn't glance at the bread or pastries. Just stood there, keeping her hands in her jacket pockets, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Do you have a minute?" she asked.
His stomach dropped.
Fuck.
She'd beaten him to it. Of course she had. He'd spent all morning telling himself he was going to call her, and she'd just walked in and asked for the conversation he'd been avoiding.
"Yeah," he said, already moving to wipe his hands on the rag by the register. "Yeah, just-"
The bell chimed.
An older man stepped inside, nodding at both of them as he made his way toward the counter. Bucky recognized him -Carl something, lived a few streets over, came in once a week for rye bread-.
The timing couldn't have been worse.
He stilled his hand on the rag. He glanced at her, caught between wanting to tell Carl to come back later and knowing he couldn't actually do that.
She turned toward the man with a small, polite smile.
"Go ahead," she said. "I'm still deciding."
Carl looked between them for a moment, then nodded. "Appreciate it."
She stepped to the side, still keeping her hands in her pockets, and Bucky forced himself to focus on the man.
"The usual?" he asked, his voice coming out flat.
"Yep. The rye. Sliced, if you've got it."
Bucky nodded, turning toward the shelf behind him.
His hands moved through the motions -looking for a sliced loaf, it seemed he mixed them when he settled them. He could feel her standing there. Could feel the weight of whatever she'd come to say hovering in the air between them.
Carl was saying something about the weather. Bucky made a sound that might have been agreement.
He put the bread on the counter, rang it up, and handed over the change.
Carl took his time tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and Bucky had to resist the urge to physically escort him to the door.
"Have a good one," Carl said finally, heading out.
The bell chimed.
And then it was just the two of them.
He didn't move for a second. Just stood there behind the counter, still resting his hand on the register.
Then he walked to the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and turned the lock.
When he turned back, she was watching him.
"We should talk upstairs," he said quietly.
She nodded.
Her stomach twisted.
This was it. The moment she'd been bracing for since she walked through the door.
She'd expected to feel ready -had spent all night and all morning preparing herself for this conversation- but now that it was actually happening, she felt anything but.
He gestured toward the back, toward the stairs. She moved past him, and when she got close, she leaned in -brief, automatic- and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. It lasted barely a second. But it felt wrong. Not the kiss itself, but the fact that it wasn't quite right. Off-center. Careful in a way their hellos had never been before. She pulled back and kept walking, heading toward the stairs.
----
The apartment was quiet.
He'd left a mug in the sink that morning, and there was flour on the counter near the coffee maker where he'd brushed against it last night. Small signs of a life lived alone, now suddenly visible in a way that made him self-conscious.
She stood near the couch, still keeping her hands in her pockets, not sitting down.
He stayed by the door for a moment, then forced himself to move further into the room.
"You want coffee or-"
"No," she said. Not unkind, but firm. "I'm good."
She wasn't good. Her heart was hammering, and her hands felt clammy in her pockets, and part of her wanted to accept the coffee just to delay this a little longer. But she'd come here for a reason. And coffee wasn't going to make this easier.
He nodded, crossing his arms, then uncrossed them because it felt too defensive. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead.
The silence stretched.
She was the one who broke it.
"So… what's going on, Bucky?"
Straight to it. No preamble, no easing into it.
He should've expected that. Should've known she wouldn't dance around this.
"I-" He stopped. Started again. "I've been... busy. With the bakery-"
"Don't do that."
Her voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. Tired, but sharp.
"Don't give me the bakery excuse. You've always been busy. That's not what this is."
He looked at her.
She looked back, waiting.
"The past week," she continued, "you've been pulling away. Short texts, excuses not to see me, and yesterday-" She paused, working her jaw slightly. "Yesterday, you read my message and didn't answer for hours. And when you did, you told me about the power situation, but you didn't actually answer what I asked."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because she was right.
"I'm not doing this to punish you," she said, and her voice was quieter now. "I'm not here to make you feel like shit. I just-" She exhaled. "I need to know what this is. If you want to end this, if you need time, if I did something wrong, if it's just too much right now, I need you to tell me. Because I can't keep wondering."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
The words came out too fast, rough and immediate.
She looked at him, something shifting in her expression.
"Then what is it?"
He stood there, feeling the weight of the question.
This was it.
He could keep deflecting, keep pretending this was about the bakery or being tired or anything other than what it actually was.
Or he could tell her the truth.
Even if the truth made him sound pathetic. Even if it confirmed every fear he'd been carrying around about not being enough.
He dragged a hand over his face.
"Steve was here," he said finally.
She blinked. "I know. I met him."
"Yeah" He dropped his hand, looking at her. "And he was... good with you. Easy. The way I'm not."
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"People like him," Bucky continued, the words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "He walks into a room and people just- they gravitate toward him. He's charming, and he knows what to say. And I watched you with him, and I saw how easy it was. How much easier than it is with me."
"Bucky-"
"And I know that's not- I know he's my best friend, I know he wasn't trying to-" He stopped, frustrated with himself. "But it just reminded me that I'm not the easy choice. I never have been."
She shook her head, pressing her lips together.
"I'm the guy who can barely string a sentence together half the time," he said. "Who took weeks to even ask you out. Who fucks up and pulls away instead of talking about it because talking about it feels like-" He gestured vaguely, unable to find the words.
"Like what?" she asked quietly.
"Like admitting that I'm scared I'm going to lose you anyway, so maybe it's better to just-"
"Pull away first," she finished.
He looked at the floor.
"Yeah."
The silence that followed felt different. Heavier.
When he finally looked up, she was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Do you want to end this?" she asked.
"No." The answer came immediately, certain. "No, I don't."
"Then why are you acting like you do?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
Or maybe he did, and it was just too pathetic to say out loud.
"Can we sit?" he said, gesturing toward the couch.
She hesitated for a moment, then moved to the couch and sat. He followed, leaving space between them, clasping his hands between his knees.
For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the coffee table.
He could keep this surface-level. Tell her he'd been stressed, that he'd gotten in his own head, that he was sorry, and he'd do better.
She might even accept it.
But it wouldn't fix anything. And the next time something happened -the next time he spiraled or pulled away or fucked up- they'd be right back here.
Or she'd just be gone.
He exhaled slowly.
If he was going to lose her anyway, maybe it was better to lose her because she knew the truth. Because she'd made an informed decision, not because he'd starved her out with silence.
"I've always been..." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "Quiet. Introverted, I guess. It's not new."
She didn't say anything. Just waited.
"But since I got back from my last tour, it's-" He paused. "There's more to it now."
He could feel her watching him, but he kept his eyes on his hands.
"I was diagnosed with clinical depression," he said. The words felt heavy, uncomfortable in his mouth. "PTSD. The whole package. I was on medication for a while. Therapy, all that."
"Was?" she asked quietly.
"I stopped the meds this year." He flexed his fingers, watching the movement. "Thought I was doing better. Thought I didn't need them anymore."
He didn't add that he'd been wrong. That the nights had gotten worse, the dreams more frequent, the weight of getting out of bed some mornings almost unbearable.
She probably already knew that part.
"There's nightmares," he continued, his voice flat. "Not every night, but enough. And some days are just... harder. For no reason."
He stopped, working his jaw.
This was the part he didn't want to say. The part that felt the most pathetic.
"And I've-" He swallowed. "I've gained weight. A lot of it."
He tightened his hands against each other.
"I know I'm not-" He stopped. Tried again. "I don't exactly see myself as... the best option. For anyone."
The words hung in the air between them.
"And then Steve showed up," he said. "And he's the same as he's always been. Fit, easy with people, charming. Everything I'm not. And watching you with him just-" He exhaled roughly. "It all just piled up in my head. All the reasons why you'd eventually figure out this wasn't worth it."
He finally looked at her.
She was watching him, her expression unreadable.
"So yeah," he said. "That's what's been going on."
She sat there, processing.
Not the diagnosis -that didn't scare her. Depression, PTSD, nightmares- those were things people dealt with. Things that could be managed, worked through.
What hit her was the realization that he'd been carrying all of this alone. That he'd looked at her and decided she couldn't handle it. That he'd chosen by both of them without giving her a say.
And underneath that, underneath the hurt and the frustration, was something else.
Relief.
Because this wasn't about her. It wasn't that he'd stopped wanting her, or that she'd done something wrong, or that she wasn't enough.
It was that he'd convinced himself he wasn't.
And that, at least, was something they could work with.
He could see her processing, working through what he'd just said. Her expression hadn't changed much. There wasn’t pity, or shock, she was just... thoughtful.
Finally, she spoke.
"I get why you didn't tell me before," she said. Her voice was calm, measured. "That's not the kind of thing you just throw out there. And I know it probably scared you to even think about saying it."
He nodded slightly, his throat tight.
"But pulling away like that-" She paused, keeping her gaze on him. "Bucky, that's deciding for me. You decided I couldn't handle it, that it would be too much, that I'd leave, and you didn't even give me the chance to make that choice myself."
He looked down at his hands.
Because she was right.
"You think Steve being here reminded you of all the ways you're not enough," she continued. "But what it actually did was make you assume that I'd pick someone easier if I had the option. Like I'm just... waiting for a better offer."
"I didn't-" He stopped. "That's not what I meant."
"Maybe not," she said. "But that's what it felt like."
She shifted slightly, tightening her hands in her lap.
"I was already neglected enough by my own family while growing up," she said, her voice quieter now. "I don't need my partner shutting me out, too. Being left on the outside, not knowing what's going on, having decisions made for me. That's something that really affects me, Bucky."
She hadn't meant to bring up her family.
Hadn't planned on going there.
But it was the truth, and he needed to understand why this mattered so much. Why being shut out wasn't just frustrating, it was triggering in a way that cut deeper than he probably realized.
She watched his face as the words landed, saw the way something shifted in his expression.
Good.
He needed to understand what he'd been doing to her.
He looked up at her, and the expression on her face wasn't angry. Just... tired. And hurt in a way that made him feel like shit.
He swallowed hard.
She shifted slightly, angling toward him on the couch.
"I'm not with you because you're easy," she said. "I'm with you because I want to be. Because I like you. Because when I'm with you, even when you're quiet or awkward or overthinking everything, I still want to be there."
He looked up at her.
"But I can't do this if every time things get hard, you're going to shut me out and decide for both of us that it's not going to work," she said. "If something's wrong, if you're struggling, if you're scared, I need you to tell me. Not because I need to fix it, but because we're supposed to be in this together."
Her jaw clenched slightly.
"I can handle a lot, Bucky. PTSD, depression, nightmares, whatever. What I can't handle is being iced out and left guessing whether you even want me here."
The words landed hard.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She nodded. "I know."
"I do want you here," he added, his voice rough. "I just- I didn't know how to-"
"I know," she said again, softer this time.
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either.
Just... heavy.
"So what now?" he asked finally.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Now you decide," she said. "If you want this -if you actually want to try- then I'm here. But you have to let me in, Bucky. Not just when things are good. When they're hard too."
She paused.
"And if that's too much, if you're not ready for that, then we need to stop now. Because I can't keep doing this halfway."
He looked at her, then down at his hands, trying to find the right words.
"It's not an excuse," he said finally. "But it's... It's a defense mechanism. I don't mean to hurt you when I do it. I just-" He stopped, frustrated with himself. "I pull back before I can get hurt first. It's automatic."
She didn't say anything, just watched him.
"I want to be better about it," he continued. "About telling you what's going on, about not shutting you out. I'm going to try."
He paused, working his jaw.
"But I also know that just trying isn't always enough. Especially with-" He gestured vaguely at himself. "With everything I've got going on."
He took a breath.
“So I'm going to start therapy again," he said. "Actually deal with this instead of just... white-knuckling it and hoping it gets better on its own."
He looked up at her.
"I can't promise I won't fuck up again," he said quietly. "But I can promise I'm going to actually work on it. Not just say I will."
Because that was what she'd needed to hear. Not promises that everything would be perfect, not assurances that he'd never mess up again.
She felt herself relaxing. Because he was willing to try, actually try.
He wasn't giving up.
On himself. On them.
Her expression shifted.
Not dramatically, but enough that he noticed. Her shoulders dropped slightly, and she looked down for a moment, blinking faster than usual.
When she looked back up, her eyes were glassy.
"Okay," she said, her voice a little unsteady.
He felt something twist in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he said again, the words coming out rougher this time. "I'm really sorry."
She nodded, swiping quickly at the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand.
"I know," she said. "I just-" She stopped, her throat working. "I was scared you were going to say you wanted to end it."
The admission came out quiet, almost reluctant.
And it hit him like a punch.
Because he'd been so wrapped up in his own spiral -convinced she was going to leave, that she'd realize he wasn't worth the effort- that he hadn't stopped to think about what it had been doing to her. That she'd been scared too. That pulling away hadn't protected either of them from getting hurt.
It had just hurt her faster.
"I don't want that," he said, his voice low. "I don't want to end this."
She nodded again, pressing her lips like she was trying to hold it together.
He moved before he could overthink it, closing the space between them on the couch and pulling her into him. He brought his arms around her, solid and sure, and he pressed his lips to her hair.
"I'm sorry," he said against her temple, his voice rough. "I'm really sorry."
She turned into him, pressing her face against his shoulder, and he felt her take a shaky breath.
He tightened his hold on her.
----
They stayed like that for a while, her face pressed against his shoulder, his arms tight around her.
Eventually, she shifted slightly, tilting her head up to look at him.
Her eyes were still a little red, but the fear that had been there before was gone. Replaced with something softer.
He looked down at her, and without thinking about it, he leaned in and kissed her.
Not careful or tentative.
Just kissed her the way he'd wanted to since she walked through the door.
She made a small sound against his mouth and kissed him back, bringing her hands up to his face, sliding her fingers into his hair.
The kiss deepened, and he felt her shift in his arms, turning more fully toward him. He moved his hand to her waist, pulling her closer, and she came willingly, sliding one leg over his lap until she was straddling him.
He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, resting his forehead against hers.
"Is this… okay? Considering…" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yeah," she said, breathless. "Yeah, it's okay."
She kissed him again, harder this time, pressing her hips down against him, and he groaned into her mouth.
He slid his hands up under her shirt, spreading his palms across the bare skin of her back, warm and smooth under his touch. She arched into him, and he took the opportunity to pull the shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside.
She reached back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall between them, and he took a moment just to look at her.
"Fuck," he muttered, already moving his hands to cup her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples.
She gasped, her head falling back slightly, and he leaned forward, taking one into his mouth.
She tightened her fingers in his hair, rocking her hips against him, the friction making him harder.
"Bedroom," she said, her voice strained. "Bucky, bedroom."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He nodded, and they untangled themselves from the couch, still keeping their hands on each other as they stumbled down the short hallway. She kissed his neck, his jaw, and he nearly tripped trying to walk and kiss her back at the same time.
When they reached the bedroom, he walked her backward toward the bed, keeping his hands on her hips, guiding her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she let herself fall back.
He followed her down, covering her body with his. His weight settled over her, solid and warm, and she let out a small breath at the feeling.
She slid her hands up his chest, pushing his shirt up, and he helped her pull it over his head. Her fingers traced over his shoulders, down his sides, mapping the breadth of him.
He was still tense -she could feel it in the way he held himself- but when she looked up at him, his eyes were dark, focused entirely on her.
"Hi," she said softly.
He huffed out something that might've been a laugh. "Hi."
She reached for his belt, but he caught her wrist.
"Not yet," he said, his voice low. "Let me..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Just kissed her instead, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to say something he couldn't put into words.
When he pulled back, he moved down her body, trailing his mouth along her jaw, her neck, pausing at her collarbone.
His hands smoothed over her sides, her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her skin, and there was something in his voice -raw, honest- that made her chest tighten.
He kissed down her sternum, between her breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth while his hand cupped the other. She arched into him with a gasp, sliding her fingers into his hair.
He spent time there, switching between them, licking and sucking until she was squirming beneath him, her breathing ragged.
Then he moved lower.
He kissed down her stomach, nipping gently at her hip, and her breath caught when she realized where he was going.
"Bucky-"
"Let me take care of you," he said, looking up at her as his fingers found the button of her jeans.
She nodded, lifting her hips as he pulled her jeans and underwear down in one motion.
When he settled between her thighs, spreading them wider with his broad shoulders, she felt suddenly exposed, but not uncomfortable.
He kissed the inside of her thigh, once, twice, working his way up slowly.
"Missed you," he said against her skin. "Missed this."
And then his mouth was on her, and she stopped thinking entirely.
He started slow, dragging his tongue through her folds, groaning against her like she tasted incredible. The vibration went straight through her body, and she gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily.
He pressed one hand against her lower stomach, holding her in place and the reminder of how much bigger he was -how easily he could keep her still- made heat pool low in her belly.
"Stay still, sweet girl," he murmured, and then he focused on her clit, circling it with his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, then suckling in long pulls.
She whimpered, her hands flying to his hair, gripping tight.
He kept going, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention, reading every sound she made, every shift of her hips. When he slid one thick finger inside her, she cried out, her back arching off the bed.
"That's it," he said, his voice rough. "Let me hear you."
He added a second finger, curling them as he sucked on her clit again, and she felt herself unraveling, heat building in waves.
"Bucky, I'm-"
"I know," he said, not stopping.
She came with a sharp cry, her thighs trembling around his shoulders, her whole body tensing as pleasure crashed through her.
He worked her through it, gentling his movements as she came down, pressing soft kisses to her thigh while she caught her breath.
When he finally looked up at her, his lips were wet, his eyes dark with want, and she reached for him.
"Come here."
He moved up her body, and she pulled him into a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. She could feel him hard against her thigh, straining against his jeans.
She reached between them, palming him through the denim, and he groaned into her mouth.
"Off," she said. "Now."
He pulled back just long enough to shove his jeans and boxers down, and when he settled back between her legs, the full weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, she felt lightheaded.
His size, his warmth, the way his body covered hers.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.
"More than okay," she said, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He reached between them, lining himself up, rubbing the head of his cock against her slickness, and pushed in slowly.
The stretch was intense, her body still sensitive from her orgasm, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders as he sank deeper.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. "You feel-"
He didn't finish. Just stayed there for a moment, buried deep, both of them adjusting to the feeling.
Then he started to move.
He kept it slow at first, rolling his hips in deep, measured thrusts that had her gasping with each one. Every time he pressed forward, his weight settled more fully on top of her, pinning her down, and she loved it.
"Harder," she managed. "Bucky, please-"
He shifted his angle, bracing himself on his forearms, and drove into her harder, deeper. The bed creaked under them with the force of it.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes, God, yes-"
He kept going, using his weight to drive into her, and she could feel every inch of his cock, the solid muscle of his chest pressed against hers, his thick thighs spreading hers wider.
"You take it so well," he said, his breath hot against her neck. "So fucking perfect."
She was already close again, wound tight from the combination of his words, his body, the relentless rhythm of his shaft inside her.
Then he slowed, pulling almost all the way out, and she whimpered at the loss.
"Come here," he said, his voice ragged.
He sat back on his heels, hands gripping her hips, and pulled her with him. She gasped as he repositioned her, settling her ass on his thick thighs, her back against the mattress, legs spread wide around his middle.
The new angle had him even deeper, and she moaned at the feeling.
"There you go," he murmured.
He started moving again, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts.
"Touch yourself," he said, his voice wrecked. "Let me watch you."
She slid her hand between them, finding her clit, and his dark gaze tracked the movement.
"That's it, sweet girl," he said, his voice wrecked. "Come on my cock."
He started to thrust harder, using his grip on her hips to pull her onto him with each stroke, and the combination of her fingers and the feeling of him filling her was overwhelming.
She shattered, her whole body seizing, pulling him deeper and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed her over the edge, burying himself as deep as he could go.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
He stayed there, still seated back on his heels, her hips resting on his thighs, both of them breathing hard.
Then he carefully pulled out, and she let out a soft sound at the loss. She could feel the mess immediately -the wet slide of his cum dripping out of her- and he seemed to notice too, his eyes dropping between her legs.
"Shit," he muttered, already moving. "Let me-"
He started to shift, intending to get up, but she caught his wrist.
"Later," she said, her voice still breathless. "Just... stay."
He hesitated, looking uncertain. "You're gonna be uncomfortable-"
"I don't care," she said, tugging him down. "Come here."
He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and carefully eased her hips down onto the mattress before collapsing beside her.
She immediately turned into him, curling against his side despite the mess, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.
"You're sure?" he asked quietly.
"I'm sure," she murmured against his chest.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his other hand coming up to trace lazy patterns on her shoulder.
"I love you," he said, the words slipping out before he could think about them.
She went still for a second, and he tensed, wondering if he'd just fucked up.
But then she smiled, wide and real and beautiful.
"I love you too," she said.
And for the first time in weeks, everything felt right.
----
"I think the view depends a lot on the company," she said looking at the landscape.
They were sitting on the hood of his truck at the overlook, the town spread out below them in the late afternoon light.
Bucky glanced at her. "That so?"
"Mm-hmm." She leaned back on her hands, tilting her face toward the sun for a moment before looking at him again. "So tell me. Back in high school, when you'd bring a girl up here, what was your move?"
He shifted slightly. "Well, actually, I didn't really-"
"That's not what I heard," she said, cutting him off with a small smile.
He looked at her, then huffed out a breath that might've been a laugh. "Fine. Maybe I brought a couple of girls up here. Once or twice."
"Once or twice," she repeated, clearly not buying it.
"In my grandfather's truck," he added. "Not this one."
"Uh-huh. So what did you do?"
"What do you mean, what did I do?"
"I mean, what was your strategy? Your move?" She tilted her head, watching him with open curiosity and something a little more playful underneath. "Did you just go for it, or did you have some kind of routine?"
His ears were already turning red. "I don't know. I was eighteen. I didn't have a routine."
"But you had something."
He looked at her for a beat, then shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitched. "You're really gonna make me say this?"
"I really am."
He exhaled through his nose. "I don't know. Usual stuff. Sweet talk for a while. See if she was into it. Then..." He gestured vaguely.
"Then what?"
"Then I'd kiss her."
"Just like that?"
"More or less."
She smiled. "And did it work?"
"Sometimes."
"Only sometimes, mister defenseman of the school team?" she said, clearly amused.
He looked at her, something shifting in his expression, less embarrassed now, more deliberate. "You want me to show you?"
Her smile widened. "I think I do."
He moved before she could say anything else, sliding off the hood and stepping between her knees, finding her waist with his hands. She leaned back slightly, bracing herself on her hands, looking up at him with that same playful expression.
"For the record," he said, his voice low, "I think it works a lot better now than it did back then."
"Prove it," she said.
So he did.
FIN
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
I loved this so much from start to finish. There were moments where my heart felt light and then there were moments where my heart felt heavy. I loved this version of Bucky so much but honestly I love all the versions you've written of him. Thank you for another amazing story!!❤️🔥
Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 5.1k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The road up was narrow, the kind that had probably never been repaved since it was first laid down, and she held on tighter when the bike leaned into the curves. Steve took them easy, not showing off, and by the time they crested the last rise and he cut the engine, her heart was still going a little faster than usual.
She climbed off carefully, pulling the helmet free, and looked up.
"Oh," she said.
The town spread out below them, small and orderly from up here, the church steeple visible above the treeline, the river catching the late afternoon light at the far edge. Beyond that, fields, and then the long flat line of the horizon.
"Yeah," Steve said, coming to stand beside her. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets and was looking out at it with the familiarity of someone who'd seen it a hundred times and still didn't mind seeing it again.
There was an old wooden railing along the edge, weathered gray, and a long plank bench behind it that looked like it had been there since before either of them was born. Steve dropped onto it, stretching his legs out in front of him.
She sat beside him.
For a moment, neither of them said anything, just looked.
Eventually-
"Did you guys come here a lot?" she asked.
Steve smiled, as if there was a story behind it. "Yeah. It was the spot, back then." He paused. "Good place to drink without anyone finding out. And, you know." He tilted his head slightly. "If you wanted some privacy."
She raised an eyebrow. "Privacy."
"We were seventeen," he said, like that explained everything.
She laughed. "So Bucky…?"
Steve glanced at her sideways. "What about him?"
"Did he come up here for the same reasons?"
Steve was quiet for a second, looking back out at the view. "Sometimes," he said. "Not as much as the rest of us. He was always working." A beat, and then a small smile. "But he had his moments."
She hummed.
No point in getting jealous of a faceless seventeen-year-old getting her little paws on her sweet Bucky.
----
Steve shifted on the bench, stretching his arms out along the back of it.
"I'm going out tonight," he said. "There's a guy I went to school with who still lives here. Thought I'd look him up, maybe grab a drink." He paused. "You should go keep Bucky company."
She glanced at him. "I thought maybe the three of us-"
"Another time," he said. "Tonight you should go to him." He looked out at the view. "By the time you get there, he's probably eaten nothing but whatever's within arm's reach on the counter. Also known as white bread. Maybe a scone, if he's feeling fancy."
She smiled, looking out at the view. "I'll bring something."
But she didn't say anything else, and Steve caught it, the small hesitation, the way she looked back out at the view without quite settling.
"What?" he asked.
She shook her head slightly. "Nothing. I just..." She trailed off. "I don't know. At lunch, he was..."
"Somewhere else," Steve said quietly.
She looked at him.
"Yeah." He exhaled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's not a big deal yet. But I know him. And I've been watching him all day." A pause. "He's got that look."
She was quiet for a second.
She had noticed. The way he'd gone somewhere else at the table, the water glass he kept turning in his hands. She'd caught it, filed it away, and then let the conversation carry her forward because it had seemed easier than stopping to examine it too closely.
She'd told herself it was nothing. That Bucky was just Bucky: quiet, internal, hard to read on a good day yet.
But Steve had been watching him all day too, and he knew him in a way she didn't yet.
"Did he say something?" she asked. "About me?"
"No." Steve shook his head. "Nothing like that." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still looking at the view. "It's just... Bucky hasn't been great for a while. He's always been on the quiet side, you know that. But since he came back-" He stopped himself, choosing his words carefully. "He's better than he was. More than I expected, honestly. But there's something he does when something's eating at him. He goes inward. Stops talking. Starts letting things slide without saying anything about them." He paused. "And I've been watching him do it today."
She looked down at her hands.
"I don't know what it is," Steve added. "And it's not my place to speculate." He glanced at her sideways, direct but not unkind. "But I don't think it's nothing."
The town below them had gone quieter in the fading light, the shadows longer now across the valley.
She thought about the water glass. About the way he'd looked at the two of them talking and gone somewhere she couldn't follow. About how she'd reached for his knee under the table and felt him come back, just slightly, just enough.
She'd noticed.
She just hadn't wanted to be the kind of person who made something out of nothing. Who prodded and pushed and bothered.
"What if… I make it worse?" she said, quietly enough that it might have been to herself.
Steve considered that for a moment.
"You won't," he said simply. "But leaving it alone might."
She nodded, slowly.
"Yeah," she said. "Okay."
Steve nodded too, and let it go at that.
----
The tarts weren't complicated.
That was the thing about working with your hands: it didn't require much of your brain, once you knew what you were doing. The motions were automatic. Butter into the flour, cool hands, don't overwork it. Rest. Roll. Line the tins. Back in the fridge while he dealt with the filling.
He'd been doing this since he was twelve years old.
His hands knew what to do even when the rest of him was somewhere else entirely.
And right now, the rest of him was somewhere else entirely.
Steve had known the lookout point since before either of them could drive. He'd taken plenty of people up there over the years, half the graduating class at one point or another.
It was just a view. It was just a bench and a railing, and the town spread out below, and it didn't mean anything that the two of them were up there right now while he was down here elbow-deep in pastry dough.
He pressed into the dough harder than necessary.
The thing was, he'd offered. He'd been the one to say you two should go, and he'd meant it, or he'd thought he'd meant it, and now he was standing here in his empty kitchen with the particular flavor of resentment that came from doing something voluntarily and feeling bitter about it anyway.
Which wasn't fair.
He knew it wasn't fair.
Steve wasn't doing anything wrong. She wasn't doing anything wrong. They'd spent a morning together by accident, had fixed a door and a refrigerator and talked over coffee, and now they were going to look at a view. That was it. That was the whole story.
Except.
He scraped the dough off the counter, turned it, and pressed again.
Except Steve had always been like that. Easy. Natural. The kind of person who could walk into any room and, within ten minutes, know everyone's name and have them laughing.
It had never bothered Bucky before. Had been useful, even when they were younger, and Bucky needed someone to break the ice he couldn't.
But watching it happen with her was different.
Watching her laugh at something he said, watching her lean forward when he told a story, watching the two of them find their rhythm in about forty minutes when it had taken him weeks-
He set down the dough.
Weeks.
It had taken him weeks just to be able to hold a conversation with her without feeling like he was pulling words out of himself one by one. Weeks of her coming back to the bakery, of her asking him things and waiting patiently while he figured out how to answer, of her making it easy for him in all the small ways that he hadn't even noticed until he was too far in to step back.
She'd done the work.
He hadn't made it easy for her, and she'd done the work anyway.
And Steve had walked out of the bakery this morning with no particular destination and ended up in front of her, and by lunch, they were finishing each other's sentences.
He stared at the tart shells lined up on the counter.
What did that say about him?
What did it say that the person she'd had to work the hardest to get through to was him? That the most natural, effortless version of this -two people just talking, just existing in the same space without it being a negotiation- wasn't something he could give her?
He thought about the first few weeks. Her coming in for bread, him barely managing to string together more than a handful of words. The stuck window, all the small moments where he'd wanted to say something and hadn't.
She'd stayed anyway.
But for how long?
He picked up the dough again, working it back into shape.
He knew how this went. He'd watched it his whole life, people gravitating toward whoever made things easiest, whoever asked the least of them. It was just human nature. It wasn't a character flaw. It wasn't anyone's fault.
It just was.
And he was not, and had never been, the easiest option in any room.
The timer went off for the first tart shell.
He crossed to the oven, pulled it out, and set it on the rack.
Stood there looking at it for a moment.
He thought about what she'd said at the café, that first real conversation over bad apple pie. I'm glad you're here. It let me meet you.
He'd believed her when she said it.
He wanted to keep believing her.
He just wasn't sure how long wanting something was enough to make it true.
----
She showed up just after eight, when the streetlights had come on, and the bakery was dark from the outside.
He heard the knock at the back door and found her on the step, a paper bag from the diner under one arm and pulling her jacket close against the evening chill.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." He stepped aside to let her in. "You didn't have to-"
"I know." She held up the bag. "I got that soup you like. The one with the green noodles." She glanced past him at the kitchen, at the flour-dusted counter and the tart tins cooling on the rack. "How'd it go?"
"Good. Almost done."
"Go wash up. I'll figure out the rest."
He didn't argue.
By the time he came out of the bathroom, she'd moved the soup upstairs to his apartment, found bowls without having to look too hard, and was sitting cross-legged on his couch with the paper bag open on the coffee table.
"Steve said you have a weakness for their chocolate cake," she said, setting it to one side.
"Steve talks too much."
"Steve talks exactly the right amount." She smiled, handing him a spoon.
They ate on the couch, the soup warm, the apartment quiet around them. She'd tucked herself against his side without making a production of it, folding her legs under her, and he'd leaned against her without thinking about it. Natural. Easy.
Or it should have felt easy.
She asked about the tarts, and he told her, and she listened the way she always did, asking the right questions, making him feel like what he was saying was worth hearing.
He was aware, the whole time, of the thing sitting in his chest.
At some point, she reached up and picked a streak of dried flour out of his hair.
"How did you even-" she started.
"Don't ask."
She laughed, dropping the fleck of flour somewhere and settling back against him, finding the curve of his shoulder with her head.
He pressed his lips against her hair without thinking about it.
And then didn't say anything.
She waited, but he stayed quiet, resting his hand on her shoulder, but somewhere else entirely. She could feel it, the way he'd drifted.
She tilted her face up to look at him.
"Are you… okay?" she asked.
There it was.
He looked at the coffee table. At the empty soup containers and the untouched chocolate cake.
"Yeah," he said. "Just tired. Long day."
"Bucky-"
"The order took longer than I thought," he continued. "I'm fine. Really."
She didn't push. But she didn't look convinced either, and he could feel her watching him in that particular way she had -patient, unhurried- that made it hard to hide things even when he wasn't saying anything at all.
She shifted slightly, finding his hand where it rested on his knee with hers, threading her fingers through his.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Just that. No pressure. No follow-up.
And that almost made it worse.
Because he wanted to say something. Could feel it right there, just under the surface. The whole stupid, shapeless thing that had been sitting in his chest since lunch.
But he didn't know how to say it without it coming out wrong, without sounding like he was accusing someone of something when nobody had done anything wrong.
So he didn't.
They stayed on the couch a while longer. She didn't push, didn't circle back to it, just leaned back against his side. At some point, she traced small circles against his palm with her thumb. He tried to be present, tried to feel like he was actually there instead of somewhere three steps removed, watching himself fail at something he couldn't name.
Eventually she shifted, sitting up, and he knew before she said anything that she was going.
She left not long after, and at the door she kissed him goodnight, cupping her hands on his face.
"Get some sleep," she said softly.
"Yeah," he said. "You too."
He watched her go down the stairs and out through the bakery, heard the back door close behind her.
Then he went back to the couch and sat there in the quiet for a long time, staring at nothing in particular.
----
Dotty came in at nine-thirty, the way she always did, tucking her purse under her arm and with that particular expression that meant she had things to say and intended to say them.
"Morning, James."
"Morning." He mumbled.
"I saw Steve on my way over," she said, stopping in front of the display case. "He looked like a man with somewhere to be."
"Real estate agent," Bucky said, sliding the case open from his side. "What do you need?"
"The sourdough. The round one." She pointed. "Not that one, the one behind it."
He pulled it out and set it on the counter.
"Good that someone's finally doing something with that house," Dotty said, tucking the loaf under her arm like she always did, regardless of the bag he'd put it in. "It's been sitting there long enough. A house needs people in it."
Bucky made a sound that could have meant anything.
Dotty leaned against the counter, in no apparent hurry to leave.
"I heard they'd already met," she said, casual as anything. "Steve and your girl." She paused. "Merle went past the Miller place yesterday afternoon. Said he was fixing something on the side door."
Bucky didn't say anything. Just moved to straighten a tray that didn't need straightening.
"That Steve," Dotty said warmly, shaking her head. "Always jumping in to help. Ever since he was a boy. You remember when he helped Eleanor Parks move that whole garage sale by himself because her husband threw his back out?"
"Is there anything else you need?" Bucky asked noncommittally.
"Muffins." She moved toward the other end of the display case, tilting her head to examine them. "Let me look."
He waited.
She hummed, considering the options. Then, without looking up-
"Could've been you, you know."
Bucky frowned. "What?"
"The door." She straightened, glancing at him with a look that was entirely too innocent. "Are you going to tell me that a man who grew up in this building, fixing things alongside his grandfather since he was what, ten? Eleven? Couldn't put a weatherstrip on a door?"
Bucky clenched his jaw.
"Muffins, Dotty."
"The blueberry ones," she said, pointing. And then, as he reached for them- "I'm not trying to get in your business, James. I'm just observing that sometimes people are so busy keeping their head down that they forget to look up."
He put four blueberry muffins in a bag and set it on the counter harder than necessary.
She picked it up, unfazed.
"How much do I owe you?"
He told her. She paid. She tucked the muffin bag next to the sourdough loaf and headed for the door.
"Tell Steve I said goodbye before he leaves," she said, without turning around.
----
Steve ended up staying one more day.
They had dinner together that last night, the three of them, at her place. She'd made something simple, pasta again, and nobody had minded. The conversation had been easy, or close enough to easy that Bucky had managed to let himself be present for most of it.
Steve had left the next morning, loaded the bike, said his goodbyes, and by mid-morning, the sound of the engine had faded down the road, and things had gone back to normal.
Or almost normal.
The comments started the day after.
Tom, at the veterans' center on Wednesday, mentioned casually that he'd seen her and Steve walking near the old mill the day before he left. Looked like they were having a good time. George, two days later, leaning on the bakery counter while Bucky packaged his usual order, saying he'd heard Steve had taken her up to the lookout on his bike. Always liked that kid. Good with people. Linda, from the hardware store, stopping him on the street to say she'd been in the same aisle as the two of them at the general store and that she seemed like a real sweetheart. You're a lucky man, James. Hope you know that.
He did know that.
That was the problem.
Because knowing it and feeling like he deserved it were two entirely different things, and the gap between them had been widening all week in a way he couldn't quite stop.
She'd texted. She always texted. And he'd answered, because not answering would have required an explanation he didn't have. But his responses had gotten shorter without him meaning for them to, and twice he'd told her he was busy when he wasn't, just sitting in his apartment in the dark with the television on and the sound turned down, not doing anything in particular.
She'd come over anyway, one of those nights.
He'd let her in because he didn't know how not to, and because some part of him had been relieved to see her even while another part had wanted her to go away so he could stop performing okayness for an audience.
They'd ended up on the couch, and she'd kissed him, and he'd kissed her back, and for a little while it had been fine. Good, even.
And then it wasn't.
She'd been on his lap, threading her hands in his hair, and he'd wanted her -that part had been real, had been there from the moment she walked in the door- but somewhere between wanting and being able to, something had short-circuited.
He wasn't sure exactly when he'd lost it, the thread of it, the ease. One moment he'd been there with her, and the next he'd been somewhere else entirely, aware of his own body in the worst way, conscious of every small thing that wasn't working the way it should, and by the time he'd understood what was happening, it was already too late to stop thinking about it.
He hadn't been able to get hard.
She hadn't said anything unkind. Hadn't made him feel worse than he already did, which was saying something because he'd felt absolutely terrible. She'd just held his face and said his name and told him it was okay.
But it hadn't been okay.
It had been one more thing added to a list that was getting too long to look at directly.
The weeks of bad sleep catching up with him. The nights when he'd jolt awake at three in the morning with his heart going and the dream already fading, but the feeling of it still everywhere. The days when getting out of bed had taken everything he had before he'd even made it to the bakery.
She didn't know about any of that.
She knew he got up at four. She knew he worked long days. She knew, in the broad strokes, that he'd come back from the service not quite right in the head and had been figuring out how to be a person again ever since.
But she didn't know the specifics.
Didn't know what the nights actually looked like. Didn't know that the tiredness she saw on his face sometimes had nothing to do with the early mornings and everything to do with the hours between midnight and four when sleep just didn't come, or came wrong.
And Steve had seen all of it.
Had taken a plane to sit on his couch during the worst of it. Had been on the other end of the phone calls that Bucky didn't remember making. Knew him in a way that required nothing to be explained or softened or presented in a way that made it easier to digest.
She was still learning who he was.
And he was starting to wonder whether, once she knew the whole thing, she'd decide that what she'd signed up for was more than she'd bargained for.
It wasn't fair to her to think that way. He knew that.
But knowing something was unfair had never made it stop feeling true.
So he'd pulled back.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that announced itself. Just… less available. Slower to respond. Quicker to say he was tired, which was always true enough not to feel like a lie.
And he'd told himself he just needed a few days.
Just a few days to get his shit together, and then he'd figure out how to talk to her.
He was still telling himself that.
----
She picked up her phone for the fourth time in an hour.
Still nothing.
The message sat there the same way it had for the last three hours. Read at 2:47 PM. No reply, no typing indicator, nothing. Just the little checkmark that meant he'd seen it and decided, for whatever reason, that it could wait.
She set the phone face-down on the desk and looked at her laptop screen.
The paragraph she'd been working on before lunch was still there, half-finished, the cursor blinking at the end of a sentence she couldn't remember starting. She read it back. It didn't make sense. She deleted the last two lines and stared at what remained.
She picked up the phone again.
2:48.
She put it down.
He was busy. That was the obvious explanation, the one she'd been giving herself since the third hour, and it was probably true. He worked long days, and he wasn't someone who lived on his phone to begin with. She knew that. She'd known that from the beginning.
But he'd read it.
That was the part she couldn't quite get past. He'd seen it, known she was asking, and somewhere between reading and responding, something had happened. Or hadn't happened.
She closed the laptop.
The thing was, she'd been doing the math without meaning to. Going back over the last week or so, adding things up in a way she hadn't let herself do until now because doing it felt paranoid, felt like exactly the kind of thing she'd told herself she wasn't going to do.
He'd been tired. More than usual.
His texts had gotten shorter. Less like someone who didn't have much to say and more like someone who was choosing carefully what to give.
And then there was the other night on the couch.
She'd told herself it meant nothing. These things happened. She knew that, intellectually, in the abstract way you know things that haven't happened to you before. Bodies were complicated. Stress was real. It didn't mean anything.
But she'd felt the change in him afterward, the way he'd gone somewhere she couldn't reach, and she'd held his face and told him it was okay and meant it.
Except now, sitting here with three hours of silence on her screen, she was less sure about what it meant.
What if it wasn't about being tired?
What if it was her?
She'd been the one to ask him out, to reach across tables and take his hand in a place full of stares. She'd been the one to text first, more often than not. To suggest seeing each other. To show up at his door with soup when she thought he needed company.
She'd pushed, gently but consistently, and he'd let her, and she'd taken that as a sign. But letting someone in wasn't the same as wanting them there.
Maybe she'd just been convenient. New in town, showing up at his bakery and making it easy for him to say yes without really having to choose-
Except he'd gotten into a fight at a bar over a comment someone made about her.
She kept coming back to that. Kept turning it over and not knowing what to do with it, because that wasn't the behavior of someone being politely carried along. That was something else entirely.
But then what was this?
----
The power had gone out at 11:47 AM.
Not the whole street, just the bakery. One moment, the display case lights were on, and the oven was running, and everything was normal, and the next, there was a click and silence and the particular quality of darkness that meant a breaker hadn't tripped, something had been cut.
He'd called the electric company first. Waited on hold for twenty minutes, transferred twice, and was told that, according to their records, there was an outstanding balance on the account that had resulted in a service interruption.
There wasn't an outstanding balance. He paid automatically, as he had for years.
But explaining that over the phone had gotten him nowhere, and by 12:30, he was in his truck driving to the utility office on the other side of town with a folder of printed bank statements that he'd had to go upstairs and find and print because apparently that was the world they lived in now.
It was somewhere in that window -standing at the printer, willing it to work faster-that his phone had buzzed on the counter.
Her name on the screen.
He'd read it. Processed it. Thought not right now in the specific way you think things when your brain is already full, and adding one more thing feels like it might actually break something.
He'd put the phone in his pocket, grabbed the folder, and left.
The utility office had taken another hour. A woman named Patricia had pulled up his account, confirmed that yes, the automatic payment had in fact processed correctly, and that the interruption had been an error on their end. She'd been apologetic in the way of someone who apologized for this kind of thing regularly. Power would be restored within the hour.
He'd driven back. Power was already on when he got there. He'd done a check of everything in the display case, confirmed nothing had spoiled, and stood in the middle of his kitchen for a moment just breathing.
And then he'd taken his phone out of his pocket.
2:47 PM.
Her message was still there. Read receipt showing, which meant she knew he'd seen it. Which meant that from her end, he'd read her message two and a half hours ago and decided not to respond.
He opened the thread.
Stared at it.
He typed and deleted three different things before landing on something that felt survivable.
Sorry. Had a situation with the power. Crazy afternoon.
He hit send, put the phone face-down on the counter, and went back to work.
----
She picked up the phone when it beeped.
Sorry. Had a situation with the power. Crazy afternoon.
She read it again, and then she set the phone down carefully, face-up this time, and looked at it for a moment, waiting for a follow-up, for the second message that would address what she'd actually asked. For something that acknowledged that she'd asked him if he wanted to see her, and he'd read it at 2:47, and it was now almost five o'clock.
The screen stayed dark.
She picked up her phone, opened the thread, and typed back.
Glad you got it sorted. Hope the rest of your day is okay.
She hit send before she could add anything else.
Then she put the phone in her jacket pocket, grabbed her keys, and went for a walk.
She needed air.
----
Bucky felt the phone buzz in his pocket ten minutes later.
Glad you got it sorted. Hope the rest of your day is okay.
He read it twice.
Polite. Neutral. The kind of message you send when you're choosing not to say what you're actually thinking.
The kind of message he'd just sent her.
She wasn't pushing. Wasn't doing any of the work she'd been doing since the beginning, reaching across the space he kept putting between them.
She'd stopped.
And… he didn't want that.
That was the part that cut through everything else. The tiredness, the spiral, the voice in his head that kept telling him he was going to lose her anyway, so what was the point. He didn't want her to stop. Didn't want to be the reason she pulled back.
He typed I'm sorry and deleted it. Then Can I call you? and deleted that too.
Eventually, he just put the phone away.
He'd call her tomorrow. He will get his shit together, and he'll call her tomorrow.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
summary: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.
warnings: non-canon; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); angst; hurt/comfort; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); non-sexual dominance (no ageplay; she takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; smut; sub!bucky; mommy kink; nursing as a soothing behavior; praise kink; handjobs; coming untouched; sensitivity; premature ejaculation; short refractory period (thank you, serum); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); desperate & frantic sex; multiple orgasms; creampie.
word count: 17.1k
a/n: due to a few things happening irl, I had to post this today. what can I say, I just want to take care of this man and let him cuddle on my chest and feed him his favorite food 😭 thank you so much kie @metal-armed-muse for listening to my excited ass when I shared this idea with you, and for giving me your feedback 🩵
hope you’ll enjoy! see you next month 🫂
His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.
This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different– and definitely purer– reason.
You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.
The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.
The echo of gunfire; someone’s agonizing shout; the sharp electric snap of orders obeyed too fast to think.
He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.
The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.
He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.
They never do.
He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. It’s human. He didn’t know it was possible for something like this to exist, so different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.
One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale is measured and unafraid.
Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.
Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a hand trembling reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.
Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes something in his chest tighten. The sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into the room.
Then, your eyes open.
You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.
“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.
He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… Woke you.”
You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”
That’s enough. It always is.
You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.
“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he stands where he is, rigid and contained.
“Winter.” You call out gently.
He shakes his head. “Dirty.”
You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.” You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your work pc. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”
That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.
“Or… You can come with me?” He gives you an immediate, sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.
In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, and he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment nor mind.
Winter stands amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat. It makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard, like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”
The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now— small, like he’s holding something back.
You keep moving, slow and deliberate, as you retrieve towels, test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him. They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.
Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze. “Do you want my help to undress?”
His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.
“Yes. Just… Don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.
“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.
“Yes, please.”
It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt. Your hands stop short as you finally feel the weight of his head settle, moving them on his back.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You don't seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”
You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a long moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.
Unknowingly to you, his cheeks turn rosy as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the cruel Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra, nothing more than an asset. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest, most human form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.
It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not hurt anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.
He knows the sight makes you sad. He notices the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadist bastards. He hates being the reason of your sadness, but there's nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.
Another way he keeps failing you.
His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and the heat on his ears turns scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well— he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.
With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; he abruptly turns around, his eyes frantically flying left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.
“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.
“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, and he immediately complies. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be the latest song of your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago, he wouldn’t know. To him, you are the inventor of everything soft and fun.
You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… There, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.
The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… Well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. That must mean he gets to be closer to you, right?
“Smells… Like home.”
It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions. Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and sweet almond shampoo?”
“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, and the corners of his mouth twitch at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.
“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning. Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.
Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them; to him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.
Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the first and only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.
Just… To be cleaned.
When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.
“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?
“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”
You tilt your head, slightly confused.
“I don’t… Get a turn.”
I don’t get a turn to wash you, to return the favor, to care for you.
“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.
That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.
“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. You find it so adorable the way he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.
When you are done, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.
Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he cleans all around; you’re quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.
He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking— always checking.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”
So he does. He kneels, slowly. The tiles are hard beneath his knees, but he barely registers it. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons— thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath. He treats your skin as something entrusted to him.
The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you. He doesn’t rush, there’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch firm enough to be sure, tender enough to never startle. He frowns again in deep and sincere concentration, every motion is deliberate, conveying something akin to I am trying.
He rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.
When Winter's finished, he stays where he is. He looks up at you, water still dripping from his hair, ocean eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks. He simply waits. The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.
Hope that he’s done well.
Hope that this, at least, was right.
You meet his gaze, expression soft and sure. “You did perfectly.”
You notice the moment your words settle into him, slowly, and his shoulders ease. The tension he’s been holding finally loosens its grip. He nods once, accepting the praise the only way he knows how, silently and reverently.
Winter rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.
“There,” he utters, quietly proud. “Clean.”
“Thank you.” You smile.
Once you’re out, your hand reaches for the towel– his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.
You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.
“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.
You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you nod. “Alright.”
He dries you the same way he washed you, softly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing. Clothes that you bought specifically for him after the first time you met. His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.
Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.
“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.
You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.
“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that feels chosen, not assigned.
He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.
“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.
You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help with…?”
“Your clothes.”
Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. “Alright.”
You pick a fresh pair of pajamas, and he gently pries it from your hands. He bends down, holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.
This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.
“Thank you, baby.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, but instead follows easily, willingly, allowing you to decide where he should sit.
Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, it feels like setting it down somewhere safe. It’s like stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.
You kneel in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.
For a moment, he’s here.
Then the stillness stretches.
The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.
His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.
“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”
Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He startles, just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.
“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”
You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers fidget, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.
“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me. Can you tell me five things you see?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“…Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The–” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”
“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”
He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… Your voice.”
You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”
“Shampoo, and… Soup.”
“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”
“I– water… From shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”
“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.
His breath catches. Then quieter, softer, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go. “Winter.”
The sound of it sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all. Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.
Just Winter.
Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Snow crusted into his hair, fingers numb, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him— remembers the blank space where his name should have been.
Then... I’ll call you Winter, you stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it's been plunged under water anymore. His name sounds like silk on your tongue.
“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”
The hand caressing his locks stills.
“I know.” You answer.
He loves to hear it. Means he is here with you, where he can just be Winter: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.
After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside. The sharp edges of the panic attack have dulled, leaving a comfortable silence behind.
“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”
“Of course.”
He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.
When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.
“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.
“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into something else.
He glances at it, then at you.
“You know... I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum… By morning.”
“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.
His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “... A bit.”
“Then we can take care of them so they don't.” You add, softer now.
He looks taken aback for a moment. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.
You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.
“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”
He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.
“You’re doing great.” You whisper, not as praise, just as information. “How are you feeling?”
He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… Here.” He says finally.
Your expression softens. “That counts.”
Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, every time you reach for something new, your voice narrates.
“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”
“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”
“I’m almost done.”
The predictability steadies him. The rigid line of his spine softens, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again— reflexive, old— and you pause immediately.
“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”
He swallows. “Yes.”
Your movements are unhurried even as you wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist goes lax. By the time you finish, he's leaning slightly forward, toward you, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that he’s safe enough to feel it.
Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Hey, are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.
He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut. “Yes. But…” He clutches the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.
“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”
You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.
“Alright, we’re going slow.” You keep mumbling. His heavy steps are sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion.
“Good. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
You move together into the kitchen, step by step. The light here is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.
“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”
You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back. The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you add the cheese, then place the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.
Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his almost a year ago. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.
When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces. Bite-sized then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.
“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat. Alright?” He nods silently, not moving an inch.
After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.
Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.
Food is… Complicated.
Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming. Something to manage carefully.
That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.
Things he knows and trusts by now.
Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.
You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.
“That’s it, my love.” You murmur. “Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.
“Hot.” He mutters.
“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”
Halfway through, he slows.
The spoon lowers. His gaze drifts to the plate, then away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.
You nod slowly. “We can wait.”
A few seconds pass, then a minute. Winter shifts, breath shallow, cheeks warming. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.
“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.
“Can you… ?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, it's not the first time he has asked you to feed him.
You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course.”
You scoop a modest bite, wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.
His lips part, trusting your timing, your pace. He swallows, breathes, nods faintly. You sit with him like that, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.
“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”
When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter sloppily wipes his hands on his sweatpants while you set everything back on the tray. You sigh, glancing at the unused napkins, but when you look up at him, his eyes are huge and expectant, his shoulders shaking slightly with every single quivery breath.
“Can I ask you something?” You lean back, turning your palm up so it rests on your thigh, an offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders— the left one.”
He tries to shake his head. It’s small, instinctive— the kind of denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He says a little too quickly.
You don’t argue, never do, yet you don’t look totally convinced.
“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”
Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars — makes something ripple through him. So you wait.
“…Okay.” He agrees quietly.
The corners of your mouth lift, relieved but measured, and your hands reach into the drawer beside the couch. You take out a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.
“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. You pour the liquid in your hands and warm it up. He watches the motion, the careful intention behind it.
“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”
He nods, his shoulders raising and lowing slowly, deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.
The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.
“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”
Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant, giving you his back. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.
“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Your hands settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as tension begins to give way.
When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. Your fingers trace the edge where flesh meets something unyielding, not pressing yet— just acknowledging it. You work the surrounding muscle first, easing the strain there before coming closer to the scars.
“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”
The scars are pale beneath your hands, textured. You use only the pads of your fingers at first, careful to avoid friction, careful not to drag. The oil helps a lot, smooth and warm.
Winter shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.
You lean forward and press a soft kiss to one of the scars at the edge of his shoulder— brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.
He inhales sharply, hands curling in his lap.
“Okay?” You ask immediately.
“Yes...” he breathes, dreamy. “Again. Please.”
You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with those small, grounding kisses, each one placed deliberately, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. The crease on his forehead smooths, his head bows. Even the rigid line of his spine softens under your care.
For once, the metal is simply there: acknowledged, included, treated with the same love as the rest of him.
He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first.
Your hands have been moving in slow, patient circles across his shoulders for a long time, thumbs pressing into the muscle just enough to coax the tension out without startling it. You learned where to touch by trial and error— where his body allowed pressure, where it flinched, where it locked. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.
When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him, and his body reacts before his mind can.
His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire and shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks— a wordless signal that touch has stopped and something else is about to begin.
He hates that moment. Hates that his body betrays him even here.
But nothing happens.
No command, no pain, no hands forcing him forward or down.
Instead, there is a pause. A careful one.
Then he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing the nape of his neck. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.
He inhales sharply.
For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands near the skull mean restraint, electrodes, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, warm and slow, sliding gently through the strands at the base of his neck.
The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions, his head tip forward just enough to give you better access.
Permission, offered without words.
Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose— basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his orders. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about— the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you comb through it, carefully, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be to be cut away, reshaped, erased.
He loves the way your fingers linger, loves the unhurried patience of it, the way you treat each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool, camouflage, an accident of neglect. But something personal, something worth loving. With you, the hair doesn’t signify disorder or loss of control. He doesn’t care how it looks then.
“Today was… Kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to disturb him. “Not even bad. Just long.”
Your fingers separate a section of hair.
“Hmm.”
“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”
You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.
“That… Happen often?” He asks quietly.
“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”
Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather sections of his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic. His eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to your voice.
“Do you remember about that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how to send emails? Today he spilled coffee everywhere. Papers, desk, his shoes. He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor.”
Winter breathes out, something similar to amusement. “Poor papers.”
“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him but he stomped around and shrieked that he could clean it himself. It wasn’t very polite.”
He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.
“The elevator here got stuck for a second too.” You then add. “Well– not really stuck. It just stopped abruptly and then groaned back to life. But you know I get anxious in small spaces.”
He nods slightly. “I hear sound,” he says. “Now.”
You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”
You let the braid unravel and start again, fingers patient.
“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful dress in the window, but the color... Eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”
“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.
“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that color. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”
His mouth twitches. “You… Think a lot.”
“Too much.” You agree with a sigh.
You gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, and he exhales, long and slow. His head tips back slightly, resting against your shoulder. The contact is accidental at first, then deliberate. He adjusts, settling more fully into you, trusting that you will support the weight.
When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, starting and abandoning small braids.
He could fall asleep like this.
The thought never fails to surprise him— not because he’s tired, but because the idea of sleeping without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it hovers at the edges, optional.
A gift.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming. Always checking, always attentive.
“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” You continue.
“Better now.” He murmurs.
“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”
Your fingers twist a strand, smooth it down, then starting over.
“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.
He answers immediately, without opening his eyes. “It is. For me.”
You pause, then resume, gentler.
“Okay.” You answer quietly. “Then I’ll keep talking.”
You shift beneath him. It’s a small movement— just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but his body reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.
His eyes snap open.
The world sharpens instantly, edges cutting, heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. Before thought can catch up, his hand shoots out, fingers curling into fabric. He grips your sweater at the hem, fist tight until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t—”
The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.
You freeze.
“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, warm and grounding. “I’m just getting your shirt and the blanket. That’s all.”
The word takes a moment to register.
Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.
“Sorry.” He mutters.
You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.
When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then firmer— snug and enclosing. You pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.
The blanket faintly smells of your detergent. It traps warmth, keeps the edges of him from drifting apart. He grips it reflexively, fists tightening in the fabric as if to test its solidity.
You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.
He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest against his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.
But then he feels it.
The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Slow. Steady.
Your breathing.
And beneath that, fainter, but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.
Alive.
The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, sends a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath... The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.
He adjusts slightly, pressing closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own breathing gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your pace.
Your free hand picks the remote and turns on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.
It’s the show you introduced him to months ago— something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast, too cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.
It’s safe noise.
“This one… Good?”
“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”
He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they disagreed at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That's what friends do, apparently.
“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as the woman keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.
Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “Is good.”
You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice why to put it.”
You go quiet for a moment, then continue, more thoughtfully. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven't finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.
“They ruined it.” You sigh. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”
Winter exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh. “A crime.” he says.
You laugh for real at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show. Your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.
Eventually, you speak again.
“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”
He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”
“That’s the goal.” Another pause.
He gathers enough courage to add. “You… Make it better. Eating.”
Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”
The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrows again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the steady pressure of the blanket holding him together.
This— this is what matters.
Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.
Here, he can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still alive too.
He closes his eyes again, not in panic this time, but in trust.
Sleep pulls at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the edges have been sanded down by warmth and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, curled into the borrowed safety of your arms.
Still— he shifts.
The movement is small but purposeful so you feel it immediately.
“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” He nods again, suddenly more awake.
You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion, even when his movements are slow and stiff. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.
Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your warmth registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with surprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.
When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where Blanche worries about menopause.
The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.
He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.
Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.
He pauses, considering, then adds.
Milk was sweet. Did not hurt stomach.
His handwriting is uneven but deliberate, each letter formed with intent. He presses harder than necessary, as if afraid the words might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.
Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.
Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose sleeves. She wears it when too cold.
His grip tightens slightly on the pen. These details matter. Texture matters. They are proof. He flips back a few pages, scans what he’s written on previous nights, grounding himself in continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.
They notice it before he can do something about it.
A hesitation that lingers too long. A second too slow to pull the trigger. The way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention. Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.
They restrain him in a room that smell like metal and disinfectant, hands rough and practiced, voices clipped and impersonal. He fights them harder than he ever has before.
Not to escape.
To remember.
He snarls, thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.
Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your hands warm against his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees for another order.
He can’t lose that.
Not you.
“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please— I can’t—”
They don’t listen.
He twists free for half a second— enough to stumble back, enough for hope to ignite painfully in his chest— and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced down, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest.
The chair looms. A mouth guard is forced between his teeth.
And then, panic explodes.
He screams.
Your name flicks over and over in his mind, he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it couldn’t be burned away.
The warmth. The quiet. The way you look at him when he finally comes home.
He begs silently, fiercely, for those moments to stay.
Then the world goes black.
A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and fragments. His head feels hollow, like a room after furniture has been stripped out.
When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the noise fades and the night quiets… His feet take him somewhere else. He doesn’t know why.
The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.
His head hurts.
Then, the door opens.
You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you moves.
Something is wrong. He could see it in your expression— fear, shock, something like grief— and it makes his chest tighten.
“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… Come… Here.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your eyes instantly fill with tears.
You cross the room in slow steps, as if approaching a scared animal, and stop just short of touching him, like you are sure he might vanish if you do.
“Winter.” You whisper.
The sound of it cracks something open.
Not memory.
Instinct.
His gaze drifts past you, caught on the small desk by the wall. A notebook sits there, plain and worn.
He frowns, not understanding why that object suddenly feels important enough to be acknowledged. “That.”
Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at. “You—” You stop yourself, clear your throat. “You wrote it. For this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”
You carefully place it in his hands.
Inside are pages of his own handwriting— uneven, blunt, desperate.
She keeps you safe.
You are not a weapon here.
You love her.
The words land one by one, slow and devastating.
He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might anchor him to the world.
Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.
Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just another state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.
The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. Not the chair, or the restraints. Those are familiar, manageable. What haunts him is the moment in your living room— the way your face changed when you saw his eyes and realized Winter was gone.
He remembers the fear in you. That’s what stays with him.
After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. The smell of your hair; the sound you make when you laugh quietly so you won’t wake the neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him, as if repetition alone might burn them too deep to remove.
He also starts writing more.
The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages. Dates. Details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
Drinks her tea too hot.
Bounces her right knee when nervous.
He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without you terrifies him more than pain ever has.
The fear also changes how he touches you. He lingers longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hand rests at your back a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep. He watches you more closely, to memorize your breathing.
Sometimes you notice, yet he doesn’t tell you that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest will vanish, leaving nothing but muscle memory and orders.
He becomes more careful with routine.
If he misses a visit, panic coils in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he asks you to tell him where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals— a different kind of food, a different chair— he stiffens before he can stop himself.
So you learn to reassure him in new ways.
“I’m here.”
“You’ll always find me.”
“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it. I promise.”
He wants to believe you, but the memory won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. That knowledge makes him love you harder, almost desperately.
And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him and the warmth closes in, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.
He is still here.
You are still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the moment he steps inside.
The mug is wrong.
It’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. A different one— slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sight of it makes something inside his chest stutter.
You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.” You weren't expecting two visits in two days, not that you're complaining.
Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh— the blue one is still in the dishwasher.”
His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“Okay.” He says quickly. Too quickly. “Okay.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.
Your smile fades into a thin line.
You set the dishcloth down. “Winter,” you call softly. “Sit for a second.” He hesitates.
“Please.” You add, and that’s when he obeys, perching himself on the edge of a chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the metal plates in the vibranium arm hum faintly. He keeps his eyes on the floor.
You open the dishwasher, pick the right mug out, still wet, and set it in front of him. He exhales before he can stop himself.
“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.
You’ve learned that rushing him won’t take you anywhere. The truth sometimes finds its way out on its own.
“You panicked.” You swallow. Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Winter shakes his head. “No. Just– The mug… Not here.”
“There was a different mug. Yours was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”
His jaw tightens, still keeping his blue eyes firmly on the table. So you reach out, resting your hand over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”
Winter swallows.
“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”
Your breath catches.
“Didn’t know…” he quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters. His lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I thought… If I forget… Come back empty.”
Your other hand tentatively comes up to his cheek, softly but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distressed eyes, almost like he wants to burst into tears.
“Winter,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”
He shakes his head, breath uneven. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out faster now. “What if I– walk here but– don’t stop.”
You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. He stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace like he’s been waiting for permission. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once.
“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces. But they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”
“I’m scared.” He chokes on a breath, barely audible.
“I know. I am too.” You frown. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush the tension off. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”
Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.
“But you need to tell me, my love.” You add. “When it gets bad. You can't just hold it inside.”
He nods, a small, hasty movement. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
You rest your forehead against his, breathing him in. Slowly, his shoulders lower. The panic ebbs vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow.
That day the Soldier learned that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.
On the bookshelf nearby, something catches his eye. A photograph. He frowns faintly, he doesn’t remember writing about it. He stands, retrieves it, studies it under the low light. You look younger in the picture, standing among a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.
Graduation.
He sits back on the couch and writes again.
Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.
He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Just enough to mark it.
He frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.
Watched show. Cheesecake episode. My favorite.
Winter closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment he rests his palm flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and safe. He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”
It’s not a request, nor a command. It’s simply a word that carries a deep meaning for you, honed by repetition.
You nod and stay where you are on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal safely pressed against your chest as your eyes follow him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately— spine straightening, shoulders setting, breath recalibrating.
This is another version of him. Not the one who melts into your touch, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.
This one is the Soldier.
He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice. Not because he doubts it, but because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.
The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.
That's when he stops to listen. The building has a rhythm at night. He learned it in his second month here, memorized it the way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours; the distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.
Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.
The windows come next. He doesn’t open them, just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.
Good.
There are things you don’t notice. Wouldn’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong— too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.
Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and bone laid instinctively in the path of danger.
Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, because they are different.
Sleep turns against him, memories surface uninvited— too vivid, too sharp. His body reacts as if certain things are happening in that exact moment: his breath hitches, his muscles lock, his hands curl at his sides as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.
You know the signs, and you talk him back. Every time, unfailingly.
Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, grounding, firm. You tell him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it.
You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that. Loves it too, how you refuse to let him carry everything alone, how you fiercely fight to give him some respite.
Yet it takes everything in him not to pull you back.
Winter’s not only good at noticing things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump, your breathing changing when you’re stressed. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment— he just intervenes. Guides you gently to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you watch him with half-lidded eyes, amused as he lines the edges up with military precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. Not because you can’t handle it, but because he wants your world intact, even in small ways.
He never tells you everything, and for that, his stomach often twists in guilt.
You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. He answers around the truth, trimming the sharp edges. Leaves out the blood, the names, the parts that would keep you awake at night. When memories surface that are too dark to contain, he removes himself. Steps into the bathroom. Onto the balcony. Anywhere the weight of them won’t bleed into your space.
When you apologize for worrying about him with a small voice, he shakes his head.
“Not your fault.”
He keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.
He teaches you safety in pieces small enough not to frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there.
“Always look peephole first. Even if wait someone.”
“Leave lights on when not home too.”
If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.
“Crowded.”
“Only one emergency exit.”
And you choose accordingly.
On rare days when he can stay longer— when missions are short or delayed— he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.
Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to watch the building from a distance. He makes sure to check on you in his own ways.
So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.
By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have gone soft with exhaustion. You are curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but you instantly give him all your attention when he sits beside you.
“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s fully aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Everything okay?”
He nods once. “Good.”
“You want to go to bed?” He nods again, and promptly follows you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you down the hallway, fingers still hooked into your shirt, his presence a shadow that isn’t threatening. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.
There’s something else.
He shifts his weight, searching for the right words. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly, not in fear but in hesitation.
“Uh,” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “We… Do face thing?”
You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”
“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”
There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes flicking up to your face, thrilled.
“If you’re not too tired.”
His answer is immediate. A firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”
It isn’t a lie. His body is exhausted, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.
Your smile widens. “Okay. Come on, then.”
The first time you’d introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.
Big blue eyes full of confusion followed your movements as you adjusted the fuzzy Shrek headband on his hair. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.
“What?” Winter frowned over your shoulder, staring down at the two two colorful face mask packets.
“Face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost. And…” You explained, opening the first one. “They feel nice on your face.”
Winter’s eyebrows rose in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the fabric. “Warm?”
“Nope, they’re slightly cold.” You carefully opened the mask sheet.
“Pretty?” You hummed in confusion. “My skin… Pretty like yours with… This mask?”
Oh.
You looked up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blinked down at you, curious and innocent.
“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gained a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”
He tried his best to stay still as you set it on his face, a chuckle falling from your lips at his grimace when the hem briefly got caught on his lips. You carefully adjusted the mask, before pulling away to admire your work. Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.
“Alright?”
“Cold.” Winter muttered. “And wet.”
You tore open the other pack, giggling. “Just let it sit for a few minutes, I promise you'll get used to it.”
He did in fact not get used to it. It was slimy, and it actually forced him to keep his chin up, worried it would suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loved the way you doted on him with your little products. He also couldn't deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cupped his cheeks as you checked for any left over cream? He instantly melted like ice cream under the sun. You also gave him a kiss at the end… So that's how he promised himself to never skip skincare.
You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.
“Wolf?” He perks up.
You nod. “Wolf.”
He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, and he closes his eyes.
You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his next visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.
You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to. The way you unconsciously lean forward, the small crease between your brows when you concentrate. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the women they love, arguing about how toothpaste should be squeezed. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.
“You okay?”
He nods, a little embarrassed. “I like this.”
Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.
“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount into your palm.
“Cleans skin and make it... Nice?” He asks.
“Yes.” You smile. “Makes it healthy… And also nice.” You work it into his skin slowly, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation: your thumbs circling his cheekbones, the faint scent of something clean and mild. He breathes in deeply, grounding himself in the moment.
The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.
“This is funny one.” He murmurs when you unfold it.
You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”
He shrugs, lips twitching under the fabric. “Animal masks are funny.”
You put on yours as he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each name. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.
“Serum.” Winter says suddenly. “What do?”
You turn to him, eyes bright. “Serum helps with a lot of things. Let's say it gives skin the targeted support it needs.”
He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.
“Sunscreen?”
“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”
He frowns. “You are not old.”
You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”
With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”
“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”
He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.
He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your pretty eyes light up while explaining the things you enjoy. He loves this version of you– relaxed, trusting. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he's not allowed to be part of.
When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.
“Okay.” You mumble. “Moisturizer.”
Your fingers are gentle as you take your time smoothing the cream into his skin like it’s an act of devotion. He leans forward slightly, chasing the touch without meaning to. When you finish, Winter waits with bated breath until he feels the soft press of your lips against his. The reaction is immediate. He freezes, before blushing violently. His breath stutters without him allowing it.
Then his eyes open, and he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn.”
Your smile is radiant as his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer to your face with precise movements, trying to not let his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without his cheeks going on fire.
When Winter hums satisfied, you know he's finished. Once your eyes flutter open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.
“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.
His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. On the outside, he simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you— quick, shy, barely there.
You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”
He nods and reaches first for your hand, fingers threading through yours.
You ease yourself back onto the mattress; it dips under you, sheets rustling softly, the pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, until your back is supported and your arms are relaxed at your sides.
Then you look up at him.
Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging uselessly for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, tender haven where the rest of the world doesn't matter. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.
“How do you want to sleep?”
Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled— wrapped in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much closeness might be a burden.
He swallows, shifting forward, movements enough clumsy that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in motion elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now. Control isn’t either. So he climbs onto the bed slowly, carefully, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs. The action is awkward, but earnest. He pauses, hovering for half a second, checking your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.
Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his density, his strength. He would never forgive himself if he hurt you, even by accident.
When he’s adjusted himself into a careful balance, he finally lets his head rest on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.
The effect is immediate.
Your heartbeat meets his ear like a signal. Not loud, not insistent. Just there, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.
His body exists in a world that is often abstract— rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But this? This is measurable.
Your heart gives shape to time, each beat is proof of continuity. He adjusts his head slightly, angling his cheek so more of him is pressed into your warmth. The cotton of your shirt brushes his face, and he closes his eyes, not because he’s tired, but because opening them feels unnecessary.
Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and deep. Without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. You bring one hand up to his back, palm settling between his shoulders. The contact is firm enough to be grounding, gentle enough not to startle. Your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.
Winter lets out a low, shaky exhale, the sound so raw it makes your ears perk up.
“Are you alright, my love?”
He clings harder onto the fabric, and you are certain that he is going to tear it off with how hard he is gripping it.
“Closer.” He shifts once, twice, restless. He buries his face harder against your chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing you through the cotton of your top. Desperate and clumsy, a low whine slips from his throat when the fabric denies him skin.
The first time this happened was three months in your relationship. He jerked in his sleep, his eyes squeezing shut, whimpering... He was stuck in a nightmare. Then he shot up, his breaths ragged and uneven.
Winter whipped his head frantically, his eyes still adjusting to the darkness of the room, only relaxing a little when he heard your voice beside him.
“Hey, Winter– Winter, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare.” Your hand tentatively touched his arm, and his reaction was immediate. He dived onto you, head heavy on your chest as your arms wrapped around him, your hands rubbing his back up and down as he trembled, holding you tighter, trying to be closer.
“It’s okay, you’re safe.” But your words didn’t seem to soothe him at all as he continued to restlessly fidget.
“Baby? You’re okay, you’re in my apartment… What do you need?”
“I–” You wiped the tears that started streaming down his cheeks as he continued to squirm, burying his face further as if he needed to crawl into your rib cage.
“Yeah?” You tried to coax it out of him.
Winter shook his head, still trembling in your arms “Closer.”
“Closer?” You looked around the room as if it had the answer, but the Soldier beat you to it. He suddenly sat up, hesitating for a moment before wordlessly slipping his head under your shirt. Your gasp of surprise made his muscles immediately freeze. That was it, your breaking point. He had taken advantage of your kindness for too long, and now… How could he do something like this? Dive under your shirt… And for what?
His body flinched as a reflex when your hands rested on his back, slowly starting to rub the rigid muscles in circular motions.
“It’s okay, take what you need, Winter.” Nuzzling his face further into your chest, his arms went slightly limp around your waist. Finally, his breaths started to even out, and he fell asleep.
After that night, Winter sought after your breasts not only for sexual pleasure, but also for comfort. At first, he was more subtle about it. He would inch his way closer to you after a nightmare, careful to not press too much onto you, even if he wanted to do. So badly. Then, he started doing it when you two lounged on the couch, or before falling asleep, quietly resting his head against them. If you stirred, he’d only cling onto you tighter.
Huffing, Winter’s hands reach for the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward. You help him, shifting enough so he can remove it completely.
“That’s okay, there we go.” You cradle the back of his head, guiding him back down.
You hear him sigh happily, and despite his beard tickling your bare skin, you do your best to not squirm, worried he might interpret it as you trying to free yourself from his hold. Your fingers gently comb his locks, without urgency. Winter moans, arms circling your waist to pull you impossibly closer as the fog in his mind grows thicker. It feels safe, comforting, like open arms ready to catch him.
His face nuzzles into your breasts for a while, until you feel something wet around your nipple. You instinctively bite your bottom lip to stifle your gasp, though Winter feels the little flinch of surprise. His warm mouth suckles in soft, absent pulses; that's when his body completely melts. Not dramatically, nor all at once. But gradually, muscle by muscle.
Your legs shift slightly, closing just enough to cradle him there, and his hips press closer, a subtle movement to seek more contact. His nose brushes the fat of your breasts, inhaling deeply so your scent blesses his lungs, clean and familiar.
A whine is muffled against your flesh when you press a kiss into his hair, just above his temple.
“You’re safe.” You murmur, not as reassurance but as a statement.
His breathing evens out further, a shiver running down his spine as your your nails lightly graze his scalp. The repetition is soothing in a way that sinks past thought, settling somewhere deep and silent.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer, and he’s now more awake than ever, a primal need racing through his veins. You can pinpoint the exact moment his actions take a different turn. He latches more greedily onto your nipple; his tongue flicks the turgid nub, rough and desperate; the suction turns almost bruising. His hard suckles speak of a specific need right now, so you cradle him closer, core throbbing as the wet sounds fill your bedroom.
His eyes shut close as if in a trance while his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud. He uses his flesh hand to play with the other, gently twisting it. But the tremors in his body only grow worse: he needs more. More skin, more warmth, more of you wrapped around every broken part of him.
He whimpers, the sound pitiful, hungry. His hips keep jerking forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his now heavy cock against the mattress, but the friction is not enough.
“Winter.” You swallow. “Do you need me to touch you, baby?” His nod is eager, quick. “Okay, okay. Lift your hips a little for me.” He immediately obeys, allowing your hand to slip past his pants.
His eyes drift up towards you, glassy and filled with desire as you gently squeeze his length, running your finger with a featherlight touch over his delicious tip. His hips buck immediately into your hold, a gasp promptly falling from his lips. “Mommy please– feels too good.” Your hand squeeze him tighter, going up and down faster now, prompting him to bury his face back between your breasts.
“Yeah? Feel good, baby?” Your fingers briefly dance downward to tease his balls, stroking gently. “Am I making you feel good?”
“Tell me. Please.”
“What, baby?” Your thumb swipes over the leaking head..
“That–That I’m–”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Good? My handsome boy?” He blushes with his whole body, a fevered glint lighting up in his eyes as his hand desperately kneads the supple flesh of your tits.
He grows impossibly harder in your hands, his hips thrusting forward, turning into a moaning, stuttering mess. “Yes–Yes, I am!”
You feel his body tense, thighs tight and bulging, as he lets out a long, deep groan. “So big, so smart… You are my best boy, Winter.”
Oh, he whines so loudly at that, his balls drawing up tight. He craves your praises, especially when you call him smart. The Soldier is not used to that word, not when he's been considered a dumb mutt his whole life.
“Come for me, Winter.” He squirms and moans helplessly on your chest, bursting all over your hand, curling his toes at the force of his orgasm. You keep jerking him off until the very last twitch, until he collapses on you, his cock still throbbing, refusing to soften.
You know he always needs more before being completely satisfied.
Winter exhales harshly, one of his hands already fumbling with your pants.
“Let me.” You lift your hips, helping him lower your pants and panties at the same time. His hands frantically take the hem of both, carelessly tossing them on the floor. He does the same with his own pants and underwear, clumsily tugging at them with his free hand. In the end, his feet remain tangled in the fabric, and he leaves them there, too desperate to feel you.
He shudders when his still sensitive cock comes into contact with your wet core as your thighs spread wider to give him more access, his hips starting a graceless grinding motion. His lips latch again on your tender nipple, suckling greedily.
“C’mon, baby.” You murmur against his temple, still keeping your fingers gently tangled in his hair.
Winter doesn’t even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against your folds. He gasps when your hand wraps again around his cock, gently guiding the tip to your hole. That’s when he sinks inside you with a single, shaking move that has you clenching.
“Mommy!” He cries out into your chest, desperately driving into you. You adjust yourself a little so your legs properly wrap around his hips, holding him firmly since his movements are so chaotic and frantic.
“So good, baby.” You sigh in bliss, gently running your hand up his bare back, encouraging him to continue.
His rhythm falters almost immediately, embarrassingly fast. His whole body goes rigid, and with a broken cry he comes again, cock pulsing deep and warm inside you.
He whimpers low in his chest, urgently clinging at your waist. “Filled me up so good, darling.” You murmur into his ear. His hips give a weak thrust at that, face pressing deeper into your neck.
A needy little sound falls from his lips. “Kiss?”
“Of course, c’mere.” You soothe, hands cradling his cheeks to lift his flustered face. A yelp rips out of your throat as his lips messily and hungrily attach to yours. An ache claws at his lungs as he explores your mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have time to breathe, not when he can spend it kissing you. The urge to taste every single corner is so intense his hands tremble as they squeeze your hips, and with his chest heaving against yours, he sucks on your tongue, coaxing it into his mouth.
Slowly, yet inflexibly, you pull away. Winter confusedly chases after you, voice breaking as he protests at the loss.
“Baby, breathe. You need to breathe.” You whisper, compensating by dragging your lips along the length of his jaw.
A mix of shame and hunger curls into his stomach at his own desperation, at the need to please you, to earn the sweetness of your praise. He rocks his hips once, just enough to make you gasp. His cock, flushed dark and leaking, is still throbbing and very much hard inside you.
“I can–” He mumbles against your neck. “Need again– came too fast, please mommy, please again.”
“Yes darling, yes. Make me feel good.” You push your hips back against his. Winter chases your heat with awkward but hungry jerks, so eager to feel you clench around him.
“Oh God! Yes, just like that, baby!” You arch up, the knot inside your belly ready to unravel. His breath hitches sharply, so easily aroused by your praise.
“Making mommy… Feel good.” He gasps. Your hand slowly moves between you two, landing on your clit.
“Yes.” You exclaim against his temple, clenching as you start circling your throbbing nub. A shattered little sound breaks out of his throat at that, before his head momentarily ducks down.
“No!” Your wrist is suddenly caught by his fingers, bringing your hand back to his hair. “I can– I do it.” His fingers move right where you need them, a tad faster than yours, but it’s still so good.
“Oh fuck– yes, yes, yes!” You almost scream, rocking your hips back into his frenzied thrusts.
“So good my love, you feel so good.” You moan shamelessly, the wet noises of his cock sliding in are so animalistic and obscene you pray your neighbors are both working their night shift at the hospital; or at least that they were so drained they fell asleep on their couch.
You are so close when he whimpers brokenly. “So pretty mommy, so beautiful when you come… Please, wanna see it, please come.”
He still remembers when he saw your naked body for the first time, his cock hardening so humiliatingly fast as he’d never seen anything so gorgeous before. He came all over himself that day, whimpering as you touched him for the first time. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and having a beautiful woman stroking his cock while gently caressing his inner thigh, murmuring against his lips how much of a good, smart man he is… Well, the Soldier just couldn’t help himself.
You smile at his adorable pleas, when your orgasm finally hits you, powerful and mind-breaking. You writhe underneath his body, crying out his name over and over again, with your heart beating so fast you think it’ll come out of your chest any moment.
Winter lets out a strangled moan as you clamp around him, forehead pressing insistently hard against the valley between your breasts and arms trembling, still caging you.
“C’mon baby.” You whimper, so sensitive. He whispers, whole body shuddering as he keeps humping you without rhythm, crudely.
The second your palm cradles his cheek, Winter shatters. He sloppily thrusts into you, face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace as he comes for the third and final time tonight, hot spurts of cum stuffing your pussy so intensely you both gasp.
“So good, my sweet boy. You did so good for me, Winter.” You mumble sleepily, still your arms tightly hold his shaky form against yours, while your hips rock gently to milk every single little drop out of him.
He clings to you, all soft and sweet. “Thank you, mommy. Love you.” He groans. “Love you so much.”
You press a kiss to his temple, your heart so full it feels like it'd burst. “Love you too, baby. So so much.”
When his breathing begins to slow down, you gently thread your fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he makes a soft, pleased hum.
“Winter.” You whisper, already recognizing the change of weight. He is about to fall asleep. “I need to move, honey. Need to clean us up before sleeping.”
He immediately perks up at that, whining and burrowing his face harder against your neck, refusing to let you go. His cock is now soft inside you, yet he doesn’t want to pull out, as if being there would keep you on your bed under him, forever.
“I promise I’ll come back quickly, I just need to clean up.” You cup his cheek, slowly lifting his face to look into his eyes. “Please, baby.”
He blinks slowly and heavy, eyes hazy as if he just woke up from the best nap of his life, like the ones that leave you wondering what year it is. Wordlessly, he pushes himself up on dangerously trembling limbs, grunting as he pulls out. As soon as you are able to move freely, you catch his wrists, helping him lie back down on your bed.
You leave a kiss on his slightly parted lips. “Be right back.” He nods sleepily, ferociously fighting back his drooping eyes until you come back. You quickly clean yourself up, before dampening a clean cloth with warm water. When you come back, you chuckle silently as his head slowly falls to the side, literally on the brink of sleep, when his eyes abruptly shoot open. He frowns, shaking his head as if that would be enough to push fatigue away, but when he sees you, his whole face instantly lights up.
“Hey.” You greet him, giggling as he sheepishly waves his hand at you. You kneel by his side, gently wiping him until you are satisfied. Taking a shower would be better, but Winter is too exhausted. He is so stubborn and eager to please you that he would dash to the bathroom this instant if you even dared to hint at it. So you do your best with the damp cloth, later throwing it into your washing machine before sprinting back to your room.
His head immediately goes for your chest as you lie back beside him, his naked sweaty body clinging to yours without question.
“Time to sleep, my love.” You kiss the top of his head, slowly smoothing your hand up and down his back.
His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name. “Thank you.”
You keep stroking his back until you drift off as well.
The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom quietly. Winter would have slept longer, curled into your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises gently, and he stays still for a long moment. He takes a long, deep sigh before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.
“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“I can’t.” You say, voice tight. “Not today.”
It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.
And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.
You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.
“No, or I never leave.”
You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it's because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one to have elicited that melodious sound out of you.
You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.
Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your sweater with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line, your gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.
When you secure the final strap, your hand lands on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
He wants to say something, something that would make this easier… But the truth is, nothing can.
When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit– apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.
Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit like it’s evidence of something unbearable.
A small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.
His blue eyes are firmly fixed on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before stepping forward abruptly and pulling you into him. His arms wrap around your waist with careful force, his face pressed into the slope of your neck, breathing your scent in, clinging to the warmth of your body like it’s the only real thing left.
This is what he hates most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.
How wrong it seems to walk away from it.
Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.
Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.
When Winter looks at you, he lifts a hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another, on your lips.
“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Go to normal work.”
Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to a normal job crosses your mind. A wife kissing his husband goodbye. A girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend's arms at the promise of a romantic date. A parallel universe where he gets to live his life without violence, control, death.
Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”
The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.
You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you— an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.
“Remember me.” You choke out.
“Always.” He breathes out, hands desperately clutching at the back of your sweater. “I love you.”
Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”
Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.
He takes a step forward, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.
You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to hold your body from shattering into a million of pieces. Your wet eyes follow his, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Then, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this– serene, safe.
He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.
To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.
By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 6.2k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
Bucky was boxing up the last of the day's bread and the pastries that didn't sell, marking down prices, and bundling things together for the discount shelf tomorrow, when he heard it, the low rumble of a motorcycle engine vibrating through the quiet evening street.
He paused, listening with more attention.
The sound got closer, then stopped right outside.
He squinted toward the window and saw it.
A big touring bike -something sleek and road-worn, with hard cases strapped to the sides- was parked at the curb.
And climbing off it, pulling his helmet free, was Steve.
Bucky set down the roll of tape he'd been holding and headed for the door.
By the time he stepped outside, Steve had the helmet under one arm and was grinning at him like no time had passed at all.
"Hey, man," Steve said.
"Hey yourself," Bucky greeted, and he couldn't help the smile on his lips. "You rode all the way on that thing?"
"Yeah." Steve glanced back at the bike with obvious affection. "Took two days, but it beats sitting on a bus."
"You're insane."
"Maybe." Steve stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Brief but solid, the kind that said I missed you without needing words.
When they pulled back, Steve looked him over, his expression changing to something more assessing.
"You look good," he said.
Bucky huffed. "You're a terrible liar."
"I'm serious." Steve's grin softened. "You look... better than I expected, honestly."
Bucky wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just shrugged. "Come on. Let me finish closing up, and we can head upstairs."
Steve followed him back inside, sweeping his eyes over the bakery. The shelves, the display case, the worn but well-kept interior.
"This place looks the same," Steve said. "Your grandpa would've loved that you kept it going."
"Yeah," Bucky said quietly. "I hope so."
He finished packing up the discount items and locked the register, acutely aware of Steve watching him the whole time.
"You hungry?" Bucky asked, flipping off the lights in the front.
"Fancy's overrated," Steve said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
They headed up to Bucky's apartment, and as he unlocked the door, he felt that familiar tightness creeping back into his chest.
Steve was here.
In his space.
About to see exactly how he'd been living for the past few years.
But when they stepped inside, Steve just dropped his bag by the door and looked around with an easy smile.
"This is nice," he said. "You made some changes."
"A few."
Steve moved further into the room, taking it in. His gaze landed on the wall near the window, and he tilted his head.
"The flower pictures are gone."
"Yeah."
"Thank God." he turned to look at him, grinning. "Those things were hideous. Your grandma had terrible taste."
"Don't let my sister hear you say that."
"She thought they were hideous too, and you know it." Steve's eyes drifted to the corner of the room. "And the sea-themed lamp?"
"Donated it."
Steve let out a short laugh. "Best decision you ever made." He turned slowly, taking in the rest of the space -the bookshelves, the worn couch, the general lived-in quality of the place. "It looks good, Buck. Like yours now. Not just your grandpa's."
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
"Yeah," he said finally. "That was kind of the point."
Steve nodded and didn't push it.
"You said something about leftovers?" he asked, dropping onto the couch like he'd been doing it his whole life.
"Yeah." Bucky headed toward the kitchen, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly. "Give me ten minutes."
----
They ate at the small kitchen table, plates piled with leftover pasta that Bucky had reheated without ceremony, a couple of beers sweating on the table between them.
It felt easy in a way that Bucky hadn't expected. Like the years hadn't quite passed the way he thought they had.
Steve talked about the garage first, how he'd finally scraped together enough to open his own shop, the long hours, the slow start, and then the gradual build of a steady clientele.
"It's not glamorous," he said, mopping up sauce with a piece of bread. "But it's mine. That counts for something."
"Yeah," Bucky said. "It does."
Steve looked at him over the rim of his beer. "How about you? Bakery doing okay?"
"Yeah. Same as always." He paused. "Busy enough."
"Town still the same?"
Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, pushing a piece of pasta around his plate.
Steve raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"
"No, it's just-" Bucky exhaled, setting his fork down. "Not everything's the same, actually."
Steve waited.
"I'm seeing someone," Bucky said, his voice coming out more casual than he felt.
Steve stared at him.
"What?" Bucky said.
"Nothing, I just-" Steve blinked. "When were you going to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now."
"Bucky, you text me every week, and somehow this never came up?"
"It's… recent," Bucky said, his ears going slightly red. "And I'm not exactly-" He stopped. "You know how I am."
Steve did know. He'd known Bucky long enough to understand that he kept things close to his chest until he was sure about them. Until they felt real enough to say out loud.
"What's she like?" Steve asked, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the table.
"She moved here a couple months ago," Bucky said. "Bought the old Miller place on River Street."
"The one that was falling apart?"
"She's fixing it up."
"By herself?"
"Mostly." Bucky's smiled slightly. "She's a translator. Works from home. She's been helping organize the library at the veterans' center."
Steve was quiet for a moment, studying him.
"You like her," he said. Not a question.
"Yeah," Bucky said simply. "I do."
Steve smiled then, wide and genuine. "Good," he said. "That's really good, Buck."
Bucky looked at him, waiting for something more, for the ribbing or the questions, but Steve just reached for his beer and leaned back in his chair.
"I want to meet her," Steve said.
"I figured you would."
"Tomorrow?"
"She's free in the evening," Bucky said. "After you're done with the house, and I close the bakery. You could come by."
"Yeah." Steve nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that."
They were quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind.
Then Steve said, "The old Miller place though. That's a project."
"Yeah," Bucky said. "She doesn't seem to mind."
"Clearly a woman who knows what she wants."
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah," he said. "She is."
----
Bucky had told her seven o'clock.
It was six fifty-two.
He knew because he'd checked his phone three times in the last ten minutes, standing in his kitchen pretending to be busy with a dish towel that was already dry.
Steve was on the couch, flipping through something on his phone, stretching his long legs out in front of him with the comfort of someone who had nowhere to be and nothing to prove.
Same as always.
That was the thing about Steve.
He was exactly the same as he'd always been. Same build, same jaw, same easy way of taking up space without apologizing for it. The years had been kind to him in the way they were kind to people who'd made peace with their lives.
Bucky caught his own reflection in the darkened kitchen window.
He looked away.
It wasn't that he thought she'd look at Steve and suddenly reconsider everything. That wasn't it.
It was more than Steve was a reminder of what Bucky used to be. Before the deployments, before the discharge, before the years of just... getting through each day.
Steve hadn't carried any of that.
And standing next to him, Bucky was going to look exactly like someone who had.
"You're doing that thing," Steve said from the couch, not looking up from his phone.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stand very still and look like you're doing math in your head."
"I'm drying a dish."
"The dish has been dry for five minutes."
Bucky set the towel down.
Steve glanced up at him, studied him for a second, then went back to his phone.
"It'll be fine," he said simply. "Surely we'll get along."
Bucky didn't answer.
Because that wasn't the problem.
Then, from downstairs, the faint sound of a knock at the bakery door.
His stomach did something complicated.
"Go," Steve said, already reaching for the remote. "I'll be here."
----
He took the stairs down to the bakery, unlocking the back door that led to the street.
She was standing on the other side, her hands in her jacket pockets, and when she saw him, her face brightened.
"Hey," she said.
And then she leaned up and kissed him. Simple, easy, like she'd been doing it for years.
"Missed you," she murmured against his lips.
"We saw each other two days ago," he said, but he didn't pull back. His hand had found her waist without him noticing.
She laughed softly, still close. "And? Is there a rule about when you're allowed to miss someone?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or are you telling me you didn't miss me?"
He looked away, his jaw working slightly.
"...Yeah," he said quietly. "I did."
She smiled, satisfied, and stepped inside.
----
Steve was on his feet before they'd even made it up the stairs.
"Hey," he said, extending his hand toward her with an easy smile. "Steve."
"Hey," she said, shaking it. "I've heard good things."
Steve shot Bucky a look. "Really? Because he barely told me anything about you."
"Steve," Bucky warned.
"What? It's true." Steve gestured toward the couch. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable. You want something to drink? Beer? Water? Bucky, what do you have?"
"You know what I have," Bucky said, already heading to the kitchen. "You've been here since yesterday."
"I'm being polite," Steve called after him.
She laughed, sitting on the couch, and Bucky heard it from the kitchen -warm and genuine- and something in him relaxed, just slightly.
He grabbed three beers and came back, putting them on the coffee table before dropping into the armchair across from them.
Steve had already launched into something, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, asking her about the house on River Street.
"It was within my budget," she said. "I work remotely, so I had some flexibility with where I could live, and the price was right."
Steve nodded slowly, his expression caught between impressed and sympathetic. "I grew up here, so I know that house. It's been sitting empty for a while. Objectively speaking, there's a fair amount of work to do." He tilted his head. "I'm not surprised you got it cheap."
"Probably more work than I initially thought," she admitted, wrapping her hands around her beer. "But I don't regret it. The house itself has good bones, and I genuinely like it here. The town, the people." She smiled. "It's grown on me faster than I expected."
Steve smiled back, and it was the open kind that came naturally to him. "Good. It's a good place, when you get used to it."
----
They talked easily, the three of them, though Bucky contributed less than the other two.
He was content to sit back and watch, mostly. To observe the way she held her own with Steve's rapid-fire questions, the way she laughed at his jokes without being performative about it.
Steve asked about the translation work, and she explained it, the languages, the type of books she worked on, and the particular challenge of making dialogue feel natural in a different tongue.
"So you basically rewrite the book," Steve said.
"Sort of. You're trying to capture the voice, not just the words. Sometimes those are very different things."
Bucky took a sip of his beer.
They were easy together. Naturally, effortlessly easy. The kind of dynamic that happened between sociable people who knew how to read a room.
He didn't mind it. Not tonight.
But he noticed it.
----
At some point, Steve leaned back and said, almost casually, "Did he tell you about the regional championship? Junior year?"
Bucky stiffened slightly. "Steve-"
"He didn't," she said immediately, turning to look at Bucky with that expression that meant she was filing this away for later.
"We were down two goals with four minutes left," Steve said, excited but with the ease of someone who'd told it before. "And Bucky just... flipped. He was already physical, but those last few minutes, he was something else entirely. Dominant. Aggressive. He shut down every single advance they tried, hit everything that moved." Steve shook his head, still looking mildly amazed by the memory. "And then with forty seconds left, he crossed into their zone and scored the equalizer himself."
She was watching Bucky now, something warm and curious in her expression.
"We won in overtime," Steve finished. "The whole town lost its minds."
"It wasn't-" Bucky started.
"He couldn't walk properly for three days after," Steve said, talking over him. "All the hits he took charging through. But he didn't say a word about it until Monday's practice, and the coach noticed he could barely skate."
She laughed, delighted. "Of course he didn't."
"I'm right here," Bucky muttered.
"We know," she said, and the way she looked at him when she said it made Steve smile into his beer.
Bucky looked down at his hands.
"You were something else back then," Steve said, quieter now.
"That part of me still comes out apparently," Bucky said, his voice dry. "Didn't do me many favors last week."
Steve raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them.
She smiled. "That's a story for another time."
----
Eventually, she stood, gathering her jacket.
"I should head back," she said. "Early morning."
Steve stood too, and there was something sincere in the way he did it, not just a polite reflex. "It was really nice to meet you. Seriously."
"You too." She smiled. "Come by the veterans' center if you have time while you're here. It's worth seeing."
Steve glanced at Bucky, surprised. "You've been going?"
"Wednesdays," Bucky said.
Something passed across Steve's expression. Brief, quiet. "Maybe I will," he said, and he meant it.
Bucky walked her downstairs, through the dark bakery, and to the door. Outside, the street was still, the night air cool enough that their breath fogged slightly.
She turned to him, finding the front of his shirt with her hands.
"I like him," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed him once, soft and unhurried. "Thank you for letting me meet him."
"Thank you for coming," he said.
She smiled, pecking his cheek, and let go. He watched her walk down the street until she turned the corner, and then stood there for a moment in the quiet before heading back upstairs.
Steve was still on the couch, turning his beer slowly in his hands. He looked up when Bucky came in.
"I like her," he said simply.
Bucky dropped back into the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."
----
The real estate agent had been polite, thorough, and deeply optimistic in a way that Steve had learned to distrust on principle.
She'd walked through every room with a clipboard and a manicured smile, noting things like original hardwood and charming period details in a tone that suggested she was doing him a favor by not calling them warped floors and drafty single-pane windows. She'd taken measurements, asked about the roof, and then stood in the backyard for a long moment looking at the detached garage like she was deciding whether it was an asset or a liability.
Steve suspected it was a liability.
They'd shaken hands at the door, and she'd promised to have numbers for him by the end of the week. He'd thanked her, watched her drive away, and then stood on the porch for a few minutes doing nothing in particular.
It was strange, being back here.
Not painful, exactly. More like a small, specific reminder of someone you used to be. The house smelled the same. That was the strange part, somehow. Everything else had changed, or aged, or settled into disrepair, but the smell was exactly the same, and his body remembered it before his brain did.
He locked up, tucked the key into his jacket, and headed toward the bakery.
----
Bucky was elbow-deep in something when Steve came through the back.
"How'd it go?" he asked, not looking up.
"She thinks we can get a decent number," he said, dropping onto the stool near the prep counter that he'd already mentally designated as his spot. "Said the lot size helps. Apparently, people want yards now."
"People always wanted yards, Stevie."
"Yeah, well, now they're willing to pay for them." Steve propped his chin on his hand, watching Bucky work. "She's coming back Thursday with comps."
Bucky nodded, shaping something with a quiet, focused grunt. "You sticking around until then?"
"Probably." Steve glanced around the kitchen, at the familiar layout, the worn surfaces. "That okay?"
"You're already here." Which, from Bucky, was basically a formal invitation.
Steve smiled and stole a piece of bread from the cooling rack.
----
He left when it became clear that Bucky didn't actually need company so much as he needed to work, and that Steve hovering was going to end with something getting thrown at his head.
The afternoon was mild. He walked without any particular destination, keeping his hands in his pockets. The town was quieter than he remembered, or maybe he'd just gotten used to a big city.
He was on his second loop of the main street when he saw her.
She was coming from the direction of the hardware store, a paper bag under one arm and what appeared to be a length of weatherstripping over her shoulder like a very boring lasso. She was frowning at something scribbled on a piece of paper.
"Hey," he called.
She looked up, and the frown shifted into a smile. "Oh, Steve! What's up?"
"Bucky kicked me out," he said, falling into step beside her.
She raised an eyebrow. "He did not."
"No," Steve admitted. "But it was heading that direction. He was deep in something, and I was just..." He shrugged. "There. Didn't want to be in the way."
"Yeah." She shifted the coil on her shoulder, something knowing in her tone. "He… works a lot."
"Since we were kids," Steve said. "Never changed." He nodded toward the weatherstripping. "What are you working on?"
"The side door. There's a gap at the bottom I only noticed because a giant beetle walked in like it owned the place." She glanced at the coil on her shoulder. "I've been putting it off, but today felt like the day."
"You know how to install it?"
"I watched two videos, and I'm committed to the bit."
Steve considered this for a moment. "I could take a look, if you want. I've got nowhere else to be."
She glanced at him. "You really don't have to do that."
"I know." He held out his hand for the paper bag. "But I'm good with my hands, and weatherstripping is practically a vacation compared to what I usually work on."
That got a real laugh out of her. She looked at him for a second, doing the mental math -weighing the offer against not wanting to impose- and then handed the bag over.
"Okay," she said. "But I'm making coffee."
"Deal."
----
Steve ended up staying longer than either of them had planned.
The weatherstripping took twenty minutes. He'd done it before, knew where to cut, how to seat it properly so it didn't bunch or peel after a week. She watched carefully, asking the right questions, making mental notes of each step like she was planning to do it herself next time, because she probably would.
The refrigerator came up almost by accident.
She'd been making coffee when he paused in the kitchen doorway, tilting his head slightly.
"Is it always like that?" he asked.
She looked up. "Like what?"
"That noise."
She listened. The low, irregular rattle she'd been successfully tuning out for weeks was suddenly very audible now that someone else had named it.
"Oh. Yeah. Since the move. I kind of just..." She made a vague gesture. "Got used to it."
Steve's expression said that was not the correct response. Without much fanfare, he unplugged the fridge, moved it out from the wall, crouched behind it, and went quiet for a moment.
"Something shifted in transit," he said eventually. "Happens more than you'd think." A small adjustment she couldn't quite see, and then he guided the fridge back into place, plugged it back in, and stood up.
The kitchen was quiet.
She stared at it. "That would've been a service call."
"Probably a cheap one," he said, matter-of-fact. Not particularly proud of it, just stating a fact.
They ended up at the kitchen table after that, coffee going warm in their mugs while they talked about nothing in particular. The house, the town, and at some point, a story about Bucky in high school that made her laugh hard enough to have to put her mug down and press her hand to her mouth.
She was still smiling when Steve glanced toward the window and did a small double-take.
"It's past noon," he said.
She checked her phone. He was right.
"We could crash Bucky's lunch," Steve suggested. "He closes to eat anyway."
She turned her mug slowly in her hands. "I don't know. He might want the break."
Steve gave her an almost amused look. "He'll want to see you more than he'll want a nap. Trust me on that one."
She wasn't entirely convinced, but she picked up her phone anyway.
Hey handsome. Steve's here and we lost track of time. Do you want to come here for lunch, or should we head to you?
----
Bucky read it twice. Then a third time.
Steve was at her house.
He wasn't sure exactly how that had happened. Steve had left the bakery a couple of hours ago, saying he was going to walk around, and apparently, walking around had led him directly to River Street. Which, fine. It was a small town. And Steve was Steve; he could strike up a conversation with a parking meter if he felt like it.
Still.
He glanced up at the ceiling, in the general direction of his apartment, and grimaced slightly. Steve had been there for two days. Two days of clothes draped over every available chair, shoes in the middle of the floor, coffee mugs abandoned on whatever surface was closest when he'd finished with them.
Bucky wasn't exactly a paragon of tidiness on a good week, and this hadn't been a particularly organized one to begin with. The kitchen table had essentially ceased to exist under the combined weight of their clutter.
He was not bringing her up there.
He picked up his phone.
I'll come there. Give me twenty minutes.
----
Steve opened the door before Bucky could knock, stepping aside with a grin that Bucky chose to ignore.
"She's in the kitchen," Steve said. "I requested mac and cheese."
Bucky looked at him.
"What?" Steve dropped back onto the couch as if it had been holding him all morning. Which, apparently, it had. "It sounded good."
Bucky hung his jacket by the door and went to the kitchen.
----
She was at the stove, her back to him, stirring the pot. She heard him come in and turned before he could say anything, crossing the space between them, finding the front of his shirt with her hands.
She'd seen him two days ago. It shouldn't feel like longer than that.
It did anyway.
He was wearing the plaid shirt. The one from the bar, the one she'd thought about more than once since that night. And his hair was down, falling loose around his face, and she had approximately zero interest in not touching it.
She kissed him. He found her waist with his hand, and she felt him respond, felt the moment he leaned into it. She slid her hands up to his shoulders and then into his hair, and he made a low sound against her mouth that she felt more than heard.
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he managed.
She kissed him again, slower this time, and the kitchen was quiet enough that the sound of it was very audible.
Which was, apparently, a problem.
"Hey." His voice came out lower than he intended. He pulled back just slightly. "Steve's-"
"In the living room," she said. "I know."
"Yeah." He glanced toward the doorway. "So he can probably-"
"Bucky."
"-hear us."
She looked at him, something fond catching in her chest at how genuinely uncomfortable he was about it. Then she patted his chest once and turned back to the stove.
----
They ate at the dining table, the three of them, bowls of mac and cheese that were better than they had any right to be.
The conversation moved easily -the real estate agent, the house, whether the garage was going to tank the asking price or not- and at some point, during a lull, Bucky set down his fork.
"So how'd you end up here?" he asked, his tone casual. Directed at Steve, but the question was for both of them.
Steve glanced up. "Ran into her on Main Street. She was carrying about half the hardware store."
"The weatherstripping," she said, nodding. "I finally dealt with the side door."
"I gave her a hand," Steve said, shrugging. "Didn't have anything else going on."
"He also fixed the refrigerator," she added, glancing at Bucky. "You know that noise it made sometimes? That rattle?" She tilted her head slightly. "I'd kind of stopped hearing it. You just... adapt, I guess. But Steve caught it right away."
"Something shifted in transit," Steve said. "Two-minute fix."
"The kitchen's been completely silent since," she said. "It's genuinely a little unsettling how quiet it is now."
Bucky nodded. Picked up his fork again.
"And then we just kind of... kept talking," Steve continued, reaching for his glass. "Lost track of time. Looked up and it was past noon, so we thought of you."
Thought of you.
Bucky turned that over in his head while the conversation moved on around him, Steve saying something about the garage, her responding, both of them easy and comfortable in a way that made the dining room feel smaller somehow.
They'd spent the whole morning together. Talking. Laughing, probably. He'd heard enough of that story about him in high school last night to know she found Steve funny. And at some point, somewhere between the weatherstripping and the refrigerator and the coffee going cold in their mugs, the morning had slipped away entirely.
And then they'd looked up.
And remembered him.
He knew it wasn't like that. He did.
Steve wasn't like that, and she wasn't like that, and there was nothing in either of their faces right now that should make his chest feel the way it did.
But the thought was already there, quiet and insistent, in that part of his brain that he hadn't managed to fully silence yet.
He was an afterthought.
He pushed it down. Picked up his water glass. Said something noncommittal when Steve looked at him, and the moment passed.
But it didn't quite disappear.
----
He wasn't saying much.
He didn't always, and neither of them seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn't push.
The conversation had drifted somewhere between the mac and cheese and a walk Steve and she had passed the old post office, and an elderly man whose outfit had inspired enough commentary that Steve inhaled wrong and had to spend a good thirty seconds coughing water back up while she looked extremely pleased with herself.
Bucky watched.
That was mostly what he'd been doing since he sat down. Watching the two of them talk, the way the conversation moved between them with the momentum of a ball rolling downhill. She'd say something, Steve would pick it up, she'd take it somewhere unexpected, Steve would laugh. Back and forth, effortless, the kind of dynamic that didn't require any navigation because neither of them was working at it.
It just was.
He'd had to work at it. With her. Not in a bad way, not in a way that felt forced, but it had taken time at first. He'd had to learn how to be in a room with her without retreating into himself, how to say something real when everything in him defaulted to flat answers and subject changes.
It had taken weeks.
Steve had managed it in a morning.
He knew that wasn't fair. Steve was Steve, had always been easy with people, always known what to say and when to say it, always been the one who made a room feel warmer just by walking into it. That wasn't new. That had nothing to do with her specifically.
But knowing that didn't change what it felt like to sit here watching them, the two of them bright and easy on the other side of the table while he observed through a glass.
What does she see in me?
The thought arrived quietly, without warning, the way the worst ones always did.
He turned his water glass in his hands.
She'd been the one to ask him to go out. He hadn't forgotten that. Before she'd had any real frame of reference for what the social landscape of this town looked like, or what the people in it were actually like.
She'd turned to him and said I don't want to go alone and he'd said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
But what if she hadn't asked?
What if she'd gone on her own one random Friday night, like Dotty had suggested that first day in the bakery, and walked into a pub and found a room full of people who were actually easy to talk to? People who didn't need weeks to learn how to be in the same space without retreating into themselves. People who could make her laugh without it feeling like a minor miracle every time.
Would she still have found him interesting if she'd had other options from the start?
Would she have still thought he was worth the effort?
He didn't know.
That was the part that stuck.
He genuinely didn't know.
----
Steve was in the middle of a story about Bucky's junior year -something involving a rival team's mascot, a parking lot, and a sequence of events that Bucky had apparently never fully explained to anyone- and she was laughing, genuinely laughing, when she noticed.
Bucky was smiling. Barely, but it was there. He wasn't miserable.
But he also wasn't... in it.
She glanced at him, then back at Steve, then at him again. He was turning his water glass in his hands, dropping his eyes to the table more than on either of them.
She couldn't tell if it meant something.
Maybe this was just Bucky. Maybe the contrast with Steve made it more visible than it actually was, Steve, who filled a room without trying, who picked up every thread and ran with it.
Bucky had never been that. She knew that much.
But there was something in his posture, in the way he reached for his glass and didn't drink from it.
She let it go. Filed it away.
And then Steve said something about Bucky and the seniors in town, and Bucky's expression shifted in a way that was brief and specific and gone before she could name it.
She picked up her fork.
She'd ask later, when they were alone.
But under the table, she pressed her knee briefly against his.
And he didn't move away.
----
It was she who brought it up, almost in passing, while Steve was clearing the plates.
"Steve mentioned a lookout point," she said, turning toward Bucky. "Said you two used to go there when you were kids. We thought we could all go this afternoon, after you close."
Bucky opened his mouth.
And closed it.
The dessert table. Edward's eightieth birthday was Saturday, and he'd committed to the whole thing -the scones, the petits fours, two tarts that weren't anywhere near finished-. He'd managed to close for lunch, but the afternoon was a different story. He still had hours of work ahead of him.
"I can't," he said.
She looked at him. Steve did too, from the sink where he was rinsing bowls.
"I've got an order to finish," Bucky said. "For Saturday. I promised."
"Oh." She nodded, easy, no pressure. "That's okay. Another time."
"You two should go," he heard himself say.
He wasn't sure why he did it.
She'd given him the out. Another time. Easy, no pressure, no guilt. He could've taken it. Another day meant next week at the earliest, when Steve was already back, and the order was finished, and there was no reason he couldn't close an hour early and drive up there himself.
The ridge wasn't going anywhere. It had been there since before he was born, and it would be there long after. There was nothing urgent about today specifically.
So why had he said it?
He turned his water glass in his hands.
He didn't have a good answer for that. Or maybe he did, and it wasn't one he wanted to look at too closely.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yeah." He said it before he'd fully thought it through. "No point in you missing it because of me. Steve knows the place, it's a good day for it."
Steve looked at him for a second, something measuring in his expression, but didn't say anything.
"Okay," she said finally. "But... it's ok to go another day-"
"I'm sure."
They lingered a little longer than he'd expected -Steve finishing his coffee, her helping clear the last of the dishes despite his protests- and somewhere in there Steve mentioned the bike, and her face lit up in a way that made Bucky's chest do something complicated.
"I've never been on a motorcycle," she said.
"Never?" Steve looked genuinely scandalized.
"Never."
"Well." Steve spread his hands like the answer was obvious. "Today's the day."
She laughed, and that was that.
----
Steve's motorcycle sat at the curb, and she slowed when she saw it up close, tilting her head slightly.
"Okay," she said. "That's bigger than I expected."
"She's not that big," Steve said, but couldn't hide the false modesty while talking about his baby.
"Steve, it has luggage." She gestured at the side cases. "It has more storage than my first apartment."
He laughed. "You get used to it."
Bucky watched her reach out and touch one of the cases almost tentatively, as if she were verifying it was real. Then she came back around to where he was standing, and her hand found his chest.
"I wish you could come," she said.
"Me too," he said. And he meant it.
She looked at him for a second, examining his face.
"Are you okay?"
"Just tired." He managed a small smile. "Missed my nap."
She laughed softly at that, and some of the pressure in his chest eased.
"We won't be long," she said.
He kissed her once, unhurriedly, cupping her cheek briefly with his hand before he let her go.
"Take your time," he said.
She smiled and stepped back, turning toward Steve, who was already pulling a spare helmet from one of those same cases -because of course he traveled with a spare, because he had always been annoyingly prepared for everything- and showing her how to fasten it properly.
She climbed on behind him, a little uncertain at first, adjusting her weight, and Steve said something Bucky couldn't hear that made her laugh. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on.
The engine turned over with a low rumble that rolled down the quiet street.
And then they were gone.
Bucky stood in the doorway of the bakery for a moment after the sound faded, resting his hand on the doorframe.
Then he went inside, turned on the oven, pulled the dough from the fridge, and got to work.
It wasn't the first time he'd stayed behind because of the business. When he was a teen, his friends would make weekend plans, and he'd have to say no. Had to open, had to close, his grandfather needed help with inventory, with orders, with whatever came up.
He'd accepted it then because there was no other option. His grandfather couldn't manage alone, and Bucky was what there was.
But he was his own boss now.
He set his own hours. He decided what orders to take and which ones to pass on.
He'd tied himself down. Same as always.
The difference was that back then, he hadn't had a choice. Now he did, and he'd still ended up in the same place, flour on his hands, alone in the kitchen, listening to the oven tick as it came up to temperature.
He wasn't sure what that said about him.
He pressed into the dough harder than necessary and tried not to think about it.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 6.2k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
He was about to leave. For hours. And he hadn't eaten anything.
She looked at him -already reaching for his coat, clearly preparing to head out- and felt a surge of practical concern override everything else.
"Wait," she said, moving quickly toward the stove. "You haven't eaten. You can't leave on an empty stomach, especially after being sick."
She grabbed the remaining biscuits from last night and placed them on the flat iron griddle, setting it over the stove to warm.
"Just give me a few minutes. You need something in you before you go."
She'd expected him to argue, to say he was fine, that he didn't have time.
But he didn't.
"Alright," he said simply, shrugging his coat back off. "I could eat."
The easy agreement surprised her, and she glanced at him as she tended the warming biscuits.
He'd moved to the table and was watching her with an expression that might have been amusement.
"I'm sorry there's nothing more," she said, guilt creeping into her voice. "I should have woken up earlier, made something proper for breakfast, but-"
"Hey." He cut her off gently. "There's nothin’ to work with. Not your fault. Can't make a meal out of air and good intentions."
She bit her lip, turning the biscuits carefully.
"When I get back," he continued, "I'll bring plenty. Enough that you can actually cook somethin’ decent. And I'm damn sure you're going to make me eat until I can't move."
Despite everything, she felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Almost a smile.
"We'll see," she murmured.
Behind her, she heard the scrape of a chair, then the sound of him rummaging through a drawer in the table. When she glanced back, he'd pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil. Well-worn, the tip was blunt but serviceable.
"Here," he said, pushing them across the table. "Forgot to ask you to make me a list. Whatever you need for cookin’. Ingredients, supplies, whatever."
She stared at the paper, then at him.
"A list?"
"Yeah. So I don't forget anything important." He leaned back in his chair. "I know the basics: eggs, flour, salt. But beyond that, I'm liable to come back with a bunch of things you don't actually need and miss half the things you do."
She picked up the pencil slowly, her mind already going through what she'd need. Then she hesitated, looking -she hoped subtly- toward the pathetic excuse for a pantry.
She needed everything. Literally everything.
Flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, lard, butter, eggs, milk if they had it, coffee, tea, dried beans, rice, oats, bacon, salt pork, whatever vegetables were available, molasses, vinegar, spices-
But she had no idea what he could afford.
She'd seen the cabin. Seen the sparse furnishings, the lack of anything beyond the absolute necessities. He worked hard -that much was obvious- but logging was brutal work, and she had no idea what it paid.
What if she asked for too much? What if she wrote down a list that would cost more than he made in a week, or a month?
She looked at the blank paper, the pencil dancing in her hand.
"I don't..." She paused, trying to find a way to ask without sounding presumptuous. "I don't know how much is... too much."
He frowned slightly, not understanding. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." She gestured vaguely at the paper. "I don't know what you can afford. What your income is. I don't want to ask for things that would be... difficult."
"Oh." He sat forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "Don't worry about that. Just write down what you need."
"But-"
"I make decent money," he said, cutting off her protest. "Loggin’ pays well enough, especially if you're willing to do the hard work most men shy away from. And I've been livin’ like..." He gestured around the sparse cabin. "Like this. For two years. Spendin’ almost nothin’ except what I had to."
He paused, then added, "The pension from my service out west… ain't touched that either. Just been letting it pile up."
He met her eyes. "Point is, I've got savings. Real savings. So don't worry about what things cost. Write down what you need to run this house properly. To cook real meals. Don't hold back because you think I can't afford it. I can."
She swallowed, still uncertain.
"And even if I couldn't," he added, his voice softer now, "you're my wife. Feedin’ you, clothin’ you, makin’ sure you have what you need, that's my responsibility now. My job. So write the damn list and let me do my job."
She nodded and bent over the paper, pencil moving as she began to write.
----
She stared down at the paper, the pencil suddenly heavy in her hand, and felt her throat go tight.
Her whole life, she'd tried to be invisible. To not be a burden. To ask for nothing, want nothing, take up as little space as possible.
Her parents had loved her, she knew that. But she'd also heard the whispered conversations late at night, when they thought she was asleep. The worry about her future. The careful saving to pay for her teaching certificate because what man would want a girl with those eyes? The resignation in her mother's voice when she'd said, At least if she can support herself, she won't be dependent on anyone's charity.
And after they'd died, Jeremiah had made sure she felt it every single day.
The weight of being a burden.
She'd kept the house spotless. Cooked every meal. Mended every piece of clothing until the fabric was more patched than original cloth. She'd worn the same three dresses for years, carefully maintaining them, never asking for new ones.
The only time he'd bought her something -that traveling dress she'd worn on the journey here- had been for this. For the lie. Probably so she wouldn't look too shabby when she arrived, so no one would suspect anything was wrong. So she'd appear respectable enough that whoever found her would... what? Take pity on her?
She'd never been allowed to want things. Never been allowed to ask.
And now Bucky was sitting here, telling her to write down whatever she needed. Telling her it was his job to provide for her. That she shouldn't hold back.
It was overwhelming.
She blinked hard, trying to push down the emotion rising in her chest, and forced herself to put pencil to paper.
Flour. She wrote it carefully, her hand shaking slightly.
Sugar.
Salt.
Each word felt like asking for too much. Like she was being greedy, demanding, ungrateful.
Bacon. Dried beans. Rice. Oats. Potatoes. Onions.
A tear hit the page, wrinkling the paper slightly.
She blinked hard, trying to push it back, but another one followed. Then another.
Damn it.
She kept her head down, hoping he wouldn't notice, and tried to keep writing through the blur.
Eggs.
But her throat was closing up, and her vision was swimming; she couldn't stop the tears now, even if she wanted to.
She sniffed quietly, trying to be subtle about wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
She heard the creak of his chair as he shifted, leaning closer across the table.
"Hey." His voice was concerned. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head quickly, not trusting herself to speak.
"Look at me."
She didn't want to. Didn't want him to see her crying over something as stupid as a grocery list.
But she looked anyway, still clutching the pencil, tears streaming down her face despite her best efforts to stop them.
"Did I-" He stopped, seeming to search for words. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you. If you can't think of what to put down, that's fine. We can figure it out as we go, you don't have to-"
"No." The word came out choked. "No, that's not- I know what to put. I know exactly what we need."
He frowned, clearly confused. "Then what...?"
"I'm just-" She had to stop, had to swallow past the lump in her throat. "I'm not used to asking for things, and you're telling me to just... to just write down whatever I need, and-"
Her voice broke.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying, it's stupid, I just-"
----
It wasn't stupid.
It was heartbreaking.
He sat there watching her trying to compose herself, tears still streaming down her face even as she apologized for them, and felt anger rise hot in his chest.
To her bastard of a brother.
The one who'd sent her alone across the country to the middle of goddamn nowhere with a fake letter and false promises. The one who'd clearly spent God knows how long making her feel like asking for anything, even necessities to cook his own fucking food, was burdensome, something to apologize for.
What kind of man did that to his own sister?
She was crying over a fucking grocery list. Over the simple act of being told she could have things she needed.
That wasn't normal. That wasn't how someone should react to their husband telling them to buy food.
The chair creaked again, and suddenly he was there beside her, crouching next to where she sat, making himself smaller, less imposing.
"Listen to me," he said, keeping his voice steady despite the anger still swirling under his skin. "I don't know what your brother did to make you think askin’ for things is wrong. But whatever it was, whatever he said to you, however he made you feel… that's done now. You understand?"
She nodded, though fresh tears were still tracking down her cheeks.
"You're my wife," he continued. "That means what's mine is yours. The money I make, the food I buy, the roof over our heads, it's not mine anymore. It's ours. And you askin’ me to buy you flour and sugar and whatever the hell else you need to cook with? That's not a burden. That's just... how this is supposed to work in a normal household."
Her breath hitched, and he could see her trying to process what he was saying.
"So I need you to finish that list," he said. "And to stop apologizin’ for it. Can you do that?"
She nodded again, more firmly this time.
"Good." He pushed himself back to standing, his knees protesting slightly. "And if you think of anything else you need after I'm gone -anything at all- you tell me when I get back. Alright?"
"Alright," she whispered.
He watched her for another moment, making sure she'd actually heard him and wasn't just agreeing to make him stop talking, then nodded.
"Finish the list while I check on the biscuits," he said. "Before they burn."
It was a practical redirection, something to give her a task and a moment to collect herself.
She wiped at her eyes and turned back to the table, picking up the pencil again with hands that were steadier now.
And he moved to the stove, checking on the warming biscuits while keeping half his attention on her.
He could hear the scratch of the pencil against paper. Could see, from the corner of his eye, the way her shoulders gradually relaxed as she wrote.
Good.
That was good.
But Jesus Christ, what had that bastard done to her?
He moved to the stove, checking on the biscuits -perfectly warmed, not burned-and plated them quickly. Set them on the table between them.
She'd finished the list by then, the paper covered in her neat, careful handwriting. She slid it across to him without a word, her eyes still red-rimmed but dry now.
He picked it up, scanning through it. Flour, sugar, salt, eggs, butter, lard, baking soda, coffee, tea, bacon, beans, rice, oats, potatoes, onions, molasses, vinegar, cinnamon, nutmeg, dried apples, cornmeal, honey, milk, soap, candles.
All reasonable. All necessary. Nothing extravagant or wasteful.
"Good," he said, folding the paper and tucking it into his shirt pocket. "I'll get what I can carry in the saddlebags today. The rest I'll bring back with the wagon tomorrow. Or the day after, dependin’."
She nodded, reaching for one of the biscuits but not eating it yet. Just holding it between her hands like she needed something to do with them.
He took a bite of his own, chewing thoughtfully. They were still good, even reheated. Simple, but well-made.
"What else do you need?" he asked after a moment.
She looked up, confused. "What do you mean? That's everything.
"Not just for cookin’." He gestured vaguely around the cabin. "For the house. When I bring the wagon back, I'll have room for more than just food."
She blinked at him, clearly not having considered this.
"Another lamp, at least," he said, thinking out loud. "Can't have just the one when it gets dark early. A decent cuttin’ board. Somethin’ proper, not just usin’ the table. Maybe some-"
"Bucky, I-" She stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "I don't want you to spend-"
"We'll talk about it more later," he interrupted gently. "I ain’t askin’ you to decide everythin’ right now. Just think about the basics. The things we actually need to function. The other stuff -curtains, decorations, whatever you want to put on this place feel more like a home- that you can pick out yourself when you come to town with me."
He saw her tense slightly at the mention of going to town, but he didn't push it.
"I want you to choose that stuff anyway," he continued. "The fabric for curtains, what kind of dishes you like, if we need more, things like that. No point in me guessin’ when you're the one who's going to be lookin’ at it every day."
She was quiet for a moment, turning the biscuit over in her hands.
"A cutting board would be good," she said finally, her voice soft. "And another lamp. Maybe... maybe a few more towels? If that's not too much."
"It's not too much," he said firmly. "What else?"
She bit her lip, thinking. "A better knife for the kitchen? The one you have is dull. And maybe... a bigger pot? For making stews or soups?"
"Done." He took another bite of biscuit. "Keep thinkin’. We've got time."
She nodded slowly, and he could see her mind working, cautiously allowing herself to consider what they might actually need.
It was a start.
He finished his biscuit and stood, brushing the crumbs from his hands. "I should get goin’. Sun's up, and I want to be back before dark."
She stood too, following him as he moved to the door and reached for his coat.
"Be careful," she said quietly.
He paused, one arm already in the sleeve, and looked at her. There was worry in her eyes -genuine concern- and something about that made his chest feel tight.
"I will," he promised. "And you remember what I said. Don't open the door."
"I won't."
He finished putting on his coat, then hesitated for just a moment before reaching out and squeezing her shoulder gently.
"I'll be back soon," he said.
And then he was out the door, heading toward the small stable behind the cabin where his horse was waiting.
----
The door closed behind him, and she stood there in the sudden silence of the cabin, listening to his footsteps fade as he walked toward the stable.
Then even those sounds disappeared, and she was alone.
She moved back to the table slowly, sinking into one of the chairs, and let herself think about what had just happened.
He'd told her about his savings. About how much he made, how he'd been living spartanly for two years, saving almost everything. He'd given her that information freely, without hesitation, like it was something she had a right to know.
Most men wouldn't do that. Most men would keep their finances private, dole out household money as they saw fit, and make their wives ask for every penny.
But Bucky had just... told her. Had said what's mine is yours and apparently meant it.
She thought back to yesterday morning -God, was it only yesterday?- when they'd been alone in that post and he'd offered to marry her. When he'd crouched down in front of her and made those promises.
I promise you, I'll treat you well. I'll be a good husband. I'll give you everything I can.
He hadn't lied.
He'd had every right to consummate their marriage last night. The law would have been on his side, the church would have been on his side, and society would have been on his side. She was his wife.
He'd been gentle. Patient. Had promised her time to adjust.
And now this. Telling her to buy whatever she needed. Asking her to think about how to make the house a home. Wanting her to choose the curtains, the dishes, the things that would make this place feel like it was hers too, and not just his.
Sheriff Collins had been right.
You could do worse.
She could have done so much worse.
She could have ended up with a man who saw her ruined reputation as permission to treat her however he wanted. A man who would have taken what he wanted last night and every night after, without caring if she was ready. A man who would have kept her isolated and dependent, given her scraps, and expected gratitude.
Instead, she'd gotten Bucky.
A man who'd been sick and still made sure she had clean water to bathe in. Who'd unlaced her corset with careful hands and then turned away to give her privacy. Who'd crouched down to make himself less intimidating when she'd broken down over a grocery list.
Who'd told her his savings and his income like she had a right to know. Like they were partners in this.
She looked around the cabin, sparse but sturdy. Clean now, after her work yesterday. And with the things he was going to bring back, and later, with curtains on the windows and proper appliances, it could be...
It could be a home.
Their home.
The thought didn't terrify her quite as much as it had yesterday.
She stood, moving to clear away the breakfast dishes, and tried to ignore the small flutter of something in her chest that might have been hope.
----
He felt the eyes on him the moment he guided his horse down Main Street.
It wasn't obvious -people out here had enough sense not to outright stare- but he could feel it anyway. The way conversations paused as he passed. The way heads turned, just slightly, tracking his progress down the dusty road.
News traveled fast in White Creek. Faster than wildfire, faster than scandal.
And he'd given them both.
He kept his expression neutral, his posture relaxed despite the tension he felt. Let them look. Let them wonder. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
He pulled up in front of the livery stable where he'd borrowed the sheriff’s wagon and dismounted, tying his horse to the post. The stable hand -a kid named Tommy, couldn't be more than sixteen- emerged from the barn with eyes wide as saucers.
"Mr. Barnes," the boy said, trying and failing to sound casual. "Heard you got married."
"That's right." Bucky unhitched the wagon, checking the wheels and traces out of habit before turning it over. "Tell the sheriff the wagon's back. No damage."
"Yes, sir." Tommy hesitated, clearly wanting to ask more but not quite daring.
Bucky saved him the trouble. "She's settling in fine. Thanks for askin’."
The boy flushed and nodded quickly, taking the wagon's lead and guiding it toward the barn.
Bucky untied his horse and walked it down the street toward the general store, very aware of the gazes following him. Mrs. Peterson sweeping her porch. Old man Crawford sitting outside the barber shop. A couple of loggers he recognized from the crews, heading toward the saloon even though it was barely past noon.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered the general store, and Samuel Wright looked up from behind the counter.
"Bucky." The shopkeeper's face broke into a grin that was a little too wide, a little too knowing. "Congratulations are in order, I hear."
"Appreciate it." Bucky pulled the list from his pocket, unfolding it on the counter. "Need to pick up some supplies."
Samuel's eyes dropped to the paper, scanning the neat handwriting, and his eyebrows rose slightly.
"That's quite a list," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Your, ah... your wife settling in alright?"
"She is." Bucky kept his voice even. "Just need to stock the pantry properly. Been living like a bachelor too long."
"I'll say." Samuel chuckled, moving to gather items from the shelves. "Let's see... flour, sugar, salt, eggs..."
He worked methodically, pulling down tins and sacks and setting them on the counter. As he did, he kept up a steady stream of conversation that was clearly fishing for information.
"Must have been quite a surprise," Samuel said, reaching for a tin of baking soda. "Her arriving like that. Heard she came in on Saturday's stage?"
"That's right."
"And the wedding was Sunday morning." Samuel set down the baking soda and reached for the coffee. "Quick turnaround."
Bucky didn't rise to the bait. "When you know, you know."
Samuel laughed at that, shaking his head. "Suppose so. Though I'll admit, the whole town's curious. New woman shows up, marries one of our most eligible bachelors within a day..." He trailed off meaningfully.
"She's a good woman," Bucky said flatly. "Respectable. Came out here for a teachin’ position that turned out to be a mistake, someone sent her a false letter. I wasn't about to let her end up stranded."
It was close enough to the truth. And it had the benefit of making him sound chivalrous rather than reckless.
Samuel nodded slowly, processing this. "A teacher, you say? Well, that's... that's good. Educated woman. That'll serve you well."
"I think so."
The shopkeeper continued gathering items, and Bucky could see him doing calculations in his head, not just of the cost, but of the gossip value.
"She from back East?" Samuel asked, setting down a sack of cornmeal.
"Yes."
"Family there?"
"A brother."
"Mm." Samuel reached for the molasses. "Must be hard for her, being so far from home. And the circumstances being... unusual."
Bucky's jaw clenched slightly. "The circumstances are that we're married. Everything else is nobody's business."
Samuel held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Of course, of course. Didn't mean any offense. Just making conversation."
But Bucky could see the gleam in his eye. Every word of this conversation would be repeated to the next customer, and the next, and the next.
"This everything you can carry today?" Samuel asked, gesturing at the growing pile of supplies.
Bucky eyed the sacks and tins. "Most of it. I'll come back with the wagon tomorrow or the day after for the rest. And I'll need a few other things… a cuttin’ board, another lamp, some towels. Good quality."
"I can set those aside for you." Samuel pulled out his ledger and started tallying numbers. "Let's see... with everything here, that'll be..."
He quoted a price that was fair, maybe even slightly generous. Bucky pulled out his money without comment and counted it out.
As Samuel wrapped the purchases and helped load them into the saddlebags, he heard steps approaching promptly. Bucky glanced over and saw Martha Richards entering, the mayor's wife, her eyes lighting up when she spotted him.
"Bucky Barnes!" She swept toward him with the kind of enthusiasm that meant she wanted information. "I heard the most extraordinary news. Is it true you've gotten married?"
"It is, Mrs. Richards."
"How wonderful!" Her smile was bright and entirely artificial. "You must tell me all about her. Where did you meet? What's her name? When can we expect to see her in town?"
Bucky finished securing the saddlebags before turning to face her fully.
"Her name is Mrs. Barnes," he said evenly. "We met recently. And she'll come to town when she's ready."
Martha's smile tightened slightly at the deflection. "Of course, of course. It's just that we're all so curious. A new resident of White Creek is always cause for excitement. Especially one who's married one of our most prominent citizens."
Prominent was a stretch, but he didn't correct her.
"I'm sure you'll meet her soon enough," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back."
"Oh, but surely you can spare a few more minutes-"
"No, ma'am. I can't." He tipped his hat politely. "Good day."
He left before she could press further, leading his horse back down the street with the weighted saddlebags.
More eyes followed him. More whispers started up in his wake.
Let them talk.
By tomorrow, the whole town would have a dozen different versions of his wife's story. Some closer to the truth than others. Some wildly speculative.
But as long as they kept their speculations to themselves and treated her with respect when she finally did come to town, he didn't give a damn what they said.
He mounted his horse and turned toward home, toward the cabin where she was waiting.
----
She stood in the quiet cabin after he left, letting herself feel the weight of everything for just a moment longer.
Then she straightened her shoulders.
Enough.
She'd spent enough time being overwhelmed, being frightened, being helpless. Bucky was doing his part. More than his part, really. The least she could do was meet him halfway.
Make this place feel like a home instead of just a shelter.
She started with the bed.
He'd told her where the clean sheets were, and she pulled them out now. They were rough but clean, smelling faintly of lye soap. Better than the ones currently on the bed.
She stripped the mattress methodically, bundling the used linens to wash later, and made it up fresh. Tucked the corners. Smoothed out the wrinkles.
Then she paused, looking at her trunk in the corner.
The quilt was folded carefully at the bottom and wrapped in muslin to protect it. Her mother had made it years ago for the marital bed, before she'd gotten sick. Careful stitches, even squares of fabric in blues and creams and soft browns. It was one of the few things she'd insisted on bringing with her, even though it took up precious space in her trunk.
She lifted it out now, shaking it gently to release the folds, and spread it across the bed. It fit perfectly, and the change was immediate.
The cabin was still sparse, still rough, but now there was color. Softness. Something that spoke of care and home instead of just function.
It was just a quilt. Just fabric and thread.
But it was hers. A piece of her mother, her family, her old life. And seeing it here, in this new place, made it feel a little less like exile and a little more like... possibility.
She turned her attention to the windows next.
They were filthy. Probably hadn't been cleaned since the cabin was built, from the look of them. She found a rag, dampened it in the water basin with a little soap, and set to work scrubbing away months of accumulated grime.
The difference was remarkable. Light poured in, brighter and clearer, making the whole cabin feel less dim and oppressive.
She was halfway through the second window when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass and stopped.
She was still in her nightgown.
It was past mid-morning, the sun well up in the sky, and she was standing here in her nightclothes like some kind of invalid.
She looked at her trunk. The traveling dress was there, neatly folded, but the thought of putting it back on made her skin crawl. It was uncomfortable, restrictive, and after yesterday's journey and last night's work, it desperately needed washing.
She needed something practical. Something she could actually work in.
She knelt by her trunk and pulled out one of her everyday dresses, the best she owned. It was simple, dark blue cotton that didn't show dirt easily, with a practical high neck and long sleeves. Worn but well-maintained, carefully mended wherever the fabric had started to give way.
Beneath it was her everyday corset. Not the torturous thing she'd worn with the traveling dress, that nightmare of tight lacing and rigid boning that had made breathing an exercise in endurance. This was her old one, underbust, with simple hook-and-eye closures down the front that she could manage herself. Practical. Comfortable, relatively speaking.
She dressed quickly, fastening the hooks, and the dress went on over it.
She paused, looking down at herself. Her waist, without the aggressive construction of the traveling corset, was... natural. Well, not precisely natural, but not what fashion demanded.
She wondered, briefly, what Bucky would think when he saw her like this. Would he be disappointed? He'd only seen her in the traveling dress and the loose nightgown. He didn't know that the waist he'd glimpsed yesterday wasn't really hers, it was an illusion of whalebone and pain.
She tried to push the thought aside.
He'd married her for practical reasons. And, if he had opinions about the shape created by torture devices masquerading as undergarments versus a more benign one, well... she couldn't do much about it anyway.
Beneath the dress, folded carefully, was her apron.
She'd packed it, thinking she might need it at the schoolhouse. She'd assumed she'd be responsible for keeping the classroom tidy, and clean, and cooking for herself in whatever accommodations they provided.
She'd never imagined she'd be using it in her own married household.
She reached back into the trunk for the tea towels she'd made, two of them, sewn from flour sacks she'd carefully washed and hemmed. The fabric still bore the faint ghost of the miller's stamp, but they were clean and serviceable.
She'd made them thinking they'd be useful for teaching, for cleaning slates or wiping down desks.
Life was strange.
She hung them on a nail near the counter and stepped back, looking around the cabin again.
Clean windows. Fresh sheets. Her mother's quilt adding color to the big bed. Her apron and towels in place, like she belonged here.
It still didn't feel entirely like home.
But it was starting to feel like it could be.
----
He saw her before she saw him.
She was crouched down by the stone foundation, her back to the path, pulling weeds from around the base of the cabin. There was a small pile of them beside her, and he could see she'd already cleared a decent section.
Something in his chest clenched at the sight.
She didn't have to do that. He'd been planning to clear them himself when he got around to it. But there she was anyway, trying to make the place look better.
Trying to make it a home.
His horse's hooves must have alerted her because she looked up, one hand shading her eyes against the sun. When she saw him, she stood slowly, brushing dirt from her hands, and walked toward him with careful steps.
He took in the change immediately.
She was wearing a different dress. Not the traveling one from yesterday, but something simpler. Darker. The kind of dress meant for work, not appearance.
And it fit her differently.
This dress showed her actual shape. Still modest, still proper, but... real. Her waist was visible but not pinched into impossibility; the fabric draped more naturally over her figure.
He liked it better.
Liked it enough that his mind went to places it shouldn't in plain daylight. Couldn't help but wonder what was underneath. Whether her waist would feel soft under his hands, whether the flesh of her hips would give under his grip, warm and yielding.
Christ.
Two years. Two years of nothing but his own hand and the occasional visit to the saloon girls who made him feel empty rather than satisfied. Two years of wanting something real and warm.
And now she was here. His wife. His.
But not yet. Not like that.
He forced his eyes back to her face and tried to think about something else. Anything else.
The dress was old, he could see that now. The blue had faded slightly, lighter in some places where the sun had hit it more. There were repairs. Neat, careful stitches where the fabric had worn through at the elbows and been mended. The kind of mending that spoke of someone who knew how to make things last because they had to.
She stopped a few feet from him, her hands twisting together in front of her apron.
"You're back," she said, and there was something in her voice. Relief, maybe, or just genuine gladness to see him.
"I am." He dismounted, keeping the reins in one hand and trying to keep his thoughts in check. "Everythin’ alright here? No problems?"
"No problems," she confirmed. "It's been quiet."
"Good." He walked past her to the door, hefting the saddlebags off the horse and setting them just inside the threshold. "I've got most of what you asked for. Rest will come with the wagon tomorrow or the day after."
He turned back to find her watching him, her expression uncertain.
"I need to take care of the horse," he said, gesturing toward the stable behind the cabin. "Get him unsaddled and fed. You go ahead and start bringin’ things inside. No need to wait for me."
She nodded, already moving toward the saddlebags.
He led his horse toward the stable, glancing back once to see her bent over the supplies.
The view didn't help his current state of mind.
He tore his gaze away and focused on the horse, on the familiar routine of unsaddling and brushing down, letting the physical work distract him.
Patience. He'd promised her patience, and he meant it.
By the time he finished and headed back to the cabin, she'd already brought everything inside.
----
She'd laid everything out on the counter, organizing it as best she could. There was more than she'd expected him to manage in the saddlebags, honestly.
After a while, she heard his boots on the porch and turned as he came through the door.
He stopped just inside, his eyes moving around the cabin, taking it in.
She saw the moment he noticed.
The clean windows, the tea towels in the kitchen. The quilt, adding color where before there had been only rough wool blankets.
His gaze lingered on it for a long moment before moving to her.
"You've been busy," he said quietly.
She felt heat creep up her neck. "I wanted to... I thought it might be nice to have things a bit more... settled."
He moved further into the cabin, his eyes still taking in the changes. "Makes the place feel different."
"Different good or different bad?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
He looked at her, and the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. "Different good. Definitely good."
She exhaled, relieved, and she turned back to the supplies on the table to hide it.
"I wasn't sure where you'd want things," she said, gesturing at the food. "I can organize the pantry, but-"
"However you want it." He came to stand beside her, looking down at the supplies. "It's your kitchen. Organize it however makes sense to you."
Your kitchen.
"Alright," she said softly.
He reached past her for the coffee, and she was suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that she could smell him: leather, pine, and fresh air, mixed with something that was just him.
"I'm goin’ to clean up," he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the supplies on the table. "Brought some bread. You probably already saw it. And some jam, which I know you didn't ask for, but figured it wouldn't hurt to have. There's some cheese too, and some of that dried sausage from the butcher. Things we can eat now without you havin’ to cook anythin’ now."
He could see her taking that in, her eyes moving to the items he'd mentioned.
"Why don't you set the table while I wash up?" he suggested. "We can eat, and then… talk."
She looked up warily. "About what?"
"About us." He gestured vaguely between them. "We're married, but we don't really know each other. Not beyond the bare basics. And I figure..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I figure we should at least know what two people would know if they'd been courtin’ properly. Through letters or however else people do it when they can't meet face to face."
She nodded slowly, her throat working as she swallowed.
"Alright," she whispered.
He could see uncertainty mixed with curiosity in her expression. The same need he felt to understand who they were to each other now.
She turned to the table, and he turned to the basin.
And in the quiet of the cabin, with the sun setting outside and their first real conversation waiting for them, Bucky realized this was the beginning.
Not of their marriage, that had happened in the church with a disapproving reverend.
But of something real between them.
Whatever that might become.
Next Chapter
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HEY QUEEN so i had an angst idea. mob!bucky with a sweetheart!reader, and arranged marriage. bucky is a busy man, constantly at meetings or dealing with business. reader is left home, trying to acclimate to her new way of life. what better way than cooking his favorite meal? reader takes the whole day crafting the food PERFECTLY and capturing the home cooked taste, and tells bucky to be home sharp for dinner… he forgets, goes out to drinks with buddies. reader realizes he doesnt care after minutes turned to hours after the usual time he gets home. tears are shed, reader is hurt. you can end it however you want!
synopsis:
One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.
If someone had told your twelve-year-old self that you’d end up married to the most notorious mob boss in Brooklyn, little you would have laughed and said, “That’s not Prince Charming!”
Fast forward through a blur of over the top celebrations, wedding gowns, and rings that cost more than your entire life. Now, past the hollow vows you were certain he would never keep, you find yourself sitting in a vast and lonely house.
All by yourself. Yet again.
With no Prince Charming.
The framed engagement photo hanging in the center of the living room felt like a taunt. In the portrait, you and Bucky are smiling, wrapped in each other's arms, looking every bit the perfect couple. You’re fairly certain the photoshoot and the wedding day were the only times you ever saw him smile. After that, you hardly saw him at all.
Bucky was always out, occupied by business, meetings, and who knows what else. You remember one night when he stumbled in bloodied and bruised, heading straight for the fridge to grab a water bottle as if he weren’t half dead.
“What’s wrong, dear?” you had stammered, heart racing. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?”
He didn’t even look at you, merely shrugging as he took a long drink. “I’m fine. And it’s not my blood. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
He said it constantly, yet the nickname felt more like an insult than an endearment. He and his associates had meticulously arranged this marriage—plucking an innocent, upstanding citizen like you to give him the facade of a ‘regular’ man with a ‘regular’ wife.
And refusal wasn’t an option.
You don’t say no to the King of Brooklyn unless you have a death wish.
Despite the loveless nature of the arrangement, Bucky was kind enough to spoil you with riches you never asked for. He flooded the house with custom made dresses, jewelry, and shoes. He gave you security. He gave you silence.
You were less of a wife and more of an expensive accessory, polished and kept on a shelf.
Lately, however, the silence has been heavier and longer.
Bucky has been more on edge than usual, returning home in the gray hours of the morning looking utterly spent. On the rare occasions he actually climbed into bed, he tossed and turned, mumbling painfully in his sleep.
Despite everything, he was a decent husband by… mob standards, and your nature was too kind to remain indifferent to his exhaustion. You wanted to do something, anything, to help him ease that tension, even just a little bit.
So, for one night, you decided to do something you hadn’t done since he slipped that heavy diamond onto your finger. You were going to cook. No five star catering this time, no maids, no pretense. Just a homemade dinner, crafted by your own hands, in the hopes of showing him that someone in this cold and lonely house actually cared for him.
You spent the entire afternoon grocery shopping alone—no security, no chaperones, and no servants to carry the bags. You bought everything necessary for a steak and pasta dinner, including a bottle of wine. You weren’t exactly a sommelier, but you picked the most expensive bottle on the shelf, figuring that high price was a safe bet for quality.
You were already a bit disheveled, trying to organize the chaos of ingredients across the large marble counters, when you heard Bucky jogging down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear. He gave you the usual side glance—a quick acknowledgment before returning his focus to his business.
But the sight of the groceries sprawled messily across his usually sterile, pristine kitchen made him do a double take.
Bucky pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, his brow furrowed as he nodded toward the counter. “What’s all this?”
You nearly bumped your head against the cabinet as you looked down at him from the stepping stool— a necessity because he insisted on oversized cabinetry around the house despite never actually using it.
“Bucky!” you beamed, carefully stepping down. You were slightly out of breath, but you offered him a bright, friendly smile. “Good. You haven’t left yet.”
He blinked at you, not used to your sudden energy. “I’m sorry?”
“I want you to come home early tonight,” you repeated firmly. “I have something special planned for us. I want you back here no later than eight.”
Bucky just stood there, the phone still in his hand, looking a bit confused.
You narrowed your eyes, adding more bite to your tone.
“Bucky,” you said firmly. “As your wife, I am telling you to be home by eight.”
His shoulders eased just a little once your words finally registered in his already busy brain of his. You had never been this… firm with him, so you had no idea how he was going to react, or even comply.
To your surprise, he gave you a short and casual nod.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Sure. eight o’clock.”
Now, it was your turn to blink. You had never demanded anything of him before, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to be so… compliant. Almost submissive.
The tension left your body in a long, shaky exhale. “Okay, great. Well—”
Before you could finish, he held up a finger to silence you, snapping the phone back to his ear.
“Sam?” Bucky spoke into the receiver, already moving towards the door to snag his coat. “Yeah, you heard me. Settle the deal with Stark. I’m on my way.”
You watched as the doorman pulled the heavy front door open for him, and just like that, he was gone.
It had been a brief interaction, but he had actually agreed. You’d take the win. The plan had gone so smoothly that it felt almost too good to be true.
And, as you were about to find out, it was.
You spent the rest of the day elbows deep in the kitchen, juggling half a dozen video tutorials on how to properly sear a steak and season pasta water. At one point, you nearly overboiled the noodles into a mushy disaster, and the temptation to call the private chef and beg him to take over was almost overwhelming.
Since marrying Bucky, you hadn’t been required to lift a finger. But tonight, you were determined.
You wanted all of this to be a gift from you to him.
By half past seven, the heavy lifting was done. Bucky was due in thirty minutes. With the food warming and the table glowing under soft candlelight, all that remained was for you to go upstairs and make yourself presentable. You sent him a quick text.
Remember: be home at eight!
… He didn’t respond, but you didn’t let that dampen your spirits. He was a busy man, but he was also a man of his word. If the mob boss of Brooklyn told you he’d be home by eight, you simply had to trust him.
It was 8:05.
You were already seated at the table, your hands folded primly in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. Every few seconds, your head turned towards the front door, straining for the sound of a key in the lock or a car in the driveway.
Nothing.
No Bucky.
By 8:30, the house had grown suffocatingly quiet. No call. No text. Not even a ‘running late!’ notice from one of his men.
You remained in your seat, hands still resting in your lap until your fingers began to go numb. You tried to wage a war of logic against the rising lump in your throat.
It’s fine, you told yourself. He was likely stuck in traffic or tied up in an emergency meeting. After overhearing that intense phone call with Sam earlier, you knew the stakes were high. It was unrealistic, or maybe even naive, to expect the mob boss of Brooklyn to keep a strict dinner date as if he were the average man.
He was busy. He was important. That was all.
By 10:15, the pasta had become a cold, congealed mess, and the steak had lost its luster, the fat hardening into a dull white film. Still, you didn’t eat. You didn’t even move, except to reach for your phone.
You called him twice, and both times the line cut straight to voicemail.
By 11:00, the mental battle was lost.
You had spent the entire day preparing for this. He had looked you in the eye and given you his word, yet here you sat—unimportant and completely invisible to the man who had sworn his life to you when you exchanged vows. A single tear tracked through your makeup, and when you finally lost the strength to hold your head up high, a choked sob escaped your lips.
You felt utterly foolish—sitting in a thousand-dollar dress in an empty mansion, crying over a plate of cold noodles that probably tasted mediocre at best.
Deep down, a part of you knew you should have expected this. It had felt too good to be true from the start. But Bucky was a man defined by his word—a man who never missed a meeting, never abandoned a colleague, and never failed a mission.
He was always there for everyone else. Yet, he couldn’t return the favor to the woman he married? Not even for a single night?
Your eyes were puffy, your throat dry from crying, and your spirit completely spent. You reached out to blow out the last flickering candle, the smoke of burnt wax filling the air as you prepared to retreat once more to your cold and empty bed.
As you pushed back your chair, the heavy front doors swung open. You froze, the sound you had been praying for all night had finally arrived—five hours too late and all in the ways you never expected.
Bucky didn’t walk in with his head held high nor with straight shoulders like he usually did. He stumbled, bumping into the doorframe as he entered.
As a gush of the outside night air rushed into the foyer, it carried the suffocating aroma of expensive scotch and stale smoke.
He fumbled with his keys, tossing them onto the marble console table with a loud clatter that echoed in the foyer, making you flinch. His tie was yanked loose, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair—usually slicked back or kept—was a chaotic mess.
He let out a low, breathy groan, leaning his forehead against the cool wall for a moment of stability. You frowned, taking a single, cautious step closer to him.
“Bucky?”
Slowly, his head rolled toward you. His glassy, bloodshot eyes drifted over you, taking in your elegant dress before drifting past you and to the dining table—a graveyard of cold, congealed plates and full, expensive wine bottles
“Oh,” he let out a shaky breath, slurring on his words. “Hi, sweetheart.”
You furrowed your brows, frown deepening as you took in his drunken state. “Where have you been?”
Bucky forced himself to stand up straight, or at least a messy approximation of it, as he ran a lazy hand through his ruffled hair. He blinked repeatedly, his gaze blurry as he struggled to lock his focus on you.
“Was out… with t’boys…” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “The usual.”
You crossed your arms, the silk of your sleeves crinkling against your skin. You had been patient all night—torturing yourself with worry and excuses while he was out throwing back drinks.
Now that he was finally standing in front of you, smelling of a bar and completely inebriated, you felt the last already thin thread of your patience snap.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, your face getting hot.
You took a step toward him, your stiletto clicking against the floor.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night! And you were out there slinging back shots? I told you to be home by eight! And now it’s…” you glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall behind him, “It’s nearly midnight!”
Bucky blinked, the same way he had earlier that morning when you first asked for his time. He looked at you with a dull, dumbfounded confusion. He had never heard you swear, let alone seen you stand your ground like this.
Then, his face suddenly hardened, the drunken haze replaced by a cold, familiar look. The look he’d give to disobeying subordinates.
He took a swaying step closer, forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours, his presence suddenly filling the room in a way that felt threatening and suffocating.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me!” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury and exhaustion. “I spent the entire day in this kitchen. I went out and bought everything myself. I followed tutorials, I watched the stove for hours—I… I tried to cook for you for the first time since we met because I thought it might actually mean something to you! I waited and I waited. I texted you. I called you. And I got nothing!”
You choked back a sob, your chest aching.
“I am tired, Bucky… I am so incredibly tired of being invisible in my own home!”
Bucky scoffed, a cold, dismissive sound that only made the knife inside your heart twist even more. He took another step closer, the smell of scotch making your nose scrunch up in disdain.
“What do you think this is?” he growled. His words were slurred, yet the edge in his voice was undeniable. “Do you think I married you for some domestic fantasy?”
He stepped into your personal space until his polished dress shoes were toe-to-toe with your heels. He loomed over you, using his height to make you feel small, his shadow swallowing yours.
“For intimate, candlelit dinners and homemade pasta? I don’t need you to cook for me. We have staff for that. If you’re so exhausted, then go to bed. I’ll have the servants come in and clean up this mess in the morning.”
The anger drained out of you, replaced by a hollow, crushing pain.
Your brow unfurled, your expression softening from rage into pure, raw pain.
You were hurt.
“… This mess?”
You looked at the table—the meal you had labored over, the domestic evening you were trying to build—and all he saw was a mess to be cleared away. The tears started again, hot and stinging, blurring your vision as you looked at the stranger who wore a wedding band that matched your own.
You couldn’t even look him in the eye anymore. You looked down at your expensive shoes, to your dress, which you now fiddled with as a sad coping mechanism for any semblance of comfort.
“Then what did you marry me for, Bucky?” you whispered.
Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. The cold steel in his gaze flickered, extinguished by a hollow look. He just stood there, swaying slightly, staring at you as if he had forgotten the answer himself—if an answer even existed.
You didn’t wait for him to find it.
You turned and retreated up the stairs, the sharp click of your heels against the marble being the only sound left in the house.
Behind you, Bucky was left standing alone in the foyer, the silence of the house feeling even emptier than it had before he walked through the door.
Later that night, Bucky sat alone in the dark of the living room. The expensive scotch and whiskey were finally losing their grip on him, leaving a dull, throbbing ache and a bitter clarity in their wake.
For two hours, he stared at the dying embers of the fireplace, the oppressive silence of the mansion closing in on him like a suffocating cage.
With a low, ragged groan, he dropped his face into his palms. “Fuck.”
He had killed, tortured, and ruined countless lives without a single ounce of remorse. He was a man built for violence, leading a world that didn't allow for mercy. Yet, he felt a visceral revulsion towards himself for hurting you—his own wife. The one person who asked for nothing but his presence.
This mess.
The memory of his own words made him physically shiver in disgust.
God, he thought, realizing his own cruelty. I’m a monster.
Finally, he forced himself to stand, his body feeling heavy and exhausted. He climbed the stairs, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he pushed the master bedroom door just barely to allow himself to slip inside.
The room was bathed in the pale, silver glow of the moon. You were asleep, but your breathing was hitched and uneven. Even in the dim light, he could see your puffy eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks—the map of a night spent in misery… because of him.
He slid into bed beside you, the mattress creaking slightly. He didn’t deserve to be near you, he knew that—yet he couldn’t resist.
He shifted closer, hesitantly curling his body around yours until your back was flush against his chest. When you didn’t stir, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. It was floral and soft, a contrast to the stench of smoke and stale alcohol clinging to his own skin.
Bucky remained there, holding you with a grip that was both protective and desperately selfish.
You had never raised your voice before. You had never sounded so broken, so small. He hated it. He was a terrible husband, an even worse partner, and though he couldn’t yet say with certainty that he loved you, he knew he cared.
He knew that if anything ever happened to you, he would lose his mind. He’d set the entire city on fire just to see your vengeance through.
He would burn the world for you.. yet he couldn’t give you a single evening of his time.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but his only language was money and power. He knew how to swipe a card and drown you in riches, but he realized now that diamonds couldn’t fix the look of defeat he’d seen in your eyes.
He didn’t know where to start, but he knew one thing for certain; he had to find a way to make you smile again.
By the time the sun was fully up, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee began to drift toward the master bedroom.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bed beside you was cold.
You weren’t surprised. The hollow space where Bucky should have been was a familiar sight, and you let out a long, weary sigh as you sat up. The house was quiet as always, except for the sound of sizzlling of bacon and the rich, roasted aroma of coffee drifting up the stairs.
The maids were a bit earlier than usual. They usually didn’t make breakfast until eight, yet you couldn’t complain. You hadn’t ate a single thing last night and you were starving.
You didn’t bother with makeup or styling your hair; there was no one to impress in an empty house filled with servants who kept to themselves. You simply threw on a silk robe, tied it loosely around your waist, and began the slow descent downstairs.
As you turned the corner into the dining room, you stopped short, your breath hitching in your throat at what you saw.
The servants were nowhere to be found. Instead, it was Bucky.
He was still wearing his dress slacks from the night before, though his white shirt was rumpled and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was hunched over the table, meticulously and… if a bit awkwardly, arranging a plate of eggs and bacon. He looked completely out of place, a broody man surrounded by orange juice and colorful fruits.
You stood by the entrance, motionless, watching a man who commanded the streets of Brooklyn struggle against a floral centerpiece. The bouquet hadn’t been there yesterday; the colors were too vibrant, the scent too fresh—he must have gone out at dawn to get them himself.
His large, calloused hands hovered tentatively over the arrangement. He nudged the vase an inch to the left, stepped back to inspect it with a cold, narrowed gaze, then stepped forward to nudge it back.
You had to bite back a smile.
There was one particular pink petal that refused to cooperate. Every time Bucky tucked it into the arrangement, it would wait exactly three seconds before drooping back down, mocking his need for order.
“Dammit,” he mumbled to himself, thinking he was alone.
He tried again, his jaw clenched and eyes focused. The petal drooped. He tried a third time, holding his breath as he took a cautious step back, willing it to stay. “Come on,” he whispered. “Just stay.”
When the petal slumped for the fourth time, Bucky’s shoulders tensed, his hands curling into frustrated fists at his sides. He looked like a man on the verge of a tantrum, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassed red. It was ridiculous. Here was a man used to getting everything he wanted, and he was being bested by a single flower.
An involuntary giggle bubbled up in your throat and escaped your lips.
He jumped at the sound, looking like a child caught red handed. He immediately unclenched his fists, his jaw dropping slightly as he shifted his stance, trying his best to look casual.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting away. He was deliberately avoiding staring at your messy hair—the strands he wanted to tangle his fingers in— or the way your silk robe hung against your body in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate.
“I—uh,” he stammered, catching himself in a rare moment of sheer embarrassment. He cleared his throat, regaining a fragment of his dignity.
“These flowers—they’re no good. The florist on 37th Street is no good. I’ll have someone handle it.”
Still giggling, you took a step closer, your bare feet quiet against the cold marble. You hugged yourself, pulling your robe a little tighter as you gestured toward the spread.
“Noted,” you said softly, your voice still a little raspy from sleep. “And... what’s all this? Breakfast you ordered from that place in Greenwich?”
As you drew nearer, however, the details of the food began to catch your eye. You saw the stack of pancakes—some a bit too pale, others charred a deep, smoky black around the edges. You noticed the fruit, which hadn’t been artfully sliced by a chef, but hacked into lopsided and uneven chunks.
There was a plate with sunny-side-up eggs and bacon meticulously arranged into a smiley face.
You tried to ignore how one of the yolks had burst, leaking yellow across the plate so that it looked more like a crying happy face, but the effort was undeniable.
Bucky followed your gaze to the plates, his ears turning a darker shade of crimson.
“No. Uh,” he muttered, waving his hand to the table dismissively as if there was nothing to show. He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air. “I made it. All of it.”
You frowned, looking around the suspiciously quiet room. “The staff wasn’t around to help?”
He looked up then, his blue eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that was almost too painful to witness.
“The staff? I sent them home for the morning,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want anyone else here. Just us.”
You looked back down at the table, avoiding his eyes as you mentally pieced everything together. “Bucky, if this is about last night—”
“It is,” he interrupted, his voice rough and urgent. He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out hesitantly before settling awkwardly on your shoulders. “It’s about… everything. The way I’ve been acting. The things I said to you. Me forgetting our dinner...”
“It’s nothing,” you whispered, still avoiding his gaze.
You looked down at your silk robe, fidgeting with the fabric just as you had with your dress the night before.
“It was unfair of me to expect you to always be available—”
“No,” he cut you off, his grip firming.
He turned your body so you were forced to face him. He took a deep breath, searching for words he didn’t even know how to use.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally. “I was a prick. I should’ve made time for you. I should have kept the promise I made. I shouldn’t have dismissed you like that.”
He sighed, his hands sliding up to cup your jaw. His palms were warm and calloused, tilting your head up so you had to look at him, despite how much your eyes still stung every time you faced him.
“I’m sorry for being a terrible husband, and I’m sorry for not being there for the dinner you worked so hard on.” His voice was shaky, his shoulders tense as if he were fighting back his own emotions. “Seeing you cry like that... I never want to see it again. I hated it. I hated that I was the reason for those tears.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. “I’m going to be better to you—for you. I’ll make sure of it.”
Bucky let out a short, nervous breath, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheekbones. “I didn’t even know where to start,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “But I figured a homemade meal might help... right? Even if it’s a disaster.”
You looked at the charred pancakes, the messily cut fruit, and the drooping yolk of the egg.
“It looks good, Bucky.” You smiled
He snorted, a lopsided, boyish grin breaking through his usual stoic features.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t know how to cook, so lower your expectations significantly.”
You laughed, the sound light and clear. It was a sound that made Bucky’s heart jump in his chest—a sign of life in a house that had been silent for too long.
“It’s okay,” you admitted, “I don’t really know how to cook either.”
Bucky chuckled softly in return, the two of you standing in the quiet of the morning as the laughter eventually died away. You expected him to pull away and start the meal, but he remained close.
He leaned in, and you watched as his gaze dropped to your lips. The air grew thick, and you subconsciously held your breath. It looked like he was actually going to kiss you—like, really kiss you.
You could almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips against yours, a gesture that you’ve always dreamed of since the day you two got married. The only time he had ever kissed you was during the wedding, but that wasn’t a real one.
If he kissed you right here, right now—this would be real.
But at the last second, he caught himself.
He pulled back just an inch, exhaling the breath he had been holding himself. He stepped over to the table and pulled out your chair, bowing his head slightly as he caught your gaze with a sheepish, strained smile.
“Let’s have a real breakfast, sweetheart,” he said. “As husband and wife.”
The title felt different this time. Sweetheart finally felt soft, intimate, and sincere.
It sounded like an actual endearment a loving husband would give his wife rather than an insult, his way of trying to show you the man he was trying to become.
You let out a shaky breath, mentally collecting yourself and offering him a soft smile of your own as you sat down.
“Okay.”
thank you so much for this request! it's not often that i write them, but i enjoyed writing this one. i hope you like it!
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, alcohol, friends to lovers to enemies, pining but semi-unrequited, angst, college au, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, soft dom!bucky, oral (m receiving), leg humping, pet names: "princess" "baby"
word count: 12k
masterlist
a/n: this is the prequel to my two tickets to iron maiden series. you do not need to read pt 1 to understand this fic. based on the song "she's not afraid" by one direction. this is also one of my contributions for superhouse! dt to my dear dirtbag luvrs @spdrveil @tw1sters
synopsis:
You're not afraid of all the attention. You're not afraid of running wild. But why are you so afraid of falling in love with the campus' dirtbag, Bucky Barnes?
After carefully applying your Lancôme lipstick with steady, manicured hands, you stepped back from the full-length mirror to examine yourself one last time. You had shed your usual pink girl uniform—the mini skirts and matching pumps were gone.
Tonight, you looked like a completely different person, yet for the first time in a while, you actually felt like yourself.
You were wearing clothes much darker than your typical color palette. A black T-shirt featuring the logo of the indie band you were going to see, dark wash jeans, and a pair of old Converse. You hadn’t worn those shoes since high school field trips, but they were perfect for the house show tonight.
Sundays nights like these were the only times you could truly enjoy yourself.
You could finally freely listen to the kind of music that would normally have your friends covering their ears and bolting for the nearest exit.
No wandering eyes, no obnoxious friends barking in your ear to leave for a ‘real’ party, and no boy-toys like John Walker flexing his biceps and begging you to feel them.
Tonight, you were going to be a loser among losers—the kind of people who didn’t go to your school and would never be caught dead in a place like this.
And there you were—dancing in the heart of a drunken, sweaty crowd, your head bopping to the beat of electrifying guitars and drums that made the floorboards vibrate. People collided into you and beer splashed through the air, but you didn’t care.
The room was suffocating, filthy, and deafening, yet you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Lost in your own haze, you didn’t even notice you were being watched from a far, distant corner of the crowd—and, ironic enough, the person watching you was actually someone who went to the same school.
Bucky had his eyes locked on your—clutching a red solo cup and harboring a clenched jaw.
“That guy on bass is rippin’ it,” Steve shouted over the music and crowd—though to Bucky, it was barely audible. “Nat’s gotta take some notes. But knowing her, she’ll probably just say, ‘I play just fine!’”
A million emotions were racing through Bucky’s head.
House parties where people like him gathered were always welcoming to new faces—and what better way to bring people together than with loud, screaming music?
“—seriously, though. I should write more bass lines for her—”
But on the other hand, Bucky couldn’t fathom why a girl like you would even show up at a place like this—much less wearing an outfit like that. You were the popular girl, notorious for wearing everything pink and designer. If he named a random expensive brand he couldn’t even pronounce, you’d probably say something like, “I already own their entire line, since like, yesterday!”
“—you listenin’ to that drummer, Buck? Those press rolls are out of control—”
Bucky knew he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—but how could he not when you were exactly the kind of obnoxious girl he stayed away from at school? You were just another one of those girls who would side-eye him through your mascara and turn your nose up like a spoiled little princess.
“Buck, are you listening to me?” Steve’s voice cut through.
“Yeah,” Bucky lied, raising his solo cup to his lips. “I’m listening.”
He should ignore you. He should go back to his own little world with his best friend Steve, live in the moment, and just enjoy the music.
But he couldn’t tear his gaze away, even if he wanted to.
He was hypnotized by the way your hair—usually styled so neatly—was wild around you as you moved to the beat. His eyes couldn’t help but trace the way your body flowed so freely—the way your shirt lifted every time you raised your hands, revealing just the tiniest hint of midriff. But it was enough to make him clench his jaw even harder.
He couldn’t tell if he was irritated watching you move so comfortably in his safe space, tainting it with your preppiness underneath all that make-believe, performative rock shit—or if he was just frustrated by how good you looked.
But the minute you flipped your hair and the backyard lights caught the genuine smile on your face, his heart leaped.
That was when Bucky knew his answer.
“Here. Hold this,” Bucky said, shoving the red cup into Steve’s hands.
“Where are you going?” Steve shouted over the crowd, but Bucky was already moving away.
Without looking back, Bucky gave a dismissive wave. “To the bathroom.”
Before Steve could call out again, Bucky was weaving through the familiar faces, dodging spilling drinks and the people moshing in the center.
His eyes were set on one thing only—and that was on the woman who shouldn’t be here.
As he caught up to you, his fingertips brushed your shoulder to grab your attention.
You turned your head to glance at him—and in that moment, he realized he had no idea what to say.
The light hit your face just right, and it was as if the world had slowed to a crawl. He had seen you plenty of times across campus, but he had never seen you this close—and it was a good thing he hadn’t, because God…
You were breathtaking.
It was no wonder you were so popular, that every girl on campus wanted to be you, or that you always had a new guy like John Walker at your hip.
As he stood there, he wished the mosh pit would just open up and swallow him whole.
Your lips parted in surprise, your eyes tracing his face before landing back on his. You looked lost. You looked like you couldn’t understand why a man like him had just stopped you in the middle of a dance. You looked like someone whose peace had been disturbed.
And most importantly, you looked like you had no idea who he was.
Of course you didn’t know who he was. You were complete opposites after all.
Bucky was the guy who dressed in all black and kept his head down, sticking to the same three people.
He was the guy who always had earbuds in, listening to music meant he could drown out everything around him.
While you were out partying, he was in his garage breaking drumsticks.
While you were out shopping with friends, he was at thrift shops, scouring for vintage tees and getting gas station hot dogs with Steve and Sam.
Of course you didn’t know who he was.
Bucky cleared his throat, preparing to turn around and accept his awkward defeat, but before he could, your lips curved into a small smile. It was a look he had seen you flash to dozens of others, but for some reason, this smile for him felt… different.
“I—”
“Bucky Barnes, right?”
Bucky’s brain felt like a toaster being dumped into a tub full of water.
He had spent the last twenty minutes convinced he was a ghost to someone like you—a background character in your world of lip gloss and designer bags.
But you had just said his name.
“I—uh—yeah,” he stumbled, his hand flying to the back of his neck. He began rubbing the skin there, a nervous habit he usually kept under wraps. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you knew who I was.”
He finally pried his eyes away from yours, suddenly feeling embarrassed and exposed. He tried to still the rapid beating of his heart, but it was useless. He hated how easily he was unraveling. It made him feel like just another average guy on campus that you could wrap around your tiny, smooth finger with a single look.
He was supposed to be the guy who didn’t give a damn, yet here he was, stammering over a girl who usually spent her time with quarterbacks, and would never waste her time with someone like him.
“I knew you looked familiar!” you shouted over the crowd, your smile widening. “You’re the dude in that one band, right? You play the drums? Civil War?”
Bucky felt like he was going to collapse at any moment now.
Not only did you know his name, but you knew he played the drums—and you knew his band?
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He swayed on his heels, offering a shrug that was far too forced to be casual. “We’re… we’re alright, I guess.”
You couldn’t help but let out a soft, genuine laugh that was nearly drowned out by the pounding drums of the song. It was adorable. At school, Bucky Barnes was the personification of the ‘don’t talk to me’ crowd. Shaggy hair, ripped jeans, and always wearing earbuds to tune the rest of the world out.
But here, with the two of you cramped in a grimy backyard under cheap, flickering party lights, that misfit exterior was cracking.
“Alright?” you repeated with a playful scoff. “I’ve heard you guys perform at school events. You’re actually pretty good.”
It was a good thing it was dark out, because it made it harder for you to notice the blush taking over his cheeks.
“Really? That’s… that’s cool,” Bucky said sheepishly. He waved a hand toward the crowd, gesturing to them. “I didn’t know you listened to this type of music.”
“Oh, really?” Your lips curved into a smirk as you crossed your arms and tilted your head, taunting him. “And what makes you think that?”
You already knew the answer, of course. A girl like you would normally be caught dead before being seen in a place like this. But you wanted to hear the words come stammering out of Bucky’s mouth instead.
“I mean, come on,” he said, gesturing vaguely at your outfit, though his mind was still stuck on the pink skirts he saw you in at school. “You’re usually wearing those soft cardigans, tiny skirts, and shoes with the skinny…” He pinched his fingers together. “The skinny stick thing.”
You raised a brow. “Stick thing? You mean a heel?”
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “Those things that make that obnoxious clanking sound. People outside your clique call you girls ‘the clackers,’ you know.”
You let out a dramatic gasp, clutching a hand over your heart.
“Clackers? Oh my god—that’s like, so totally mean!” You exaggerated, your voice rising in pitch as you mimicked the girls Bucky was referring to. “Well, do you know what people call boys like you at school?”
“Yeah?” Bucky couldn’t help but grin while he waited for the punchline, already knowing what was coming. “What do they call me?”
“They call you a dirtbag, Barnes.”
Bucky’s smile grew wider as he looked down at you. You had your arms crossed, hip slightly jutted out. Despite the different clothes, your mannerisms were exactly the same as they were at school—all you were missing was a designer handbag hanging from your arm.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been called worse.” Bucky shrugged.
He leaned in a little closer, teasing, almost.
“But guess what? You’re here too, dressed like…” his eyes took you in up and down, slowly, “—that. Believe it or not, that makes you a dirtbag too, princess.”
“Oh, is that so?” You couldn’t help but tease back even harder, leaning into his space. “Do they also call me a ‘princess’ at school, too?”
“Nah,” Bucky countered. “I call you that.”
The cheeky grin you’d been harboring dropped the second his words registered. Your face began to warm, and this time, it was your turn to be embarrassed.
A faint flush crept up your neck, and you had to look away to hide the way your lips were twitching into a sheepish smile.
“You’re… stupid,” you mumbled, your eyes glued on a random patch of dirt on the ground.
Bucky’s shoulders eased up a little as a quiet and prideful adrenaline made his heart thump faster. He’d spent his college years feeling like he was on the outside looking in, but seeing you—the girl he’d spent all semester convinced he despised, and who he was sure felt the same—actually affected by something he said?
It was a better high than any drum solo he had ever played.
“Like I said,” Bucky was unable to keep that lopsided grin from spreading even wider. “I’ve been called worse.”
The air between you thickened with a tension that had nothing to do with the party and everything to do with the way Bucky was looking at you.
You opened your mouth, a witty retort ready on the tip of your tongue, but it was cut short the second a guy next to you lost his footing. He slammed into your shoulder, sending his lukewarm, cheap beer flying—splashing directly across your shirt.
“Jesus—!” you gasped, the cold liquid soaking through the fabric.
The impact sent you stumbling into Bucky’s chest. His hand instinctively shot up, wrapping around your shoulder to hold you steady.
Before you could even whip your head around to give the guy a piece of your mind, Bucky’s free hand was already on the stranger's chest, giving him a hard, aggressive shove.
“Watch where you’re going!” Bucky snapped, his voice cutting through the noise loud enough to snag the attention of people nearby.
The guy eyed Bucky up and down with red rimmed eyes, looking too high to even comprehend the situation.
“Chill out, man. Didn’t mean to stumble into your girl,” he droned, a drunken grin tugging at his lips as he looked at you. “Besides, she’s probably used to guys bumpin’ all up against her, anyway.”
Bucky’s hand dropped from your shoulder, his fingers curling into a tight, white knuckled fist.
“What did you just say?” he taunted, stepping into the guy’s space until they were practically nose to nose.
You blinked, taken aback by his reaction. At school, Bucky was the guy who kept to himself, never looking for a fight unless he was provoked by an asshat like one of the football players.
But to see him so suddenly protective over you—knowing he’d probably lose to this guy, who was twice his size—made an unexpected feeling of flattery wash over you.
“Say it again,” Bucky challenged dangerously. “Say one more word about her.”
“Bucky, stop! He’s not worth it,” you said firmly. You reached out, your fingers wrapping tightly around his bicep. Even through the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, you were startled by the hard muscle beneath your touch.
He didn’t budge, his eyes locked on his target like a predator’s.
“Bucky, look at me,” you insisted, tugging on his arm with everything you had. “I’m covered in beer and I want to go inside and clean up. Now.”
Bucky took a hesitant glance down at you, then back at the man who reeked of weed and beer.
“Fine,” he mumbled reluctantly, finally letting his tension ease up as he allowed you to drag him out of the crowd.
His eyes traced the back of your head as you led him away from the center of the party. To Bucky, it was as if the world had slowed down. The crowd was still wild, the band was still screaming into their microphones.
Everything around you was a recipe for overstimulation and chaos, yet the only thing he could focus on was you.
He didn’t even realize you had led him into the house and down the hallway until you pushed open the bathroom door, pulling him inside and closing it shut behind you with a lock.
“God,” you mumbled grumpily, turning to the sink and cranking the faucet. “That prick.”
Bucky watched, paralyzed, as you grabbed the bottom hem of your shirt to unstick it from your skin. When you lifted the damp fabric, you revealed the soft curve of your stomach and the line of your hips. His eyes lingered, shamefully curious, before he realized he was staring.
He swallowed hard, reaching for the toilet paper roll and bunching up a handful. He swerved around you to run the tissues under the water, his movements a little jerky and nervous.
“Yeah, he was…” He started dabbing at your shirt, his head bowed as he avoided eye contact. “You should’ve let me have at him. He was an asshole who needed to be put in his place.”
“No, Bucky,” you sighed. “He was like six foot something. He was way too big. You would have ended up in the ER.”
Bucky’s hand paused, and he finally lifted his head to meet your eyes. His brow arched, a little competition sparking in his blue eyes.
“Oh, yeah? Is that what you think?” he challenged.
He straightened his shoulders, closing what little gap was left between you until the toes of his beat up Converse were touching yours.
“You really didn’t think I’d win? You don’t think I’m big enough to handle myself?”
You chuckled softly. The proximity was the definition of romantic—the way he was staring at you, the way he was caring for you—even if the setting was anything but. The bathroom was cramped and dingy, the smell of stale beer wafting between you, but none of it seemed to matter anymore.
“Oh, I think you’re plenty big, Bucky,” you purred.
You reached out, letting your hand rest over the center of his chest. You could feel his heartbeat quickening the moment you touched him. “I just didn’t want him to ruin that pretty face of yours. I’m actually starting to grow quite fond of it.”
Bucky grinned, face hot and deliberately trying to ignore the ‘plenty big’ comment. “So, you think I’m pretty?”
You couldn’t help but sway slightly toward him. You were used to attention from guys, but this felt different—it felt natural because it was… well, Bucky.
“Handsome, I mean,” you corrected teasingly.
Bucky tilted his head down, a soft, bashful chuckle leaving his lips.
Then, he slowly lifted his head once more, bringing his fingertips up to trace your jaw. He studied your features, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as if he were memorizing them. He’d caught glimpses of you across campus and in the dark backyard, but seeing you here, under the warm bathroom fluorescence, you were breathtakingly beautiful.
“You’re…” Bucky breathed, his thumb grazing your cheek. “...pretty.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn't say anything. The way he held you—fingers tracing the curve of your jaw and grazing your bottom lip— it was as if he’d caught the words right out of your mouth and was keeping them safe.
You watched his eyes, hungry and starved, as they roamed reverently over your face.
From your eyes to the curve of your nose, and finally, to your lips.
Especially your lips.
He sucked in a deep, subtle breath, his thumb caressing the plump flesh and smearing your lip gloss. If it were any other guy, you would have shoved him off for daring to ruin your makeup.
But again, it was Bucky.
“So fucking pretty,” Bucky mumbled, so quietly it was as if he were only speaking to himself. “Like a princess.”
He had such an earnest look in his eyes, like he was dying to break the distance but was waiting for permission. You felt it; you knew he wanted this.
And truthfully, you wanted it too.
Maybe even more than he did.
Without waiting for him to find his courage, you reached up, tangling your fingers into the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him down.
Bucky was caught off guard, nearly stumbling as you brought him to you. The second the softness of your lips met his, he leaned into it with everything he had. He discarded the wet tissues into the sink, his free hands circling your waist to haul you closer.
The kiss was messy and desperate, tasting faintly of beer as he smothered your mouth with his, smearing your gloss even further. His courage finally caught up to his desire as his tongue pushed past your lips, dancing with yours in a frantic rhythm.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands tightening around your waist possessively.
He backed you up against the door, the wood thudding behind you as he deepened the kiss, becoming harder and more demanding. For a guy who usually kept his distance at school, he was suddenly everywhere. Every touch was frantic, warm, and needy.
You tilted your head back, letting out a shaky breath into his mouth as he trailed kisses down to the corner of your jaw, his stubble grazing your skin.
“My god—Bucky…” you breathed, a needy moan escaping you as his hand moved upward, his palm firm and demanding against your chest through the fabric of your shirt.
Bucky felt his jeans tightening painfully. He subconsciously rocked his hips against your leg, the friction of denim-on-denim letting you feel his full, throbbing erection.
“That sound…” he rasped against your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. “The way you moan my name… I fucking love it, princess.”
His palm was rough and calloused, but his movements were surprisingly careful as he slid his hand beneath the hem of your beer soaked shirt. The heat of his skin against your cool stomach made your breath hitch—a sharp intake of air that only seemed to spur him on.
Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest and echoing into your mouth as he claimed your lips again. His hand climbed higher, tracing the curve of your ribs purposefully slow that until his fingers brushed the underside of your bra. He paused for a moment, his eyes searching yours in the bathroom light, looking for any sign to stop.
“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your skin, his hand finally cupping you fully.
The friction of his thumb grazing you through the lace sent a bolt of heat straight to your lower belly. You threw your head back against the door, your fingers digging into his shoulders, clutching the soft cotton of his tee.
“Bucky,” you begged softly. “I need you.”
He dipped his head back down, his mouth finding the sweet spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking a mark into the skin that you knew would be impossible to hide on Monday morning.
“Everyone at school... thinks you’re so untouchable,” he muttered, his voice prideful. He shifted his foot, pinning you more firmly against the wood, making sure you felt every inch of his erection rubbing against your thigh.
“They have no idea. They don’t know how you sound for me.”
Bucky’s thumb ran over your hardened nipple through the lace, the roughness of his finger making you shiver, hiss in pleasure, and arch your body into his touch for more.
“Jesus,” he whispered, amused. “Do you let anyone else touch you like this?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He sounded almost desperate to hear the answer, his grip on your waist tightening. “All those guys following you around... do they get to see you like this?”
The question was the last thing you wanted to deal with.
The friction of his denim against your inner thighs, the heat of the bathroom, and the agonizingly slow pace he was taking were driving you over the edge. You shifted restlessly, your thighs rubbing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache he had started.
“Are you going to keep talking,” you snapped, your eyes boring into his, “or are you actually going to fuck me, Barnes?”
He paused, pulling his head back just an inch to meet your eyes with his surprised ones. He hadn’t expected you to say that at all. As his eyes roamed down to your body—watching the way your chest heaved and the way your legs clenched in desperation—it was like a swell of masculine pride coursed through his veins at how much you were coming apart specifically for him.
A dark, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he let out a short, breathy laugh.
“Alright,” he growled, his eyes locking onto yours. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
He dropped to his knees in the cramped space, the movement sudden and frantic. His hands tugged at the button of your jeans, his tongue coming out to sweep over his bottom lip as he slowly slid the zipper down—the sound grating loudly in the small room.
He tugged the denim over your hips, his knuckles grazing your skin so gently that it made your breath hitch. You had to lean back against the door for support as he helped you step out of them, one leg at a time, until you were standing before him in nothing but your soaked shirt and a scrap of lace for underwear.
Bucky didn’t stand back up. He stayed right where he was, his hands sliding up your bare thighs. He looked up at you with a gaze that was pure worship—a look you had never received from anyone else.
“Look at you,” he breathed in adoration, his voice shaking. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
He leaned in, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You let out a soft whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair to keep your balance. He moved higher, his stubble grazing your skin until his face was buried against you.
Through the thin fabric of your panties, he kissed you—hard and hungry.
He trailed his mouth along the lace, his hot breath soaking through the material as his hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging in to pull you closer. You were hovering over him, your legs shaking with a desperate need for more. Every time his tongue flicked against the damp fabric, a jolt of electricity shot through you, making your legs shake uncontrollably.
“Bucky,” you mewled, your voice breaking. “Please.”
“Please?” Bucky looked up at you, his eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. “Aw, you’re begging now. That’s real cute, princess.”
He finally rose from his knees, his breathing heavy and uneven. Without taking his eyes off yours, he reached for his studded belt, undoing it frantically. As he shucked his jeans and boxers down, your breath hitched in your throat.
You looked down, your eyes widening in genuine shock. He was thick and heavy— a stark contrast to his usual quiet, kept-to-himself demeanor.
He was also far... bigger than you had ever anticipated from the brooding drummer who sat in the back of lectures.
Bucky caught your gaze, and a surge of pride hit him. He wrapped his hand around himself, gifting himself a few slow, steady strokes that made the veins on his forearm stand out. He let out a low, shaky groan at the sight of you watching him so intently, his head tilting back for a moment as he savored the attention he never got from you at school.
“Look at that pretty little mouth,” Bucky groaned, his jaw going slack as he looked back at you. “Your lips open just like that... you wanna taste, baby?”
“I… I—”
“Oh, now you’re stuttering?” Bucky smirked, his eyes trailing down your body. “You usually always have something smart to say, even at school. Where’d all that mouth go?” He stepped back into your space, the heat radiating off him. “On your knees.”
You swallowed hard, letting yourself sink to the floor. The cold floor hitting your knees made you shiver. As you looked up at him, Bucky reached down, his fingers tangling deep into a fistful of your hair. He didn’t pull hard, but his grip was still firm—a possessive hold that held your head steady against the wood of the door.
“Fuck, princess,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a kindness that felt almost out of place given the way he was holding you. “You’re an angel. My beautiful, perfect girl. I never expected a girl like you to look at a guy like me like this.”
The words spilling out of his lips were sweet. Tender, even. But his body told a different story.
He stepped closer, pinning your head back against the door with that fist in your hair, and began to rock his hips. He ground himself against your face, the hot warmth of his cock rubbing against your cheeks and lips, making his breath come in short, jagged hitches.
He was already leaking profusely, smearing his arousal all over your face. Eager, you grabbed his length with your hand, holding it still and flicking your tongue out, lapping at the pearls that leaked out of his cock.
Bucky’s entire body shuddered as your tongue swirled around the head of his cock. A low, broken sound ripped from his throat. His knuckles tightened in your hair, giving your head a gentle nudge against him. His other hand slammed against the wood of the door above your head, his muscles straining as he braced himself.
He began to rock his hips with more intent, a subtle grind that pushed his cock deeper into your palm and against your lips.
“God,” he shuddered. “Your tongue… your lips… so… so-soft.” He choked out, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned his weight into the door. “Come on. In your mouth, baby. Give it to me.”
Bucky sounded utterly broken. The raw rasp of his voice sent a jolt of heat straight between your legs, and greedy to hear more, you opened your mouth and took him in. Your throat tightened as you slid past his tip, taking him halfway down in one eager motion.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a groan that sounded almost painful—the kind of sound that only comes from too much pleasure. His hand tightened in your hair, the slight tug made you wince, but the burn only spurred you on.
His hips were rolling in nasty, demanding circles, forcing himself deep against your tongue and the back of your throat.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whined. “So fucking good. I can’t… can’t even look at you—” He stammered out, not even daring to finish his sentence. If he dared to open his eyes right now, to see your pretty lashes batting up at him with your puckered lips full of his cock, he felt like he could cum right then and there.
And he wanted to savor this.
“Shit, shit.”
Every time he bucked his hips for more, you felt the power of his thighs, and the ache between your own legs became unbearable. You began to settle yourself over his foot, humping his leg. You ground your inner thigh against his calf, seeking any kind of friction to ease the pressure.
Bucky thought he had his resolve under control, but the second he felt the damp lace of your panties rubbing against his leg, his eyes snapped open. His pupils were blown wide as he watched the girl of his dreams humping his leg like some needy little puppy.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, his cock pulsing inside your warm mouth.
He felt like his knees were going to give out on him. You were beneath him, lips wrapped around him, humping his leg with those seemingly innocent eyes. It was too much.
“Shit—no, not yet. Gonna… gonna cum…” he hissed. He grabbed your hair and forced your head away from his cock with a wet pop.
You gasped, catching your breath as the force of the movement sent your back against the door. “Bucky..?”
“Get up,” he demanded roughly. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, squeezing hard to keep himself from cumming. “Bend over the sink. Now.”
You scrambled toward the vanity, your hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink as you leaned forward, presenting yourself to him in a way that should be shameful, but you couldn’t help it.
You were too far gone for him.
Bucky was right behind you, a wall of heat pressing into your back. He hooked his thumbs into the damp lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to the chilled air of the bathroom—and to him.
He was breathing heavily, and you let out a soft gasp as you felt his thick, hot length press against your wet entrance.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “So wet.”
With one heavy yet careful thrust, his tip slipped past your entrance, and with a grunt, he pushed in even deeper inside you.
You let out a sharp, shattered cry that was drowned out by the speakers from the party outside. He was so much, filling you so completely that it felt like your breath had been stolen.
He was stretching you, forcing your tight walls to accommodate his length. Bucky groaned, his jaw clenching so tight that the muscles in his neck tensed up, fighting to keep from spilling inside right then and there.
He didn’t start moving immediately. He didn’t want to risk it just yet. He stood there, buried deep, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he tried to compose himself.
“Look up,” he rasped. He reached forward, his large hand cupping your chin and forcing your head up until your eyes met his in the wide mirror above the sink. “Look at yourself, princess.”
The sight was jarring, filthy, and disgusting.
Your hair was a mess, your lip gloss was smeared across your cheek, and your eyes were glassy and blown out. And behind you was Bucky, his face tight with a mix of agony and pleasure, his hands bruising your hips as he held you in place.
“Watch,” he commanded, his eyes locking onto yours in the reflection as he began to pull out, only to slam back into you roughly, making you jolt against the sink. “Watch me fuck you. Right here, in this dingy little bathroom. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes…” you mewled pathetically, arching your back and grinding your hips against his. The friction made him snarl in pleasure. “This is… exactly what I wanted,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “You… behind me, fucking me… just like this.”
The broken, needy whine in your voice was enough to make his restraint snap. He had been seconds away from filling your mouth with cum earlier, but with your hips rocking back to meet every one of his thrusts, it was becoming too much for him to handle. If he had known he’d actually have the opportunity to have you like this, he would have tried to be more mentally prepared. But there was no preparing for this.
Desperate, he began to fuck deeper into you, each heavy, rhythmic thrust forcing a soft grunt from his chest.
The porcelain of the sink felt biting and cold against your palms, but it was the only thing keeping you steady as Bucky’s weight pressed down on you. He reached forward, his hands sliding over your ribs to grip the edge of the bowl, pinning you between the cold porcelain and his broad chest.
He was moving so fast now that your vision blurred in the mirror. The image of his dark, messy hair and sweat slicked skin became a smear of shadow behind you. Your eyes were hazy with lust, watching in the reflection as this dirtbag completely defiled you.
“You’re mine,” he groaned, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. “I want you to be mine. I want to—to… keep you all to myself. Fuck!”
He reached one hand down, his fingers finding yours on the edge of the sink and interlacing them, squeezing so hard it was almost painful. He wanted you to feel every second of this—to know exactly who was claiming you in the middle of this crowded, noisy house.
“Say it. Say you’re mine, princess.”
“I’m… I’m yours, Bucky,” you sobbed out, the pleasure peaking almost unbearably as he hit that perfect spot over and over again.
“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he hissed against the shell of your ear, his voice breaking.
“Me—me too…” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as your walls tightened around him.
The feeling was enough to make him snap.
Bucky threw his head back, his neck glistening with sweat as he lost every ounce of control that he fought so hard to maintain. He rocked his hips forward one last time, burying himself completely to the hilt and locking his hips against yours as he finally allowed himself to spill inside you.
Deep, hot, thick cum filled you—making your knees buckle. You would have collapsed onto the floor if Bucky hadn’t been there, his arm wrapping tight around your waist to hold you up against the sink.
As you both fought to catch your breath, the only sounds were the muffled screams of the crowd and the distorted noise of the band’s instruments vibrating through the bathroom walls.
It felt like the rest of the world was miles away, leaving just the two of you in the humid, dirty, and dimly lit space.
Bucky’s forehead came down to rest in the crook of your neck, his skin damp and burning hot against yours. He was trembling—actual, visible tremors running through his shoulders and arms as the adrenaline began to fade.
“You… you okay?” he whispered, suddenly vulnerable as his eyes searched yours in the reflection.
Your breathing was finally returning to a steady, normal pace as you stared back at your reflection.
You had actually done it.
You had let the school’s most notorious, sleazy drummer bend you over a sink in a dingy house party bathroom. Despite how hot your body was, a shiver trickled down your spine—a cold prickle of reality. Bucky must have felt it too, because he only pulled you closer, pulling your back protectively against his chest.
What if he told everyone?
What if, by tomorrow morning, you were the main topic of conversation in the locker rooms?
You could already hear the whispers—rumors about how ‘easy’ you were, how a girl like you let a guy like him defile her in ways that felt like they’d set women back decades.
You were friends with girls whose fathers held powerful, upstanding positions—the kind of connections that were supposed to land you a career right after college.
How would this look for your reputation?
And yet, as you looked at the way his large hand still curved possessively over your hip, you realized you didn’t regret it at all.
You still felt the fading adrenaline of having sex with him—a delicious, almost forbidden ache that made you feel more alive than anything else in your curated life ever had.
You liked him.
More than you should, and certainly more than was safe.
You swallowed hard and forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror, your heart nearly melting at how completely spent and vulnerable he looked. All because of you.
“More than okay.”
“There’s no way you actually like listening to all that crap,” Bucky’s voice echoed through the phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “All they do is rap about sex, drugs, and money. Where’s the yearning, princess? Where’s the real story? Like that track I played in the car?”
You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips as you jotted down notes in your journal with a pink fuzzy pen, preparing for Monday’s lecture.
It had only been a few hours since he’d dropped you off. Any normal person would have been fast asleep by now, but instead, you had impulsively exchanged numbers with Bucky right before closing his passenger door.
Now, the two of you had been on the phone all night, neither one willing to be the first to hang up.
“Hey, it’s not all that bad. It’s the kind of music you can just get lost in when you're partying—”
“Partying,” Bucky scoffed. On the other end, he was twirling a drumstick between his fingers, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“With those idiots on the football team and the girls who can’t pull their heads out of their own asses? Please.”
“Wow,” you chuckled, switching the phone to your other ear and leaning back in your chair. “Do you hear yourself, Barnes? You know, you can be a total asshole yourself.”
Bucky could hear the smile in your voice, and it made his heart pace a little faster just picturing it. He fell back onto his bed, the heavy thud of the mattress picking up on the receiver.
“Yeah, well…” he sighed, staring up at his ceiling. “They were assholes to me first.”
Your smile dropped subconsciously after hearing him. He still had that usual ‘I-don’t-care’ taunt in his voice, yet it only reminded you of his isolation—the way he saw the world as a constant battle of them versus him.
With your heart aching, you opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky beat you to it.
“Are you laying in bed too?” he asked, his voice turning softer—intimate.
“No,” you murmured, glancing at the stack of open textbooks and the meticulously highlighted pages. “I’m at my desk.”
“Do it,” he commanded softly.
You let out a small, tired sigh, spinning your pink pen between your fingers. “Bucky, I have notes to catch up on for tomorrow. If I don’t finish this chapter, I’ll be behind before the lecture even starts.”
“Hate to break it to you, princess, but we’re both up way past our bedtime on a school night. You’re already behind. Come on,” Bucky groaned, and you could already see him rolling his eyes on the other end. “The world isn’t going to end if you don’t memorize one chapter of macro-whatever.”
“You do go to the same school as me, right?” you teased.
“Lay down with me. Just for a few minutes.”
With another, more dramatic sigh, you dropped your pen and stood up. Bucky heard the shuffle of your movement through the receiver, a genuine smile spreading across his face as he stared at his ceiling.
“You know, you’re a terrible distraction. A terrible influence, even,” you poked, kicking off your slippers and sliding under the duvet.
“You say that,” Bucky rumbled, shifting onto his side. He tucked the phone against his pillow, right where your head would be if you were physically there with him. “But you could hang up on me any time you want, princess.”
“You’re an idiot.” You rolled your eyes, but as you snuggled into the mattress, you deliberately shifted your body to leave a space beside you—as if he were actually there.
“Okay,” you whispered, voice growing naturally softer. “I’m laying down.”
“So...” Bucky rasped, almost tiredly. “Aside from the band we saw last night and the shitty trap music you and your clique listen to... what else do you actually like?”
“Mmm,” you hummed, eyes fluttering shut as you thought about it. “Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses…” You started listing. “And Iron Maiden.”
“Wow,” he chuckled warmly, the sound vibrating through the phone and making your heart flutter. “You like Iron Maiden? That’s my favorite fucking band.”
“Why am I not surprised?” you teased with a smile.
You heard Bucky shuffling on the other end, his excitement so palpable it was practically contagious. Your cheeks were starting to ache from how wide you were grinning, and you were just glad he couldn’t see it.
“It’s my dream to see them live. God, can you imagine?” He sighed dreamily, sounding just like a hopeless teenager again. “Maybe one day I'll be an honest man. Up 'til now, I'm doing the best I can...”
Bucky spoke the opening lyrics of ‘Wasting Love’ softly, and the sound of his voice reciting them earnestly made your heart skip a beat.
“Fuck. Imagine hearing that live?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with wonder.
“It would be even better seeing it with your friends,” you added softly. “I’m sure Steve—it’s Steve, right? Anyway, it would be an out-of-body experience to be with them all while watching your favorite band.”
“Nah,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “I can’t just watch it with anyone. That’d ruin the experience for me. I gotta live in the moment, you know? Can’t do that when three assholes are barking in my ear.”
He laughed as he joked about his friends, and the sound warmed you. It was so refreshing to hear someone talk about their best friends with that kind of genuine, bantering affection—a sharp contrast to the fake smiles and forced flattery you dealt with on campus every day.
When the laughter softened, a brief silence that settled over the line.
Then, Bucky spoke again, his voice softer and more sincere than you had ever heard it.
“… though I wouldn’t mind watching it with you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, defensively pulling the duvet up higher until it partially covered your face, as if that could hide the heat blooming in your cheeks.
You felt like a giddy teenager again with a high school crush, kicking your feet helplessly under the sheets.
“You’re... you’re an idiot,” you stuttered out, your voice muffled by the fabric.
“You already called me that, princess,” Bucky countered. Even through the phone, you could practically see that lopsided, smug grin on his face.
“Okay, well...” You felt your face getting even hotter, your brain scrambling for a comeback that wasn’t there. “You’re a loser! I don’t know!”
Bucky let out a genuine, chesty laugh—a sound that was rich and unrestrained. It did nothing to soothe the way you were falling apart on your bed, or the rapid, uncontrollable beating of your heart against your chest.
It was a beautiful sound, one that you wanted to hear and cherish forever.
“Okay,” Bucky rasped, the sound of his tired voice dropping even deeper as he moved closer to the receiver. “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”
The words felt like a cold splash of water.
You didn’t want him to hang up—you wanted to stay in this bubble, you wanted to know more—everything—about him. But your pride had already taken enough of a beating for one night.
You couldn’t bring yourself to beg him to stay on the line.
“O-okay,” you stammered, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. “Fine. Goodnight, Bucky.”
“Goodnight, pretty princess,” he murmured tiredly.
Pretty.
The way he said the word made you want to sit up straight, beg him to stay on the phone with you. It was his version of tugging your heartstrings until your heart fell to the floor.
You waited for the click, for the silence that would signal he was gone. You heard the rustle of sheets and the heavy thud of his phone being set down somewhere. On his table or somewhere on a nearby pillow—you didn’t know.
But the line stayed open.
The timer on your screen kept ticking upward, second by second.
He hadn’t hung up.
A small, breathless realization dawned on you. He was waiting for you to do it. Or maybe… he didn’t want to hang up either? You clutched your phone tighter, resting it on the pillow right next to your ear, mirroring his position.
You stilled your breathing just to hear his own through the phone. It was steady, quiet, and comforting. You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his breath lull you, a tiny smile returning to your lips.
Neither of you said another word. You just drifted off together, miles apart, but sharing the same air through a speaker.
When you woke up the next morning, the sun was already slicing through the gaps in your curtains, bright and unforgiving as it was every Monday morning. Your mind and heart immediately settled on one thing, and you reached for your phone, squinting against the glare.
A soft, involuntary smile tugged at your lips when you saw the screen.
05:42:15.
The call was still active. You had gotten less than eight hours of your usual beauty sleep, but you had spent those hours sleeping with Bucky—or as close to it as you could.
You brought the phone to your ear, your voice raspy and dry with sleep.
“Bucky? Are you awake?”
The line was quiet, but as you waited, the sound of Bucky’s breathing finally picked up on the microphone. He was still dead asleep, likely buried under a pile of dark blankets in an equally dark room, shunning the rest of the world out.
You smiled, picturing his messy hair against a pillow, but when you pulled the phone away to check the actual time, you nearly jumped out of bed in a panic.
You had lecture in less than forty minutes, and you were still in your pajamas.
You looked at your desk—the neat stacks of textbooks, the internship applications, the rigid schedule that dictated every minute of your life.
“Bucky, wake up. You’ve got class, don’t you?” you hissed into the phone, scrambling toward your closet.
“Ngh,” he groaned, agitated and sounding like a defiant kid. “Five more… minutes.”
“Are you serious? Bucky, you’ll get in trouble!”
No answer.
You heard a shuffle, a frustrated, tired groan barely hitting the mic as he rolled over, until the phone slid off the mattress and hit the floor with a loud thud that made you wince.
And that was when it hit you.
Bucky was sleeping in on a Monday.
He didn’t care about the 8:00 AM lecture or the upstanding career paths.
He was a sleaze drummer from the wrong side of the social tracks, and you were a girl with a future to protect. Falling for him wasn’t just a bad idea; it was a wrecking ball. Your friends would laugh, your parents would be horrified, and your reputation would be charred.
You couldn’t fall in love with someone like him.
You couldn’t.
Whatever happened last night had to be a one-time thing—a moment of weakness where you just wanted to be free. It was a stress-reliever. Because realistically, a girl like you would never end up with a…
… dirtbag like Bucky Barnes.
With trembling fingers, you pressed the red button, cutting the digital tether between you. The silence in your room felt deafening. You moved frantically, throwing on a pleated skirt and a crisp, designer sweater, trying to dress yourself back into the presentable, perfect version of yourself that the rest of world expected to see.
Even an hour later as you sat in your usual seat during lecture, you couldn’t stop your leg from bouncing under the table.
The girl that had sat next to you looked visibly annoyed, but you were too distracted to care. Your eyes kept darting to your phone, checking for a notification that wasn’t there.
It was well past 10:00 AM now, and still, there was nothing.
You had already sat through one full lecture and shared a coffee with a girl you could hardly call a friend, and yet there was no sign of life from him. You were locked in a mental war, debating whether to send another text or just call him yourself.
“Hey,” Sharon barked, snapping her fingers to grab your attention. “Why do you keep staring at your phone? Is Walker trying to get in your skirt again?” She let out a sharp, teasing laugh before lifting her coffee to her lips.
You blinked, taken aback, and quickly flipped your phone face down on the table.
The comparison made your stomach turn. Walker was already assumed—and exactly the kind of guy your social circle expected you to date.
Bucky was... everything else.
“Oh, uh—yeah. Something like that,” you answered halfheartedly.
Sharon made an unpleasant face, her eyes narrowing with a look that was more judgment than concern.
“Don’t let yourself get too hung up on boys like that,” she warned, her voice dropping into that clinical, performative tone she used when she wanted to sound more sophisticated than she actually was. “Or for any boy, for that matter. College is where you mess around, not where you fall in love and get married.”
You hated every word that left her lips, yet they were the exact rules you had lived by.
Love was for after the degree, after the career, and certainly with someone who had their life together—not for a guy who would fuck you in a dirty bathroom and sleep in on a Monday morning.
“You’re right,” you murmured in defeat, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. “I know.”
You pulled your phone back into your lap, hiding the screen beneath the edge of the table. Your vision blurred slightly as you opened your thread with Bucky. Your heart was already breaking before you even typed the first letter.
You were killing the only thing that had made you feel real in years.
But it had to be done.
After typing out the text, you pressed send and immediately flipped the phone over, pressing it hard against your thigh, thinking that as long as you couldn’t see the message, then it wouldn’t affect you.
You looked back up at Sharon, forcing a smile that you both knew was bullshit.
You didn’t even need to tell her what happened, or who the text was for. Sharon saw the guilt in your eyes and filled in the blanks herself. She just smiled behind her coffee cup, though the smile was anything but reassuring.
“Good girl.”
Meanwhile, drool was dampening the corner of Bucky’s pillow, his limbs sprawled lazily across the mattress, dark shaggy hair a mess over his face.
In his head, he was still miles away. His dreams were looping through the wildest highlights of last night. The perfect picture of you, smiling up at him. The way your voice rolled his name off your tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bucky Barnes, right?
The way you’d laughed at his jokes, the way you’d led him out of the suffocating crowd, and the feel of your soft lips against his. Most vividly, the way you had arched your back against the porcelain sink when you finally let him take you.
That night was everything he’d ever dared to want.
It felt like a memory that shouldn’t belong to a guy like him—the kind of scene that only happened in movies or shitty romance novels. But it had actually come to life.
You were, quite literally, the girl of his dreams.
“Mmm,” Bucky groaned into the pillow, his body subconsciously yearning for you even in his sleep. The memories were so vivid, so fresh, that his nerves still felt the phantom touch of your skin.
“Ugh,” he grunted, shifting to get comfortable as the fog of sleep began to thin. “Fuck.”
As he moved, the friction of his hips against the mattress sent a jolt of pleasure straight through his veins.
Morning wood.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a goofy, half-awake smirk tugging at his mouth as he rocked his hips against his mattress, thinking about the way your lips felt around his cock. “Just like…. like that, baby.” He rasped, half asleep.
Bucky was seconds away from drifting back into the best part of his dream when reality shattered with a violent bang.
The bedroom door slammed against the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Bucky sat up straight, his heart leaping into his throat. The sheets fell to his waist as he squinted blindly against the intrusive hallway light.
“Bucky, what the fuck? You missed lecture? Are you serious?”
Steve stood in the doorway, a single backpack strap slung over his shoulder and his arms crossed tight over his chest. He looked less like a best friend and more like a disappointed father.
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky groaned, rubbing his face with both hands as he tried to scrub the sleep—and the lingering memory of you—out of his eyes. “Ever heard of knocking? Fucking hell.”
“I did knock. For five minutes,” Steve snapped, stepping into the room and kicking a stray boot out of his path. “You didn’t answer. I thought you were dead, especially because I didn’t see you at all after last night. Then I hear you... whatever the hell you were just doing.” Steve made a face of pure disgust, pointedly looking anywhere but at his best friend’s obvious state of arousal.
“If you miss one more lecture, the dean is going to cancel our performance for the big football game. You’re going to ruin it for the whole band, Bucky. Not just yourself.”
Bucky winced, feeling like a kid being scolded. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his hips as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. The football performance was their biggest break—the kind of exposure that could actually get them scouted. Steve had been breathing down everyone’s necks about it for weeks, and Bucky knew he had overstepped.
“I know, Steve. I get it,” Bucky mumbled, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Do you? Because you’re lying here with a wet dream while the rest of us are actually trying to make something of this,” Steve countered, lingering by the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be in the car in the driveway. I’m not losing this gig because you decided to have a late night.”
Steve turned, his voice trailing back down the hallway. “And for crying out loud, keep your phone off vibrate the next time someone needs you.”
Fuck.
His phone.
You.
He scrambled for the phone that should’ve been on his bed, tossing the sheets aside, but it was nowhere to be found. He lunged for his nightstand, fingers sweeping over the cluttered surface—nothing.
Finally, he looked down and found the device lying face down on the floorboards where it had fallen.
“Shit.”
His heart was still beating as he snatched it up. A part of him was desperate for a ‘good morning’ text or a cute, sleepy selfie, but another part of him for some reason felt a cold, sinking sense of dread.
His thumb tapped the screen, and the light flooded his face.
His shoulders dropped instantly at the notifications staring back at him.
Multiple text messages from Steve, but two from you.
The air left his lungs in one long, hollow exhale. He stared at the two text bubbles from you until the white background felt like it was burning his retinas.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
What?
That was it?
You just wanted to move on from last night without a word of explanation? As if the last seven hours hadn’t happened? As if he were nothing more than your dirty little secret?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky let out a harsh, bitter laugh, hunching over the edge of his bed as he read the message again and again, waiting for it to change. It didn’t.
The princess emoji next to your name, which had felt like a playful, intimate joke just hours ago, now looked like a warning label. It was a hard reminder of exactly who you were and—more importantly—exactly who he was to you.
Bucky felt an unwanted heat crawling up the back of his neck. It was humiliation, a slow-boiling anger that made his jaw clench until it hurt.
One second he was burning with the memory of your skin, and the next, he was freezing under your cold words and rejection.
He wanted to throw the phone against the wall.
He wanted to call you and demand to know how you could sound so soft at two in the morning and act so heartless at ten.
He dropped the phone back onto the mattress, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands.
A sinking realization hit him, one that he wanted to deny; he should have seen this coming.
You were the girl on the pedestal, the crown jewel of the campus social scene. And he was the exact type of guy your friends warned you about.
He wasn’t boyfriend material. Hell, even thinking the word boyfriend felt ridiculous now. In your eyes, he was probably nothing more than a liability.
Bucky picked the phone back up, his fingers hovering over the screen. They trembled slightly with a frantic, petty need to say something—anything—to hurt you back. It was immature, and he knew it wasn’t fair, but he wanted to tell you he didn’t care either. He wanted to lie and say it had just been a hookup for him, too.
But even he knew that was a goddamn lie.
In the end, his pride won out. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing he was crushed. He wouldn’t give you a paragraph when you had only given him a sentence.
With a shaky, jagged exhale, he finally typed out his response.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad.
By afternoon, the campus was busy with the typical Monday chaos, but for Bucky, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. He was leaning against a brick pillar near the quad, fumbling with his wired earbuds, when the sound of your laugh caught his attention.
Instinctively, his heart skipped a beat. He looked up, searching for the familiar noise that his ears craved to hear.
And there you were, surrounded by a crowd that was a stark, colorful contrast to the one you were dancing in at the house party last night.
You were wearing a soft sweater and a perfectly pressed skirt. No beer soaked shirts, no dark-wash jeans, no scuffed shoes. You looked every bit the polished, popular princess.
At this point, he couldn’t even tell which version of you was real anymore.
You caught his eye once, then twice, across the distance. Each time, you tore your gaze away so fast it felt like a physical slap to his face. You went right back to laughing at something one of the girls said, your smile bright and beaming, as if you hadn’t broken his heart just a few hours ago.
Bucky’s heart couldn’t take it. He tried to untangle his earbuds, but his hands were shaking as the wave of humiliation came flooding back in his blood.
He didn’t want to be a secret.
He wanted you.
And he wanted to know how you could stand there and pretend you weren’t haunted by him, too.
Later on in the day, you were walking down the East Wing hall, lagging slightly behind your group to check your bag, when a strong hand suddenly clamped firmly around your arm.
“Excuse me—!” you gasped, but your protest turned into a squeal as he swung you hard around the corner. You collided with his chest, barely getting a chance to collect yourself before he steered you into an empty, darkened lecture hall.
“What the hell is your problem!” you shouted, spinning around.
Bucky shoved the door shut with his foot, his thumb swiping over the lock. An involuntary shiver ran down your spine as you felt that agonizing familiarity of being locked in a room with him.
“Bucky,” you hissed, stepping toward him before he could even turn around. You kept your voice low, terrified someone in the hall might overhear. “I thought we agreed that we’d keep what happened last night—”
“—between the two of us,” Bucky finished with a biting tone.
He scoffed, finally turning to look down at you. His eyes were dark and stormy with anger, yet there was a sadness in them that made you want to tear your gaze away. He stepped into your space, looming over you until you were forced to look up at him.
“I know. I read your text,” he said, his voice low and vulnerable. “But is that really what you want? Or is that just what you think you’re supposed to want?”
You crossed your arms over your chest, your face warming as the silence filled the dark, empty lecture room.
You didn’t know what to say. He had agreed with you—without putting up much of a fight at all, in fact. When you’d read his simple, short “yeah, looks bad” message, it had hurt, as selfish as that was. A small, irrational part of you had hoped he would fight for you. A part of you wanted him to call you immediately and tell you to cut the bullshit.
It was unfair to think that way, especially given how final your own message had been. But that was the problem with falling in love; it made you act unfairly. It made you crave things that would be unfair to have.
Which was exactly why falling in love was so dangerous. Especially with the wrong guy.
“Bucky, I—”
“No,” Bucky cut you off. He took a step closer, his shadow swallowing you whole as he backed you up against the nearest wall.
“What is it? Tell me the truth,” he demanded, raising his hand the wall behind your head, pinning you in. “Is it because you’re scared of being with me? Is that the problem? Because I’ve seen you, princess. You’re not afraid of sneaking out of that big sorority house of yours in the middle of the night. You’re not afraid of all the attention, or the parties, or running out wild with all these so-called friends of yours.”
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. Even with the anger radiating off him, even with the tight way he clenched his jaw, you noticed the way his hungry eyes slowly drop to your lips.
You knew he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss you.
“So why now? Why me?” he rasped, his voice dropping low and almost painful. “Why am I the only thing you’re suddenly too terrified to be seen with?”
“You wouldn’t understand—”
“Try me,” Bucky challenged.
He reached out, his large hand cupping your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, forcing you to keep your eyes locked on his, to stay here, grounded with him.
“Is it because of what people at school say about me?” he whispered, his eyes searching yours. “Is that it? You’re worried the reputation I have would tarnish your pretty, untainted one. That being seen with the dirty, dirtbag drummer would ruin that perfect pedestal everyone put you on. Right?”
He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours.
Being this close to him—feeling his warmth and his hand cupping your face once more made your body ache to bridge the gap. It was a craving that had been eating at you since the second he dropped you off after the house party, a hunger that had kept you awake even as you fell asleep on the phone, wishing he were in your bed instead of just a voice in your ear.
“And even then…” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there. “Even with my lips right over yours... you’re not pulling away, princess.”
It was pointless to say anything—because no matter how hard you tried to deny him with words, your body betrayed you every single time.
So, when he let out a jagged, shallow breath and finally closed the distance, you didn’t push him away.
The second his lips crashed against yours, you were already kissing him back. Your hands tangled in his soft, shaggy hair, pulling him closer just like you had last night. You were lost in each other, your bodies moving in a desperate dance while your fingers tugged at the disheveled locks you had grown to love.
Bucky’s hands rested possessively over your waist before roaming up your back, pressing your body tight against his. His lips moved feverishly over yours, hungry and completely unapologetic.
Trapped in a dark lecture hall with Bucky Barnes, you had never felt more free.
The two of you kissed until you were left breathless. When he finally pulled away, he stayed close—his forehead resting against yours, those vulnerable blue eyes boring into your own. He reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face before his fingers trailed down to cup your cheek so gently that it made your chest ache.
“I…” he swallowed hard, suddenly sheepish. “I lov—”
“Where the hell did she go?”
A familiar, aggravating voice echoed from the hall, right outside the locked door.
“Oh, shit.” You muttered.
You pulled away from Bucky with a sharp, panicked jerk, your hands flying to your hair to smooth the mess his fingers had made. You straightened your skirt and wiped your mouth, the warmth of his kiss already fading from your skin.
You turned toward the door, your hand reaching for the lock, when his voice stopped you.
“Wait—”
Bucky took a hesitant step forward, his hand outstretched as if he could catch you before you vanished. His eyes were wide and desperate, and as he opened his mouth to finish the confession he’d started, you cut him off.
You didn’t turn around. You knew if you looked at him, you would crumble.
“Bucky, stop,” you whispered, defeated. “We... we can’t. We’re total opposites. A girl like me would never…” You swallowed hard, not daring to finish the sentence.
You finally glanced back over your shoulder, your heart breaking at the sight of him standing there in the shadows. A bitter, sad smile touched your lips. “Looks bad, right?”
The words mirrored the text he had immediately regretted sending. It was unfair and it was stupid, but the wall was back up.
Bucky wanted to be with you, dammit, but you were pushing him away just to save face.
Without waiting for a response, you turned the lock and slipped into the bright light of the hallway. The transformation was instantaneous. You did a total one-eighty flip. You had your shoulders back, perfect posture, and a breezy smile that made you look so beautiful and so out of reach it made Bucky want to punch a wall.
“Sorry, girls!” you chirped, catching up to Sharon and the others. “I dropped my favorite lucky pen in the lecture hall. I thought I’d lost it forever.”
Your laughter echoed down the corridor, bright and hollow, fading as the group turned the corner. Inside the room, Bucky stepped up to the small door window. He watched your retreating back, the sway of your hair and hips as you disappeared into a world that had no place for him.
His phone dinged in his pocket—no longer on vibrate, just like Steve wanted. He dug it out of his pocket and stared at the screen.
Steve🎸: buck. practice is in five. WYA?
Steve🎸: too many distractions in your life, man. where the hell are you????
Bucky thought about the lyrics he’d whispered and how you were the only person he could ever imagine watching Iron Maiden with. But as the silence of the hall settled around him, the truth hit him square in the face like a sucker punch. It always fucking did.
At the end of the day, he was just a dirtbag drummer in a low-rent band with a bad reputation. And you were... well, you.
Undeniably out of reach, and perfectly you. If his only option was to admire you from afar... he’d have to be satisfied with just that.
He’d have to be satisfied with being your dirty little secret.
With a defeated sigh, he pushed through the lecture hall door and headed down the opposite end of the hall, away from the sound of your fading laughter. He typed out a response to Steve with cold, steady fingers.
bucky: got caught up with something stupid again.
bucky: on my way
He shoved the phone into his pocket and kept walking, your plumping lip gloss still burning against his lips.
You could always run back to your friends and your perfect little world without him, but he knew the truth.
You were already his.
You just weren’t brave enough to admit it yet.
DIRTBAG BARNES IS FINALLY HEEREEEEE
ngl, i lowkey teared up writing this, especially the scene where they were on the phone. i was literally shaking my head like "poor bucky," as if i'm not the one putting him through this toxic situationship. anyway, i finally made a playlist for this (not sure why i didn’t do it sooner). if you'd like to listen, you definitely should. there are some absolute bangers in there.
18+ mdni. smut. this whole masterlist is filthy.
introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ — @houseofhyde™
employers fear him, his clients eat him!
he's working late, cause he's a super soldier!
main masterlist
p*rnstar — camstar!bucky x virgin!reader
You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
40-love! — tennis instructor!bucky x reader
Coach Barnes lives by a simple motto. Happy clients, bigger pay. Most of the time, that means entertaining the old folks or pampering the rich and bored by always letting them win. Easy money. But what happens when his newest client is a spoiled little brat whose half his age, shoved on the court by mommy and daddy? Well. He'll make sure to put her in her place. Professionally, of course.
house tour — pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader
Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
need a ride? — trucker!bucky x reader
When you stole your dad's car keys to sneak out of the house to go to a concert, the last thing you expected was to break down in the middle of nowhere. So, you do the one thing a young, impressionable woman should never do: you stick out your thumb and hitchhike.
updated 12.7.25.
sorry. you were probably expecting a kinktober. this is the best i can do.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
this is an 18+ space that contains bucky barnes x reader content. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely sensual and/or dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
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➞ 🤍 fluff ❤️🔥 spicy ❤️🩹 angst 🖤 dark
✮.ᐟ 𝐩*𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ❤️🔥
⠀ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader
⤷ You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series
✮.ᐟ just don't look! [7.2k] 🤍❤️🔥
⤷ Bucky is the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, loving, and respectful. But months into, and you still haven’t slept together. He’s holding back, afraid he’ll lose control, but you’re determined to break that good-boy resolve. Now, in the night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple: don’t look.
✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 [13.7k] ❤️🔥
⠀ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader
⤷ Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series
⤷ What happens when Bucky Barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? You get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. You get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. And most importantly, you get dirty little secrets.
✮.ᐟ runnin' down the road, loosen my load [18k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ farmer!stucky x reader
⤷ Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞-𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐬 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
✦— single dad!bucky x teacher!reader
⤷ Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. His world revolves around his daughter, Rebecca, and he likes it that way; steady job, cozy home, no room for romance. After a less-than-pleasant first meeting, he discovers you’re Rebecca’s elementary school teacher. He's determined to avoid you at all costs, and he definitely doesn’t plan on falling for you… especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.
𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
✦— single dad!bucky x florist!reader
⤷ After your grandmother’s death, you inherit her failing floral shop and an empty house. A bad first day in town gets worse after a run-in with the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. You instantly despise each other and vow to stay apart. But in a town this small, that’s impossible, especially when you unknowingly hire his moody teenage son to work at the shop.
𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 🤍❤️🩹❤️🔥
✦— congressman!bucky x america's sweetheart!reader
⤷ Reformed assassin turned congressman Bucky Barnes is drowning in bad press and public distrust. Desperate to save his career, his team proposes a bold fix; a marriage of convenience to you, the beloved daughter of a decorated war hero and America’s sweetheart. The arrangement is strictly business, benefiting you both. But behind the cameras, you can’t stand each other, but pretending otherwise may be the hardest part.
⤷ You were nothing more than Hydra’s gift to the Winter Soldier, a prize he claimed after every mission, a toy to use as he pleases. But when the base collapses in chaos, you brace for him to finally cast you aside. Instead, he makes a choice so unexpected it shatters everything you thought you knew.
✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! ❤️🔥
⠀ includes house tour, p*rnstar, 40-love, need a ride?
⤷ introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ employers fear him, his clients eat him!
✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ congressman!bucky x secretary!reader
⤷ Bucky Barnes never expected that his timid, shy secretary—who could barely greet “Congressman Barnes’ office!” on the phone without stuttering—would be writing filthy, inappropriate fanfiction in the workplace. The most logical thing to do would be to fire you, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it.
⤷ Trying to find romance when you live with your best friend, who also happens to be a guy, is not the easiest thing ever. It especially doesn't help when the best friend in question just happens to be jealous and territorial as fuck.
✮.ᐟ give it up for the thunderbolts*! [4.9k words] ❤️🔥
⠀ ⠀ rockstar!bucky
⤷ What was supposed to be a fun Friday night at a concert with your friends resulted in reuniting with your past high school sweetheart, who now also happens to be the lead guitarist in a new uprising rock band, the thunderbolts*.
✮.ᐟ first class [2.1k words] 🤍
⠀ pilot!husband!bucky x wife!reader
⤷ Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.
✮.ᐟ everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer 🖤❤️🔥
⠀ cop!bucky barnes
⤷ You were driving late at night, and you got pulled over for something so trivial—it felt targeted. You think you might get away with a warning if you play your cards right, but Officer Barnes has a dark look in his eyes, and he doesn't like to be messed around with.
✮.ᐟ soft around the edges [1.1k words] 🤍
⠀ chunky!beefy!bucky x pregnant!reader
⤷ Ever since you got pregnant, Bucky has been putting on extra weight—specifically around his stomach area. He's been feeling insecure, thinking you won't be attracted to him anymore. But little does he know, you absolutely fucking love his body.
✮.ᐟ right my wrongs [3.6k] ❤️🩹
⤷ arguments with your boyfriend bucky always upset you, but it's the aftermath of the fight that leaves you hurting the most.
✮.ᐟ i put a spell on you [14.2k words] 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
⠀ salem witch au
⤷ Bucky never believed in love, yet you haunt his thoughts after only a few stolen words. Unable to explain the obsession, he convinces himself it must be witchcraft. And if you’re the cause of his torment, then there’s only one way to stop it… with fire.
✮.ᐟ candyman [3.1k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ 40s!bucky
⤷ what happens when a hopelessly devoted, broke brooklyn boy spends his last few cents on a lollipop just for you? well, you lick it up, he gets hard watching you, and then you come up with a much sweeter way to pay him back.
✮.ᐟ boo!-ty call [10.2K] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ virgin!bucky x sex operator!reader
⤷ According to Steve and Sam, Bucky Barnes is a hopeless virgin with a crush on a phone sex operator. Dragged to the frat’s Halloween party to finally lose his v-card, he strikes out—until he hears a voice that sounds strangely familiar.
✮.ᐟ if your man wanna get buck wild. [6.3k] 🤍❤️🔥
⠀ mob boss!bucky x mob wife!reader
⤷ After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.
✮.ᐟ I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND [4.7k] 🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
⠀ beefy!bucky
⤷Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d be ready for a relationship. Maybe he still isn't fully, but being with you has shown him just how much his world can change for the better through soft, vulnerable moments.
✮.ᐟ my congressman gave to me [8.0k] ❤️🔥
⠀ congressman!bucky x assistant!reader
⤷ Secret Santa goes wrong when you draw your boss and nemesis, Congressman Barnes—and gift him something wildly inappropriate. What you don’t expect? He drew your name too.
✮.ᐟ once bitten, and twice shy [3.8k] 🤍❤️🩹
⤷ bucky hated christmas. growing up poor meant no fancy trees, gifts, or home-cooked meals. and the snow, for obvious reasons, he despised it. unfortunately for him, his girlfriend loves christmas, and you're trying to get him into the holiday spirit: starting with decorating.
✮.ᐟ take it easy [4.6k] 🤍
⤷ Bucky hates working on the boat, but when the Wilsons’ pretty family friend is the one barking the commands, he doesn’t mind it one bit.
✮.ᐟ super-soldier problems [4.6k]❤️🔥
⤷ After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.
✮.ᐟ so, this is love? [19.6k]🤍❤️🔥❤️🩹
⠀ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
⤷ The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
✮.ᐟ let me in, baby [5.3k] 🖤❤️🔥
⠀ vampire!bucky
⤷ After months of silence, Bucky shows up at your door in the middle of the night—bloodied, beaten, and his pupils blown wide with a hunger for you that you've never seen before. Despite everything telling you to push him away, your heart can't help but invite him inside.
✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞!
── .✦ one direction inspired collab w/ @houseofhyde
⤷ i want you to rock me !
⤷ do you like the way we kiss in the dark?
⤷ you say you're a good girl.
size difference ⟡ coney island baby ⟡ somno ⟡ crying and breeding ⟡ sick bucky ⟡ jealous bucky ⟡ bucky after a fight ⟡ domestic bucky ⟡hyperspermia ⟡ read more here
super-soldier problems. — [bucky barnes x f!reader]
⚠︎ warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn and absolutely no plot, hyperspermia, creampies, bucky doesn't believe in condoms, blow jobs, facials, bucky trying to be gentle and failing miserably, sensitivity and overstimulation, slightly dom!reader, aftercare, soft!bucky, dirty talk, praising, pet names: "doll" "sweetheart "baby"
a/n: very inaccurate depictions of what the super soldier serum would have an effect on when it comes to sex, but good thing this is all fiction! kind of an addition to my hyperspermia drabble. this is nothing but pure filth. i had to sit in the corner and think abt this one for a bit
word count: 4.6k
masterlist
synopsis:
After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.
Bucky never saw this coming.
After years of being a super-soldier, he thought he finally had it all figured out; the unlimited stamina, the lack of fatigue, and the sheer strength and muscle that the average person couldn’t obtain in two lifetimes of effort.
But Hydra’s serum never came with a handbook on side effects. Bucky never imagined he’d encounter anything like this—until he met you.
You were the first woman Bucky had dated since coming out of cryofreeze, and he was damn well going to make sure you were the last. Being with you made him open up both emotionally and physically. He let you into his heart and, well... you made the mistake of letting him between your legs.
The first few times you had sex, you assumed his uncontrollable trembling and heavy breathing were just nerves. After all, it had been decades for him. But even buried deep inside you, he always made no effort to move. His muscles strained and his face twisted into a grimace, as if it were taking every ounce of his will just to hold back.
Hold back on what, exactly?
At the time, you didn’t know yet.
“Bucky,” you whispered, resting both hands on his shoulders.
He hovered above you, eyes half-lidded, his bare chest heaving as his strong arms caged you against the mattress. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can take our time. It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not that I’m not ready,” Bucky let out a low, agitated groan. “I’m more than ready, doll. I just—fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
You frowned slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “You’re doing great, honey. Just… move your hips. Create a little friction, like this—”
You began to rock your hips up against him. Bucky’s head dipped, his arms nearly giving out as he threatened to collapse on top of you. The feel of your tight, silky walls rubbing against him was clearly more than he could handle.
“Fuck—Jesus, baby!” he barked out, his hips twitching involuntarily as he rutted even deeper into you. “Careful—shit, I’m gonna cum if you keep moving like that—”
“I know, baby,” you encouraged. “I want you to cum.”
When your boyfriend—who’s a literal super-soldier—is a panting, trembling mess on top of you, eyes rolled back and babbling filthy words, how could you possibly stop?
Especially since, despite being together for a while, you had yet to actually see him cum.
Determined, you wrapped your legs tight around Bucky’s waist. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance and topple fully onto you, his weight pressing you into the bed as his cock pushed even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat as you felt him sink more inside, rocking your hips rhythmically against his.
“Shit, baby—this isn’t good—” Bucky babbled, his hips slowing their movement as he rocked lazily against you. “Fuck… I’m—”
You felt your heart leap into your throat. Every time Bucky was close to cumming, he pulled out at the last second and never let himself finish the job. He’d always excuse himself and run to the bathroom, never saying what for—but he’d always come back with his shoulders a little less tense.
It didn’t take more than one brain cell to piece together that he was finishing on his own in there.
But now, with your legs clamped tight around his waist, you weren’t going to give him the opportunity.
You squeezed your legs tighter, your cunt clenching around his shaft as you felt him pulse. Bucky groaned, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his whole body began to shudder and shake against yours.
“Baby, I—I can’t—” Bucky moaned. “I’m gonna cum inside you. I can’t… need to pull out!”
“It’s okay, Buck,” you reassured him against his ear, your hands rubbing up and down his broad back. “I’m on the pill. You can cum inside, baby.”
“Fuck—no, that’s not it…” Bucky grunted, his voice breaking as his breathing grew even heavier. “Fuck… baby. I can’t cum inside you—you can’t take it.”
“Bucky, just do it,” you groaned, ignoring his warning as you ground your hips up one more time.
You didn’t care about his excuses.
All you wanted was to finally feel him come undone inside you.
“Cum inside me, Bucky. I want to feel you. It feels too good to stop now.”
He let out a panicked, strangled sound, his metal hand clenching the bedsheets so hard the fabric began to tear. He tried to lock his arms to push himself up, desperate to pull out before it was too late, but you weren’t having it. You shifted your hips, tilting your pelvis just right to catch the head of his cock, locking your legs tighter around his waist and pulling him back in.
He moaned loudly as he sheathed back into you, the sensation of your tight cunt deliciously squeezing his shaft making his mind go dizzy.
“Wait—baby, no!”
Bucky arched his back as his cock pulsed and throbbed, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled into his head. The wet heat hit your cervix, making you gasp, but it didn’t stop there. He just kept coming, and coming, and your legs felt like jello around him as he kept pumping you full.
Bucky’s body spasmed, his muscles bunching and twitching as the super-soldier serum’s side effect made itself known. He was absolutely flooding you, filling you deep. You felt like you were drowning inside, the hot, thick weight of him filling every spare inch of you. It was too much for your body to hold—the excess began to spill out, slicking your thighs and the bedsheets beneath you as he continued to pulse and pour into you.
He let out a long, broken moan, finally collapsing against your chest as a trembling, sweaty mess.
He looked completely mortified, refusing to look at you as if he expected you to shun him or push him off in disgust.
“I told you,” he rasped, his voice shaky. “I… I’m sorry. Fuck. Let me grab a towel to clean you up—”
“Bucky, wait—”
Before you could even tell him to stay, he quickly scrambled off the bed. He fumbled for his boxers, pulling them up as he ran for the bathroom in a hurry.
While you waited for Bucky to return, you flopped back onto the bed and let out a disbelieving breath. You propped your legs up, tilting your head down to see the “damage” he was so painfully ashamed of—and your heart skipped a beat.
You were a total mess.
His cum was dripping down to your navel from when he had desperately tried to pull away, trailing down to your mound and between your folds. When you lifted your leg a little higher, your cunt made an embarrassing squelch as more of his seed trickled out of you, staining the sheets.
“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, eyes going wide at just how much he filled you.
Your face went bright red over the fact that he could produce such a… massive load. It was a testament to just how much the serum had changed him, turning him into something more than human, yet vulnerable in the best possible way. Knowing that his body was capable of filling you so completely—of literally overflowing—was the hottest thing you had ever experienced.
Bucky returned, but he wouldn’t even look in the direction of the bed. He moved shamefully, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He had a clean, damp towel in his hand, and he moved to the edge of the mattress without saying a word.
“Bucky…” you spoke softly, reaching out for him.
“Don’t. Just—don’t,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He gently spread your legs to get to the mess, but his eyes stayed fixed on the towel, never once meeting yours.
As he began to wipe you down, he just kept repeating the same words under his breath, like a mantra of shame. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll. God, I'm sorry.”
The towel was already becoming saturated, and he had to fold it over twice just to try and catch what was still sluggishly leaking out of you. Every time he moved the cloth, more spilled out, coating his fingers and the sheets. The more he cleaned, the more he seemed to sink into himself.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his face twisting with guilt. “You’re a mess. I... I literally drowned you in it. I told you that you couldn’t take it, and I still let it happen. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”
He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, his movements frantic as he tried to clean you up. He was so caught up in his own head, so convinced that he had done something disgusting, that he didn’t even notice you weren’t looking at him with disgust at all.
You reached out, your fingers gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic movements. “Bucky, look at me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It’s okay. I promise, I’m okay—”
“No, it’s not okay.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he finally met your eyes. He swallowed hard, his gaze searching yours as if he were expecting you to judge him for what he was about to say.
“It’s the serum,” he confessed. “It doesn’t just make me stronger or faster. My metabolism, my recovery, even this. It’s like my body is constantly over-performing, and working overtime to produce more of everything. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold back or how many times I go to the bathroom before we start… it’s always like this.”
He looked away, his jaw clenched with embarrassment.
“And it’s not just the physical part. The serum enhances every feeling that’s already inside you. Everything is louder. Every feeling is dialed up to fucking eleven. When I’m with you, and I’m… I’m horny,” he blushed, sheepish. “It’s not just a feeling. It’s feels like a goddamn command. My body just takes over.”
When he finally looked back at you, his blue eyes were watery with guilt, and it made your heart hurt.
“Especially because it’s you. I love you so much, and that love just feeds the serum. It makes me want you so bad I can’t breathe, and then my body reacts by… by doing this to you. I’m a super soldier, doll. I’m supposed to have discipline. But when I’m inside you, I’ve got none.”
You reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to keep eye contact. You didn’t care about the mess all over your body and the sheets; you just wanted him to see that there was nothing to be ashamed of.
“Bucky, listen to me,” you pressed, thumb swiping over his cheek gently. “I don’t want your discipline. I want you—all of you.”
You leaned in closer, your voice turning into a comforting whisper.
“And if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s incredibly hot. Knowing that you want me so much that your body literally overflows. It makes me feel wanted in a way I can’t even describe—”
Bucky flinched slightly, his face getting even redder. He broke contact by looking down at the sheets in denial. “You’re just saying that to be kind. You’re covered in me, doll. I ruined the bed. I practically drowned you. There’s nothing ‘hot’ about losing control like a—” he grimaced, “—pervert.”
“Okay…” you took a careful breath, trying for a different angle. “What if we found a way to make you feel more in control? Something to try to contain it?"
He glanced at you, wary. “Like what?”
“We could start using condoms,” you suggested softly. “The heavy-duty kind. It would catch everything, Bucky. It stays inside the latex, so there’s no mess, and no reason for you to feel like you have to run to the bathroom the second you’re done. Then after we have sex, we could just lay together instead of having to worry about staining the sheets. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“We could at least try it?”
Bucky stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to the towel in his hand. You could see the gears turning as he considered the idea of a physical barrier—something to keep his “situation” under wraps so he could focus on you instead of his own anxiety.
But the truth was—he hated that he even had to consider this.
Internally, every heightened cell in his body recoiled at the idea of a barrier—even if it was something as flimsy as a condom.
The serum didn’t just make him produce more; it made him feel more.
Every nerve ending made him sensitive, making the sensation of being inside you an all-consuming experience. His mind couldn’t fathom putting a layer of latex between himself and your warmth. He lived for the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him, the friction of skin-on-skin, and the way he could feel every internal pulse of your climax against his own. To him, a condom felt like a cage, a dulling of the one thing that made him feel truly alive and connected to his humanity.
But when he looked down at the towel—stained with the evidence of his own lack of control—the shame came roaring back harder.
He couldn’t keep doing this to you— drowning you, staining everything, making the room reek of sex, and then hiding in the bathroom like a pathetic, wounded animal.
“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, doll. If that makes you feel better… if it keeps things cleaner… then we’ll use ‘em.”
He reached out and squeezed your hand, his metal fingers careful and gentle, hiding the fact that his body was already mourning the loss of the direct contact he craved. He’d trade his own pleasure for a bit of his dignity back if it meant he didn’t have to see you covered in his ‘freakish’ excess ever again.
“We’ll try it your way,” he whispered, leaning in to press a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it takes to keep me from making a mess out of you.”
A few days had passed, and the heavy-duty box of condoms sat on the nightstand like a silent mediator between his shame and your desire.
Now, with the lights dimmed, Bucky was over you again. But everything felt wrong. To his enhanced senses, the thin layer of latex felt like a suit of armor. He was moving into you, but the friction wasn’t the same. He couldn’t directly feel the small flutters of your muscles or the exact texture of your silkiness that usually drove him mad.
It was driving him towards a different kind of frustration—a sensory deprivation that made him groan in irritation.
“You okay?” you asked softly through a moan as he rutted into you.
“Fine,” he grunted, his thrusts diving deeper into you, desperate for that satisfaction.
Bucky grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder as he repositioned himself. One strong, flesh arm tensed next to your head while the other whirred in its vibranium casing. He angled your hip so he could fuck even deeper into you, your back arching as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot.
“Oh, fuck! Bucky—!”
“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his hips moving at an uneven, frantic pace. “If you keep crying out like that, I’m gonna cum.”
The condom suddenly felt excruciatingly tight, stretching to its limit as he felt himself begin to pulse. His body shuddered as his cum started to balloon the latex; the sensation of that extreme stretch made him panic.
He couldn’t stay inside. The pressure was simply too much.
The rubber wasn’t going to hold.
“Shit—I can’t—”
You felt his hips pull away, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his back, whimpering as you tried to hold him, but it was no use. “Buck—stay inside, please—”
And with a groan, Bucky pulled out at the last possible second.
He collapsed onto his knees between your legs, his breath ragged and hitching desperately. The condom was dangerously full, the reservoir tip engorged and already starting to seep at the base from just pumping it full.
He couldn’t stop. His hands flew down, his fingers—both vibranium and flesh—wrapping around himself over the slipping latex. He began to stroke himself with quick, heavy pumps, the sensation of cumming so much making him painfully sensitive—his body couldn’t help but crave more. His back arched, and he gasped as he watched his own seed continue to flood the condom, spilling over the rim and coating his knuckles as it dripped down on the bed.
You could only pant, watching him finish himself off right in front of you.
He looked like a wreck, his eyes rolled back and his chest heaving. Even with the latex in the way, the release was still so intense, it was dripping out of the condom and making the room smell like the musky scent of sweat and sex.
Bucky let out a long, jagged exhale that sounded more like a snarl than a breath.
“Fuck,” he rasped, irritated. He didn’t look at you—he just stared at his hands, watching the excess drip onto the sheets he had tried so hard to keep clean. “I knew it. I knew the goddamn condom wouldn’t hold.”
You swallowed hard, sitting up and reaching for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t seem sad this time. Instead, his shoulders were shaking with the frustration of himself and the entire situation.
“Honey, please—”
“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” he snapped. His blue eyes were dark, blown out with frustration. “I told you. I told you it was too much for a piece of rubber, and I just fucking embarrassed myself in front of you again.”
He gestured wildly at the mess—the leaking latex and the white streaks dirtying his vibranium fingers.
“I couldn’t even feel you, doll. I was suffocating in that thing, and I still ended up making a mess of everything anyway.” He let out an agitated sigh. “It’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke. I’m trying to make love to you like a normal partner should—trying to be a goddamn gentleman—and I just end up looking like a fucking animal jerking himself off on the bed because I can’t even stay inside my own girlfriend.”
You were starting to get tired of him apologizing for something that made your blood sing, tired of him treating his own body like a broken weapon instead of a source of pleasure. He was so busy being angry at the mess that he was completely missing the fact that you were practically fawning over him because of this.
Instead of arguing or trying to soothe his ego with words you already knew he wouldn’t listen to, you decided to show him exactly what you thought about his ‘problem’.
You sat up and crawled towards him, your legs finding his waist as you toppled yourself over him. Bucky was so caught off guard, so deep in his self-loathing, that he didn’t even resist as you forced him down against the pillows.
“Sweetheart—what are you—!”
“It’s always about what you think, Bucky,” you said.
Your hand reached down, your fingers sliding down his stomach and fingers grazing gently against his half-hard, half-soft, cock. “You’re so busy deciding for me that this is ‘disgusting’ or ‘wrong,’ but you never once stopped to even consider what I think.”
Bucky’s breathing grew heavier at the sight of you on top of him, his flesh hand coming up to hover over your waist, unsure if he should pull you closer or push you away. “Doll, look at me. I’m a mess.”
“Yeah,” you sighed wistfully, taunting. “But not nearly as messy as I want you to be.”
Your hands found the base of the condom, pulling it off in one quick swipe. It popped off the head of his cock, and his dick sprang free, sending the cum pooling out of the rubber and onto his shaft, his pelvis, his thighs, and the sheets.
“Jesus—baby! No! It’s getting everywhere!”
Without another word, you leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling through the thick, salty cream of his seed.
Bucky’s entire body jolted at the feel of your warm tongue caressing his tip. A broken, high-pitched moan escaped his throat as his back arched off the bed. His fingers tangled into your hair—not to pull you away, but to hold you there in sheer disbelief.
You sucked him deep, your throat working to swallow the heavy pulsing of his cock, making it clear with every wet, hungry sound that you didn’t just want him—you wanted all of him.
Even the parts he was afraid of.
He was trembling underneath you, the frustration and shame finally melting away into helpless surrender.
“Fuuuck,” he whined, tossing his head back against the pillow.
The sound was a complete contrast to the angry, frustrated man he had been just seconds ago. Encouraged by his moans, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive veins of his shaft, lapping at the leftover seed from before.
Because he had just finished, his nerve endings were painfully sensitive and overstimulated. Every wet slide of your lips felt like an electric shock to his system. His metal hand clamped onto the headboard, the wood creaking under his vibranium grip, while his flesh hand stayed buried in your hair.
“Doll, it’s—too much,” he gasped, though his hips stuttered upward in a helpless, jerky motion. “I’m too sensitive... I just... god, I can’t breathe.”
He was hyper-responsive, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his own pleas, he didn’t pull you away—and he didn’t want to.
The sensation of you worshiping the very thing he’d been ready to hide, and the feeling of your mouth swallowing every last remaining drop, was overwhelming his brain. Every time your lips hit the base of his cock, or your cheeks hollowed out to take it all in, it elicited a sharp, broken sob from his throat.
And when you looked up at him— your lips glistening and chin smeared with his seed—and gave him a slow, hooded stare, he felt like he was going to collapse right then and there.
“Shit, baby. Take it out… out of your mouth. Fuck.”
Bucky’s hands shook as they tightened in your hair, trying to tug you away, desperate to spare you from what was about to come. But you were determined, your hands locking onto his thighs to keep him in place.
You had made a silent promise to yourself to take every bit of him, and once the first thick pulse hit the back of your throat, Bucky’s protests instantly dissolved into a moaning mess.
He felt as if his entire body were on fire; his mind and vision spun in circles. The feeling of your wet lips suctioning around the base of his shaft and your warm tongue pressed against the heaviness of his cock was all too much.
He lifted his head off the pillow, watching your throat work rhythmically as you tried to keep up with his pace. Seeing you so dedicated to him—seeing your cheeks stretch and your eyes water as you refused to let a single drop go to waste—did something to his heart.
“Fuck… baby,” Bucky rasped. “Look at you… you’re taking everything.”
As he watched you through hazy eyes, he realized just then how good it felt to be taken like this.
To have his flaws not only accepted, but also devoured.
Eventually, the volume of his cum became too much. You gasped, pulling back as you began to choke on the thick, salty heat, and as soon as his cock was free of your mouth with a wet pop, the pressure sent his seed nearly spraying across your face. It painted your cheeks, your chin, and even caught your eyelashes as he continued to pulse.
Bucky was spent, his muscles twitching as his chest heaved. “Fuck.”
He should have felt ashamed for cumming too much again. He should have ran to the bathroom like he always did, grab a towel, and clean you up.
But as he watched his seed slowly trail down your cheek—a thick white contrast against your flushed skin—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to. You were panting, your lips parted and glistening, looking like a beautiful, sultry masterpiece he had personally painted himself.
“My god,” he breathed, his voice gravelly.
Bucky reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw. His thumb moved slowly as he smeared a streak of his mark across your cheekbone.
For the first time, he didn’t want to clean you; he wanted to look at you like this for hours—covered in his love.
“I thought I was making a mess of you.” he whispered, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “But you look... god, you look perfect like this.”
Bucky’s heart leaped in his chest as he watched you lick your lips, tasting him. Then you gave him a soft yet sultry smile that finally shattered what little defense he had left.
“I love it, Bucky,” you whispered. "I love every bit of you—especially the mess.”
You leaned back slightly, tilting your head as the light from the table lamp caught the white streaks on your skin. “Besides,” you teased, your a little playful and teasing. “Don’t I look so pretty, marked by you?”
Bucky’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your words. He had never thought of seeing it this way, but witnessing the way you batted your lashes, your face dirtied with his release—it was as if the question had uncovered something dirty deep inside him.
The shy, apologetic man was gone, replaced by a man who wanted nothing more than to paint his partner with his love.
His vibranium hand came up to slide behind your neck, his cool fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his eyes took in your debauched face. Meanwhile, his flesh hand cupped your jaw, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your pearly lips pucker.
“Pretty doesn’t even cover it,” he rasped, his eyes dark and possessive. “You look like you belong to me. And if you’re tellin’ me you like it... if you’re tellin’ me you want this...”
He parted your mouth with his thumb, his own seed already slicking his digit as he pushed past your lips. Bucky let out a deep, shuddering exhale as he watched you instinctively twirl your tongue around his thumb, the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him.
“If this is what you really want, then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every time—I’ll give it all to you. And from now on, I expect you to take it all.” He pulled his thumb back slowly, watching the strand of saliva and seed stretch between his hand and your lips.
“And you will take it all, right?”
You nodded, eyes hazy with lust and love. “I will.”
no words.
thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!
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Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 5.3k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon; it was heavy enough that the delivery guy looked relieved when she took it from him at the door.
She put it down in the living room and grabbed a box cutter, slicing through the packing tape with excitement.
Books.
A dozen of them, maybe more, all different genres. Fantasy, sci-fi, mystery. But nothing about trauma or recovery or healing your inner wounds with the power of meditation.
Just escapism.
She'd requested them specifically from the publishing house after visiting the veterans' center a few days back. The building itself was easy to find, a low brick structure with a small parking lot and a faded sign out front that looked like it had been there since the seventies. Inside, it was clean but bare-bones: a few rooms for meetings, a small kitchen, and a library that consisted of two shelves packed with outdated magazines and self-help books that had seen better days.
The publishing house had a donation program for schools, nursing homes, and underfunded community libraries in low-income areas. She'd pitched it to her supervisor, explaining that the center fit the criteria: small town, limited funding, minimal donations coming in. It took less than a week to get approved, and now here they were.
She figured they could use something different. Something that lets people disappear for a while, the way those kinds of stories had done for her when she needed it.
She'd been staring at her computer screen for too many hours today anyway. Her eyes were starting to blur, and going out would do her good. She packed the books back into the box, grabbed her keys, and headed out.
----
Bucky sat in a squeaky folding chair that was just slightly too small for him, nursing the last of his coffee and wishing he'd grabbed the mysterious tea.
The meeting was over. Had been for ten minutes. But Jerry and Tom were still here, lingering by the snack table he'd brought pastries for, talking about nothing in particular: Jerry's grandson's baseball game, Tom's ongoing war with a raccoon in his garage.
Bucky half-listened, offering the occasional nod or grunt of agreement when it seemed appropriate.
He didn't mind these two. They were older -Vietnam vets, both of them- and they didn't ask questions. Didn't push. Just talked to him without pretense.
"Thanks for the pastries, James," Tom said, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "You didn't have to."
Bucky shrugged. "Had extras. Wasn't gonna let 'em go to waste."
Jerry snorted. "You always have extras. I'm starting to think you make too much on purpose just so you have an excuse to show up here."
"Maybe I do," Bucky said, deadpan.
Tom laughed.
The double doors to the hallway were propped open, letting in a faint breeze and the muffled sounds of someone moving around in the lobby.
Bucky glanced that way absently, still half-focused on Jerry's story about the raccoon, when a figure passed by.
He recognized her immediately.
She was carrying a big box, tilting her head to see where she was going.
His coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.
What was she doing here?
----
He set his coffee cup down and stood before he could think better of it.
Jerry looked up mid-sentence. "Where are you going?"
"Be right back," Bucky muttered, already moving toward the doors.
He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what he was going to say when he got out there. Just knew that she was carrying something heavy and he could help, and that was-
Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing anyone would do.
He stepped into the hallway just in time to see someone else beat him to it.
Jack.
Early forties, former Marine, always too goddamn cheerful for his own good. He'd already taken the box from her, holding it with one arm like it weighed nothing, and was saying something that made her laugh.
Bucky stopped.
She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like she wasn't struggling anymore, because someone else had already stepped in.
He should go back.
Just turn around, sit back down, and finish his coffee. Pretend he hadn't seen her.
He was halfway through the mental commitment to retreat when-
"Hey, Bucky! Look what she brought!"
He was standing next to her now, still holding the box, grinning at Bucky as if he'd just won the lottery.
Bucky froze.
Every instinct told him to make an excuse. Any excuse. But Jack was already waving him over, and she was looking at him now, and turning around would make him look like an ass.
Or worse, like he was avoiding her.
Which he was.
He forced himself to move, crossing the short distance to where they stood.
"Books," Jack said, shifting the box slightly so Bucky could see inside. "For the library. Fantasy stuff, sci-fi, actual good shit, not more of that self-healing crap."
Bucky glanced into the box. Colorful spines, a few he recognized from the window displays at the bookstore two towns over.
He looked at her.
She was watching him.
Probably expecting him to say something. Comment on the books, maybe. Thank her.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"How's your finger?" she asked, filling the silence.
He blinked, glancing down at his left hand. The bandage was still there, smaller now, but visible.
He'd almost forgotten about it.
"Peachy," he said.
He winced internally the second it left his mouth.
Peachy?
Who the hell says peachy nowadays?
Jack looked between them, raising his eyebrows. "You two know each other?"
"We're almost neighbors," she said easily. "I live on River Street."
"Oh, lucky you," Jack said, grinning. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "She must be a regular at the bakery, then."
Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.
Jack shifted the box in his arms. "We're heading to the library to add these to inventory. Wanna come help? Place is a disaster, we haven't had a librarian since old Ed passed last year, and nobody's really kept up with it."
"I actually offered to come in a few times a week," she added. "Help organize things, update the catalog cards. Figure it might be useful."
Jack's face lit up. "That'd be amazing. Seriously. The system we've got now is... well, there isn't one."
Bucky opened his mouth to say no.
He had things to do. The bakery. Cleaning. Literally anything else.
But instead, he heard himself say, "Yeah. Sure."
Jack's grin widened. "Great. Let's go."
And just like that, Bucky found himself following them down the hallway, wondering what the hell he was doing.
----
She was thrilled to see him here.
Embarrassingly thrilled, if she was being honest with herself.
Not that she'd let it show. She was a grown-ass woman; she could keep her inner monologue of oh my God he's here, and he looks good, and why is that flannel doing things to me firmly locked away where it belonged.
But still.
She could feel him walking behind them, and her mind was racing with questions now.
He'd served.
That explained some things about his character.
But how did he end up in the bakery?
And… Bucky? Wasn't his name James?
They reached the library, a small room at the end of the hallway with two shelves crammed against one wall and a couple of boxes shoved haphazardly in the corner over an old wooden desk. It looked exactly like it had when she'd visited a few days ago: barely organized, half-storage room, half-forgotten space.
She set her hands on her hips, surveying the mess.
"Okay," she said, gesturing to the box Jack was still holding. "You guys can look through what I brought if you want, see if anything catches your eye. Since you're helping, you get first dibs. I'll start pulling everything off the shelves, clean the wood, and see what we're actually working with here."
Jack set the box down on the nearest table and immediately crouched beside it, peering inside like a kid at Christmas. "Hell yeah. I haven't read anything good in months."
Bucky looked at the box.
Then at her.
He shook his head.
"I'll do what you're doing," he said.
She blinked. "You sure? You can look through the books if you want. Might find something you like."
"I'm sure."
Jack glanced up from the box, raising his eyebrows, but didn't comment.
"Okay," she said, trying not to read too much into it. "Let's get started, then."
----
Bucky didn't even consider looking through the box.
His grandfather had raised him better than that.
She was here doing something for them -for the center- unpaid, on her own time, and she was about to start pulling books off dusty shelves and scrubbing down wood that probably hadn't been cleaned in years.
He wasn't going to stand around flipping through novels while she did all the work.
He moved toward the boxes that were stacked on top of an old desk against the far wall, taking up space they'd need if they were going to lay out the books from the shelves without a word.
They were heavier than they looked, packed tight with what felt like old manuals or binders, the cardboard sagging slightly under the weight. He adjusted his grip, bracing the bottom with both hands, and lifted.
His shoulders protested, but he didn't say anything. Just carried the first box across the room and set it down in the corner, then went back for the second.
"Do you need help with those?" she asked, pausing mid-reach for one of the books on the shelf.
"No, I'm good," he said, grabbing the second box. "You can start wiping down the desk, though. Once it's clear, we'll have somewhere to put the books."
She nodded, already reaching for the rag she'd pulled from her bag.
Bucky moved the second box, then the third, his arms burning slightly by the time he set the last one down.
Jack was still engrossed in the donation box, muttering something about how he'd been looking for this series forever.
Bucky turned back to the desk.
She was wiping it down in smooth strokes, her focus entirely on the task.
He found himself watching her for a second longer than necessary before he turned toward the shelves and started pulling books down.
----
After a while, she started sneezing.
Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Her eyes began to itch, and she rubbed at them with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dust across her cheek.
Fuck.
She'd forgotten to take her allergy pill this morning.
The dust and whatever else had been living on these shelves was absolutely destroying her right now.
"You okay?" Bucky's voice cut through her misery.
She blinked at him, eyes watering. "Yeah, just allergies. Forgot to take my pill this morning. Dust and... mites, they kill me."
Jack looked up from the box. "You got the meds with you?"
She nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out the small pill bottle.
"I'll get you some water," he said, already heading for the door.
And just like that, she was alone with Bucky.
The silence stretched.
She held the pill bottle in her hand, waiting, trying not to sneeze again. Her eyes were still burning, but she kept them open, blinking through the discomfort.
Bucky was still holding a book he'd pulled from the shelf, but he shifted his attention to the box she'd brought.
"Where'd you get these?" he asked, his voice low.
"I'm a translator. For a publishing house," she said, her voice a little scratchy from the sneezing. "They have a donation program for schools, nursing homes, places like that. I asked if they could send some books here. Figured it'd be good for the center."
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable.
"That's thoughtful of you," he said quietly.
Something about the way he said it -sincere, but almost careful- made her chest feel warm.
"I just thought people might want something to read that isn't about healing through journaling," she said with a small smile.
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Yeah," he said. "They would."
Another beat of silence.
Then, almost struggling with himself, he asked, "What kind of stuff do you translate?"
"Fantasy," she said, brushing some dust off her hands. "Mostly."
She saw him about to ask something and added, "When I started, I took whatever they gave me. But after a few years, you can specialize. The publishing house has people for sci-fi, crime novels, and technical manuals, all with different skill sets."
He tilted his head slightly. "Aren't fantasy and sci-fi pretty similar, though?"
"You'd think," she said with a small smile. "But they're different beasts. Fantasy is all magic systems and made-up languages. I spend half my time making sure elf hierarchies and dragon species sound consistent. Sci-fi is more... technical jargon that has to sound believable. Propulsion systems, quantum-whatever. With hard sci-fi, you actually need to know real science so you don't accidentally screw things up."
He was listening. She could see it in the way he'd stopped pretending to look at the books, his full attention on her.
His jaw worked slightly, like he was forcing himself to speak again.
"Why fantasy?" he asked finally.
She opened her mouth to answer-
"Here you go," Jack said, coming back through the door with a paper cup filled with water.
Bucky's shoulders went rigid immediately. He turned back to the shelf, reaching for another book, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.
Damn.
"Thanks," she said, taking the water and washing down the pill, watching Bucky out of the corner of her eye.
But he didn't look back again.
----
They worked in silence for a while after that, the only sounds the thud of books being stacked and the occasional rustle of paper.
Jack had gone back to sorting through the donation box, pulling out titles and setting aside a small pile for himself.
"Hey, Buck," Jack called, holding up a paperback. "I think you'll like this one."
Bucky glanced over. "Uh- put it aside, and I'll look at it later."
She paused mid-wipe, looking between them.
This was her chance.
"Your name's not James?"
Jack laughed. "It is. But that's what the older folks call him." He grinned at Bucky. "Everyone else calls him Bucky."
She set the rag down, genuinely curious now. "And... why Bucky?"
"Buchanan," Bucky said without looking at her. "My middle name."
"Oh. I see…" She nodded slowly, processing. "So should I… call you Bucky, or do you prefer James? I don't want to assume-"
"Bucky," he said, cutting her off. He met hers with his eyes briefly, something unreadable passing through his expression. "Call me Bucky."
"Okay, Bucky" she said softly.
----
The sound of his name in her voice almost made him smile.
Jack glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. "Shit. My wife's gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick up my son's birthday cake twenty minutes ago. And Sonia’s closes in twenty."
Bucky's stomach twisted in knots.
They were going to be left alone.
The two of them.
In a small room.
With no buffer.
Jack was already moving toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.
"You guys good here?" he asked, pausing in the doorway.
"Yeah, we’ll be fine," she said.
"We'll manage. Go before Greta asks you for a divorce," Bucky added.
Jack laughed. "Yeah, yeah. See you guys later."
And then he was gone.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Bucky stood there, holding a book, acutely aware of every sound, the soft scrape of her rag against the wood, the faint rustle of her movements, the way she shifted her weight.
He should say something.
Finish the conversation Jack had interrupted.
But his throat felt tight, and every possible sentence he tried to form in his head sounded wrong.
So he just kept sorting books, his hands moving on autopilot while his brain spun uselessly like a hamster wheel.
Then she saw her, out of the corner of his eye, stretching up on her toes, trying to reach the books on one of the upper shelves.
He moved before he thought about it.
Crossed the space between them in three steps and stopped just behind her, close enough that he could reach over her shoulder.
"Here," he said, his voice low.
She startled slightly, glancing back at him, and for a second -just a second- her eyes dropped to his mouth.
Or maybe they didn't.
Maybe his brain was just broken enough to make him see what he wanted to see.
He reached up and grabbed the first book, handing it down to her.
Their fingers brushed.
She took it without a word, wiping it down with the rag before setting it on the desk.
He grabbed another. Then another.
They fell into a pattern, him pulling books down one at a time, and her cleaning them off and stacking them neatly.
He was standing close. Closer than he needed to be.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to hear the soft exhale she made when she stretched to set a book down.
His heart was beating harder than it should've been for something this mundane.
"So," he said finally, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Why fantasy?"
She paused, rag in hand, and looked up at him.
----
She almost gave him the standard answer.
I like it. Always have.
Easy. Simple. True enough.
But something about the way he'd asked -quiet, careful, like he actually wanted to know- made her pause.
She bit her lip, the rag still in her hands.
"Escapism," she said finally. "For many years, I didn't have... an ideal home life. Or environment, really. Fantasy books helped me go somewhere else. Be somewhere else."
The silence that followed felt heavy.
She glanced at him.
He was looking at her, but she couldn't read that look.
Oh God.
She'd made it weird.
"Sorry," she said quickly, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "That was... kind of a downer answer."
She focused on the book in her hands, wiping it down with more attention than needed, avoiding his eyes entirely.
"I was a sniper," Bucky said suddenly. "Three long tours."
Her hands stilled.
He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost distant, like his mind was far away. "I get it. Wanting to be somewhere else."
She looked up at him.
His expression hadn't changed -still unreadable, still guarded- but there was something in his eyes now. Something raw.
She didn't know what to say.
Thank you felt wrong. I'm sorry felt worse.
So she just nodded, her throat tight.
"Yeah," she said softly.
They stood there for a moment, the weight of what they'd both just said settling between them.
Then Bucky reached up and grabbed another book from the shelf.
Handed it to her.
And they kept working.
----
The light coming through the small window had shifted, angling lower.
Bucky glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop.
He needed to leave. Now, actually. He'd cut his bakery hours short to make the meeting, but he still had to open for the evening crowd, people stopping by after work, picking up bread for dinner.
He didn't want to go.
The thought of walking out, of going back to the bakery and spending the rest of the evening alone behind the counter, felt wrong somehow.
He wanted to stay here. Keep working. Keep talking.
Keep standing close enough to catch the smell of her shampoo and the sound of her voice when she said his name.
He set down the book he'd been holding and cleared his throat.
"I need to head out," he eventually managed. "Have to open the bakery."
"Oh." She looked up, brushing dust off her hands. "Of course. Thanks for staying as long as you did."
He hesitated.
His brain was scrambling for a reason to stay. Or at least a reason to come back.
"I don't like leaving you here alone," he admitted finally.
She gave him a small smile. "It's a veterans' center. What's gonna happen?"
"I mean alone with all this." He gestured at the shelves, the stacks of books, the mess they'd barely made a dent in. "It's a lot."
She opened her mouth -probably to insist she was fine, that she could handle it-but he cut her off before he could lose his nerve.
"Leave it," he said. "Just... leave it how it is. I'll come back tomorrow. We can finish it then."
She blinked at him, surprised.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Bucky-"
"I'm coming back tomorrow," he said, his tone firm. Final.
She stared at him for a moment, something soft crossing her expression.
Because he had offered. He didn't have to, and she hadn't asked. But he'd looked at the mess, looked at her, and decided -on his own- that he was coming back.
To help her.
To spend more time here.
With her.
"What time works for you?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"After three," he said. "Bakery slows down by then."
"Perfect. See you here then."
She watched him move toward the door, her heart doing something stupid and fluttery in her chest.
He paused in the doorway, glancing back at her.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"See you tomorrow, Bucky."
And then he was gone.
She stood there for a moment, alone in the dusty library, staring at the empty doorway.
Then she let herself smile.
A real one. Big and stupidly happy.
----
The next day, she arrived at the center a little before three, loading her arms with a few supplies she'd grabbed from home: more rags, a bottle of wood polish, and a small speaker because working in silence felt oppressive.
The library door was already propped open when she got there.
She stopped in the doorway.
Bucky was inside, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, moving one of the heavier boxes they'd left stacked in the corner yesterday. Two older men were with him. One she recognized as Tom from the time she went to the center to see the place, the other she didn't know.
"Afternoon," Tom said, spotting her first. He was holding a stack of books, squinting at the spines like he was trying to decide if any were worth keeping.
"Hi," she said, stepping inside and setting her things down on the desk.
Bucky glanced up briefly, gave her a short nod, and went back to what he was doing.
The other man, older than Tom, with a thick white mustache and still bright green eyes, looked her up and down.
"So you're the one organizing all this?" he asked.
"That's me."
He grunted. "About time someone did. I’m George. This place has been a mess since Ed kicked the bucket."
"George," Tom said, his tone mildly reproachful.
"What? It's true."
She bit back a smile. "Well, hopefully it'll be in better shape soon."
George muttered something under his breath and went back to sorting through a pile of outdated magazines.
Bucky straightened, brushing dust off his hands, and finally looked at her properly.
"You bring the whole hardware store?" he asked, nodding toward her bag.
"Just the essentials," she said lightly. "Figured we'd need them."
His lips twitched.
Tom clapped his hands together. "All right. What's the plan, boss?"
She blinked. "Boss?"
"You're running this operation," Tom said with a grin. "We're just the muscle."
----
They worked for the next hour.
Tom and George took the bottom shelves, pulling books and deciding what could stay and what needed to go. Bucky handled anything that required lifting or reaching. And she moved between them all, wiping down surfaces and organizing the books they'd already cleaned into neat stacks.
George, it turned out, had opinions. Many opinions.
"This one's garbage," he said, holding up a self-help book. "Threw it across the room halfway through."
"Then why'd you keep reading it?" Tom asked.
"Had to see if it got better. It didn't."
Bucky snorted quietly.
She glanced at him, surprised by the sound, and caught the faint curve of his mouth before it disappeared.
"You read much now, James?" Tom asked, not looking up from the shelf he was sorting.
Bucky hesitated. "Not really. Used to, before-" He stopped himself. "Not much time now."
"Bullshit," George said bluntly. "You've got time. You just don't make it."
Tom shot him a look, but Bucky didn't seem bothered.
"Maybe," he said.
George waved a hand dismissively. "You should read more. Keeps your brain from turning to mush. Especially at your age."
"I'm thirty-six."
"Exactly. Prime mush years."
She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
Bucky's mouth twitched again.
She watched him, the way he seemed more relaxed here with these two than she'd ever seen him before. He wasn't precisely chatty, but he wasn't shutting down, either.
It was nice.
----
At some point, she and Bucky both moved toward the same narrow gap between the desk and the shelves, carrying things in opposite directions.
They nearly collided.
She stepped left.
He stepped left.
She stepped right.
He stepped right.
Her heart did something stupid in her chest, and she felt her face heat.
Bucky's ears were already red.
For a second, neither of them moved, caught in the awkward limbo of too close and not sure how to fix it.
Then he stopped, stepped deliberately to one side, and gestured with his hand.
"Go ahead," he said, his voice low.
"Thanks," she managed, slipping past him.
Her shoulder brushed his arm.
Just barely.
But enough that she felt it for the next ten minutes.
----
"So," Tom said casually, not looking up from the book he was flipping through. "You settling in okay? House treating you all right?"
"Getting there," she said. "Still a lot to fix, but it's coming together."
"James helped you with a window, didn't he?"
Bucky snapped his head up. "How do you know that?"
Tom grinned. "Small town, son. Dotty told everyone at bingo."
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
George snorted. "She also told everyone you're single," he said, looking directly at her.
She blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. I-"
"George," Bucky said, his tone sharp.
George waved him off. "What? It's true, isn't it?"
She felt her face heat slightly, but she managed a small smile. "Yeah. I am."
George leaned back against the shelf, crossing his arms. "That won't do. You're young, easy on the eyes. None of the idiots your age have asked you out yet?"
"I-" She let out a surprised laugh. "I've only been here a few weeks. Haven't really gone out much. Haven't found, you know, an activity to socialize at yet."
"So?" George said, clearly unimpressed. "Even the post office dog knows you're new by now. In my day, someone would've walked right up, introduced themselves, and asked you out or at least offered to show you around."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, in our day, people also got married six months into dating."
"And?" George shot back. "Fewer divorces than now."
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Bucky, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were red, his jaw clenched, and he was staring very hard at the shelf in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe.
Tom grinned at her, clearly enjoying Bucky's discomfort. "Don't mind George, he thinks everyone under seventy is doing life wrong."
"Not wrong," George corrected. "Just slow."
----
They worked in comfortable silence for a while after Tom and George's teasing died down.
She wiped down another shelf, sneaking glances at Bucky when she thought he wasn't looking.
She noted again how he was more relaxed now than she'd seen him at the bakery. Still quiet, still reserved, but there was something different about him here. The way he didn't shut down completely when Tom ribbed him. The way he spoke to them, even making dry comments that could border on rude.
She liked this version of him.
Wanted to see more of it.
By the time they finished, the library looked almost unrecognizable.
The shelves were clean, the books organized by genre, and the donation box had been fully integrated into the collection. There was still work to do -updating the catalog cards, labeling the sections properly- but it was functional now. Usable.
Tom and George had left half an hour ago, citing dinner plans and aching backs, leaving just the two of them to finish up.
She wiped down the last of the shelves, stepping back to admire their work.
"This looks good," she said.
Bucky nodded, leaning against the desk. "Yeah. It does."
She glanced at him.
George's words kept circling back in her head. In my day, someone would've walked right up and asked you out.
Well, why was she waiting for someone else to make the first move?
She was new here, sure, and didn't know many people yet. But that wasn't going to change if she just kept going to buy groceries and working from home. If she wanted to actually live here, not just exist, she had to put herself out there.
She could do this.
She should do this.
What was the worst that could happen? He'd say no, and they'd go back to being friendly neighbors who occasionally ran into each other.
She hesitated. Took a deep breath.
Now or never.
"Hey," she said, turning to face him properly. "I... wanted to ask you something."
He straightened slightly, his shoulders tensing. "Yeah?"
"The other day, you mentioned that bar. Will's?"
His brow furrowed. "Yeah."
"I was thinking..." She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "I kind of want to check it out. But I don't really want to go alone. You know, being new, walking into a local spot by myself feels... awkward."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You asking me to go with you?" he said finally, watching her like he was trying to figure out if this was real.
"I mean- yeah. If you want." She shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Just to hang out. Grab a drink. Nothing big."
Bucky's throat worked as he swallowed.
She could see him thinking, could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
"When?" he asked.
"Friday? After you close?"
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
Her heart did a little flip.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She smiled, couldn't help it. "Great. I meet you there? Or-"
"I'll pick you up," he said quickly. Then, as if realizing how that sounded- "It's on the way. Doesn't make sense for you to walk there alone."
"Okay," she said softly. "That works."
They stood there for a moment, the air between them feeling heavier somehow.
"So, Friday," she said.
"Friday," he echoed.
----
Bucky walked home in a daze.
He'd said yes.
He'd actually said yes.
What the hell was he thinking?
He wasn't thinking. That was the problem. She'd asked, and he'd just... agreed. Easily. Like, he went out with people all the time.
He hadn't been on anything resembling a date in years.
And okay, technically it wasn't a date. Just hanging out, getting a drink.
But it felt like a date.
Or at least, it felt like something.
He rubbed a hand over his face, his pulse still thrumming uncomfortably in his ears.
Friday.
He had two days to either talk himself out of this or figure out what the hell he was supposed to talk about for more than five minutes. Figure out what he was supposed to wear. Figure out how to not make a complete ass of himself in front of her.
Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 5.3k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon; it was heavy enough that the delivery guy looked relieved when she took it from him at the door.
She put it down in the living room and grabbed a box cutter, slicing through the packing tape with excitement.
Books.
A dozen of them, maybe more, all different genres. Fantasy, sci-fi, mystery. But nothing about trauma or recovery or healing your inner wounds with the power of meditation.
Just escapism.
She'd requested them specifically from the publishing house after visiting the veterans' center a few days back. The building itself was easy to find, a low brick structure with a small parking lot and a faded sign out front that looked like it had been there since the seventies. Inside, it was clean but bare-bones: a few rooms for meetings, a small kitchen, and a library that consisted of two shelves packed with outdated magazines and self-help books that had seen better days.
The publishing house had a donation program for schools, nursing homes, and underfunded community libraries in low-income areas. She'd pitched it to her supervisor, explaining that the center fit the criteria: small town, limited funding, minimal donations coming in. It took less than a week to get approved, and now here they were.
She figured they could use something different. Something that lets people disappear for a while, the way those kinds of stories had done for her when she needed it.
She'd been staring at her computer screen for too many hours today anyway. Her eyes were starting to blur, and going out would do her good. She packed the books back into the box, grabbed her keys, and headed out.
----
Bucky sat in a squeaky folding chair that was just slightly too small for him, nursing the last of his coffee and wishing he'd grabbed the mysterious tea.
The meeting was over. Had been for ten minutes. But Jerry and Tom were still here, lingering by the snack table he'd brought pastries for, talking about nothing in particular: Jerry's grandson's baseball game, Tom's ongoing war with a raccoon in his garage.
Bucky half-listened, offering the occasional nod or grunt of agreement when it seemed appropriate.
He didn't mind these two. They were older -Vietnam vets, both of them- and they didn't ask questions. Didn't push. Just talked to him without pretense.
"Thanks for the pastries, James," Tom said, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "You didn't have to."
Bucky shrugged. "Had extras. Wasn't gonna let 'em go to waste."
Jerry snorted. "You always have extras. I'm starting to think you make too much on purpose just so you have an excuse to show up here."
"Maybe I do," Bucky said, deadpan.
Tom laughed.
The double doors to the hallway were propped open, letting in a faint breeze and the muffled sounds of someone moving around in the lobby.
Bucky glanced that way absently, still half-focused on Jerry's story about the raccoon, when a figure passed by.
He recognized her immediately.
She was carrying a big box, tilting her head to see where she was going.
His coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.
What was she doing here?
----
He set his coffee cup down and stood before he could think better of it.
Jerry looked up mid-sentence. "Where are you going?"
"Be right back," Bucky muttered, already moving toward the doors.
He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what he was going to say when he got out there. Just knew that she was carrying something heavy and he could help, and that was-
Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing anyone would do.
He stepped into the hallway just in time to see someone else beat him to it.
Jack.
Early forties, former Marine, always too goddamn cheerful for his own good. He'd already taken the box from her, holding it with one arm like it weighed nothing, and was saying something that made her laugh.
Bucky stopped.
She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like she wasn't struggling anymore, because someone else had already stepped in.
He should go back.
Just turn around, sit back down, and finish his coffee. Pretend he hadn't seen her.
He was halfway through the mental commitment to retreat when-
"Hey, Bucky! Look what she brought!"
He was standing next to her now, still holding the box, grinning at Bucky as if he'd just won the lottery.
Bucky froze.
Every instinct told him to make an excuse. Any excuse. But Jack was already waving him over, and she was looking at him now, and turning around would make him look like an ass.
Or worse, like he was avoiding her.
Which he was.
He forced himself to move, crossing the short distance to where they stood.
"Books," Jack said, shifting the box slightly so Bucky could see inside. "For the library. Fantasy stuff, sci-fi, actual good shit, not more of that self-healing crap."
Bucky glanced into the box. Colorful spines, a few he recognized from the window displays at the bookstore two towns over.
He looked at her.
She was watching him.
Probably expecting him to say something. Comment on the books, maybe. Thank her.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"How's your finger?" she asked, filling the silence.
He blinked, glancing down at his left hand. The bandage was still there, smaller now, but visible.
He'd almost forgotten about it.
"Peachy," he said.
He winced internally the second it left his mouth.
Peachy?
Who the hell says peachy nowadays?
Jack looked between them, raising his eyebrows. "You two know each other?"
"We're almost neighbors," she said easily. "I live on River Street."
"Oh, lucky you," Jack said, grinning. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "She must be a regular at the bakery, then."
Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.
Jack shifted the box in his arms. "We're heading to the library to add these to inventory. Wanna come help? Place is a disaster, we haven't had a librarian since old Ed passed last year, and nobody's really kept up with it."
"I actually offered to come in a few times a week," she added. "Help organize things, update the catalog cards. Figure it might be useful."
Jack's face lit up. "That'd be amazing. Seriously. The system we've got now is... well, there isn't one."
Bucky opened his mouth to say no.
He had things to do. The bakery. Cleaning. Literally anything else.
But instead, he heard himself say, "Yeah. Sure."
Jack's grin widened. "Great. Let's go."
And just like that, Bucky found himself following them down the hallway, wondering what the hell he was doing.
----
She was thrilled to see him here.
Embarrassingly thrilled, if she was being honest with herself.
Not that she'd let it show. She was a grown-ass woman; she could keep her inner monologue of oh my God he's here, and he looks good, and why is that flannel doing things to me firmly locked away where it belonged.
But still.
She could feel him walking behind them, and her mind was racing with questions now.
He'd served.
That explained some things about his character.
But how did he end up in the bakery?
And… Bucky? Wasn't his name James?
They reached the library, a small room at the end of the hallway with two shelves crammed against one wall and a couple of boxes shoved haphazardly in the corner over an old wooden desk. It looked exactly like it had when she'd visited a few days ago: barely organized, half-storage room, half-forgotten space.
She set her hands on her hips, surveying the mess.
"Okay," she said, gesturing to the box Jack was still holding. "You guys can look through what I brought if you want, see if anything catches your eye. Since you're helping, you get first dibs. I'll start pulling everything off the shelves, clean the wood, and see what we're actually working with here."
Jack set the box down on the nearest table and immediately crouched beside it, peering inside like a kid at Christmas. "Hell yeah. I haven't read anything good in months."
Bucky looked at the box.
Then at her.
He shook his head.
"I'll do what you're doing," he said.
She blinked. "You sure? You can look through the books if you want. Might find something you like."
"I'm sure."
Jack glanced up from the box, raising his eyebrows, but didn't comment.
"Okay," she said, trying not to read too much into it. "Let's get started, then."
----
Bucky didn't even consider looking through the box.
His grandfather had raised him better than that.
She was here doing something for them -for the center- unpaid, on her own time, and she was about to start pulling books off dusty shelves and scrubbing down wood that probably hadn't been cleaned in years.
He wasn't going to stand around flipping through novels while she did all the work.
He moved toward the boxes that were stacked on top of an old desk against the far wall, taking up space they'd need if they were going to lay out the books from the shelves without a word.
They were heavier than they looked, packed tight with what felt like old manuals or binders, the cardboard sagging slightly under the weight. He adjusted his grip, bracing the bottom with both hands, and lifted.
His shoulders protested, but he didn't say anything. Just carried the first box across the room and set it down in the corner, then went back for the second.
"Do you need help with those?" she asked, pausing mid-reach for one of the books on the shelf.
"No, I'm good," he said, grabbing the second box. "You can start wiping down the desk, though. Once it's clear, we'll have somewhere to put the books."
She nodded, already reaching for the rag she'd pulled from her bag.
Bucky moved the second box, then the third, his arms burning slightly by the time he set the last one down.
Jack was still engrossed in the donation box, muttering something about how he'd been looking for this series forever.
Bucky turned back to the desk.
She was wiping it down in smooth strokes, her focus entirely on the task.
He found himself watching her for a second longer than necessary before he turned toward the shelves and started pulling books down.
----
After a while, she started sneezing.
Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Her eyes began to itch, and she rubbed at them with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dust across her cheek.
Fuck.
She'd forgotten to take her allergy pill this morning.
The dust and whatever else had been living on these shelves was absolutely destroying her right now.
"You okay?" Bucky's voice cut through her misery.
She blinked at him, eyes watering. "Yeah, just allergies. Forgot to take my pill this morning. Dust and... mites, they kill me."
Jack looked up from the box. "You got the meds with you?"
She nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out the small pill bottle.
"I'll get you some water," he said, already heading for the door.
And just like that, she was alone with Bucky.
The silence stretched.
She held the pill bottle in her hand, waiting, trying not to sneeze again. Her eyes were still burning, but she kept them open, blinking through the discomfort.
Bucky was still holding a book he'd pulled from the shelf, but he shifted his attention to the box she'd brought.
"Where'd you get these?" he asked, his voice low.
"I'm a translator. For a publishing house," she said, her voice a little scratchy from the sneezing. "They have a donation program for schools, nursing homes, places like that. I asked if they could send some books here. Figured it'd be good for the center."
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable.
"That's thoughtful of you," he said quietly.
Something about the way he said it -sincere, but almost careful- made her chest feel warm.
"I just thought people might want something to read that isn't about healing through journaling," she said with a small smile.
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Yeah," he said. "They would."
Another beat of silence.
Then, almost struggling with himself, he asked, "What kind of stuff do you translate?"
"Fantasy," she said, brushing some dust off her hands. "Mostly."
She saw him about to ask something and added, "When I started, I took whatever they gave me. But after a few years, you can specialize. The publishing house has people for sci-fi, crime novels, and technical manuals, all with different skill sets."
He tilted his head slightly. "Aren't fantasy and sci-fi pretty similar, though?"
"You'd think," she said with a small smile. "But they're different beasts. Fantasy is all magic systems and made-up languages. I spend half my time making sure elf hierarchies and dragon species sound consistent. Sci-fi is more... technical jargon that has to sound believable. Propulsion systems, quantum-whatever. With hard sci-fi, you actually need to know real science so you don't accidentally screw things up."
He was listening. She could see it in the way he'd stopped pretending to look at the books, his full attention on her.
His jaw worked slightly, like he was forcing himself to speak again.
"Why fantasy?" he asked finally.
She opened her mouth to answer-
"Here you go," Jack said, coming back through the door with a paper cup filled with water.
Bucky's shoulders went rigid immediately. He turned back to the shelf, reaching for another book, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.
Damn.
"Thanks," she said, taking the water and washing down the pill, watching Bucky out of the corner of her eye.
But he didn't look back again.
----
They worked in silence for a while after that, the only sounds the thud of books being stacked and the occasional rustle of paper.
Jack had gone back to sorting through the donation box, pulling out titles and setting aside a small pile for himself.
"Hey, Buck," Jack called, holding up a paperback. "I think you'll like this one."
Bucky glanced over. "Uh- put it aside, and I'll look at it later."
She paused mid-wipe, looking between them.
This was her chance.
"Your name's not James?"
Jack laughed. "It is. But that's what the older folks call him." He grinned at Bucky. "Everyone else calls him Bucky."
She set the rag down, genuinely curious now. "And... why Bucky?"
"Buchanan," Bucky said without looking at her. "My middle name."
"Oh. I see…" She nodded slowly, processing. "So should I… call you Bucky, or do you prefer James? I don't want to assume-"
"Bucky," he said, cutting her off. He met hers with his eyes briefly, something unreadable passing through his expression. "Call me Bucky."
"Okay, Bucky" she said softly.
----
The sound of his name in her voice almost made him smile.
Jack glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. "Shit. My wife's gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick up my son's birthday cake twenty minutes ago. And Sonia’s closes in twenty."
Bucky's stomach twisted in knots.
They were going to be left alone.
The two of them.
In a small room.
With no buffer.
Jack was already moving toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.
"You guys good here?" he asked, pausing in the doorway.
"Yeah, we’ll be fine," she said.
"We'll manage. Go before Greta asks you for a divorce," Bucky added.
Jack laughed. "Yeah, yeah. See you guys later."
And then he was gone.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Bucky stood there, holding a book, acutely aware of every sound, the soft scrape of her rag against the wood, the faint rustle of her movements, the way she shifted her weight.
He should say something.
Finish the conversation Jack had interrupted.
But his throat felt tight, and every possible sentence he tried to form in his head sounded wrong.
So he just kept sorting books, his hands moving on autopilot while his brain spun uselessly like a hamster wheel.
Then she saw her, out of the corner of his eye, stretching up on her toes, trying to reach the books on one of the upper shelves.
He moved before he thought about it.
Crossed the space between them in three steps and stopped just behind her, close enough that he could reach over her shoulder.
"Here," he said, his voice low.
She startled slightly, glancing back at him, and for a second -just a second- her eyes dropped to his mouth.
Or maybe they didn't.
Maybe his brain was just broken enough to make him see what he wanted to see.
He reached up and grabbed the first book, handing it down to her.
Their fingers brushed.
She took it without a word, wiping it down with the rag before setting it on the desk.
He grabbed another. Then another.
They fell into a pattern, him pulling books down one at a time, and her cleaning them off and stacking them neatly.
He was standing close. Closer than he needed to be.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to hear the soft exhale she made when she stretched to set a book down.
His heart was beating harder than it should've been for something this mundane.
"So," he said finally, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Why fantasy?"
She paused, rag in hand, and looked up at him.
----
She almost gave him the standard answer.
I like it. Always have.
Easy. Simple. True enough.
But something about the way he'd asked -quiet, careful, like he actually wanted to know- made her pause.
She bit her lip, the rag still in her hands.
"Escapism," she said finally. "For many years, I didn't have... an ideal home life. Or environment, really. Fantasy books helped me go somewhere else. Be somewhere else."
The silence that followed felt heavy.
She glanced at him.
He was looking at her, but she couldn't read that look.
Oh God.
She'd made it weird.
"Sorry," she said quickly, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "That was... kind of a downer answer."
She focused on the book in her hands, wiping it down with more attention than needed, avoiding his eyes entirely.
"I was a sniper," Bucky said suddenly. "Three long tours."
Her hands stilled.
He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost distant, like his mind was far away. "I get it. Wanting to be somewhere else."
She looked up at him.
His expression hadn't changed -still unreadable, still guarded- but there was something in his eyes now. Something raw.
She didn't know what to say.
Thank you felt wrong. I'm sorry felt worse.
So she just nodded, her throat tight.
"Yeah," she said softly.
They stood there for a moment, the weight of what they'd both just said settling between them.
Then Bucky reached up and grabbed another book from the shelf.
Handed it to her.
And they kept working.
----
The light coming through the small window had shifted, angling lower.
Bucky glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop.
He needed to leave. Now, actually. He'd cut his bakery hours short to make the meeting, but he still had to open for the evening crowd, people stopping by after work, picking up bread for dinner.
He didn't want to go.
The thought of walking out, of going back to the bakery and spending the rest of the evening alone behind the counter, felt wrong somehow.
He wanted to stay here. Keep working. Keep talking.
Keep standing close enough to catch the smell of her shampoo and the sound of her voice when she said his name.
He set down the book he'd been holding and cleared his throat.
"I need to head out," he eventually managed. "Have to open the bakery."
"Oh." She looked up, brushing dust off her hands. "Of course. Thanks for staying as long as you did."
He hesitated.
His brain was scrambling for a reason to stay. Or at least a reason to come back.
"I don't like leaving you here alone," he admitted finally.
She gave him a small smile. "It's a veterans' center. What's gonna happen?"
"I mean alone with all this." He gestured at the shelves, the stacks of books, the mess they'd barely made a dent in. "It's a lot."
She opened her mouth -probably to insist she was fine, that she could handle it-but he cut her off before he could lose his nerve.
"Leave it," he said. "Just... leave it how it is. I'll come back tomorrow. We can finish it then."
She blinked at him, surprised.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Bucky-"
"I'm coming back tomorrow," he said, his tone firm. Final.
She stared at him for a moment, something soft crossing her expression.
Because he had offered. He didn't have to, and she hadn't asked. But he'd looked at the mess, looked at her, and decided -on his own- that he was coming back.
To help her.
To spend more time here.
With her.
"What time works for you?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"After three," he said. "Bakery slows down by then."
"Perfect. See you here then."
She watched him move toward the door, her heart doing something stupid and fluttery in her chest.
He paused in the doorway, glancing back at her.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"See you tomorrow, Bucky."
And then he was gone.
She stood there for a moment, alone in the dusty library, staring at the empty doorway.
Then she let herself smile.
A real one. Big and stupidly happy.
----
The next day, she arrived at the center a little before three, loading her arms with a few supplies she'd grabbed from home: more rags, a bottle of wood polish, and a small speaker because working in silence felt oppressive.
The library door was already propped open when she got there.
She stopped in the doorway.
Bucky was inside, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, moving one of the heavier boxes they'd left stacked in the corner yesterday. Two older men were with him. One she recognized as Tom from the time she went to the center to see the place, the other she didn't know.
"Afternoon," Tom said, spotting her first. He was holding a stack of books, squinting at the spines like he was trying to decide if any were worth keeping.
"Hi," she said, stepping inside and setting her things down on the desk.
Bucky glanced up briefly, gave her a short nod, and went back to what he was doing.
The other man, older than Tom, with a thick white mustache and still bright green eyes, looked her up and down.
"So you're the one organizing all this?" he asked.
"That's me."
He grunted. "About time someone did. I’m George. This place has been a mess since Ed kicked the bucket."
"George," Tom said, his tone mildly reproachful.
"What? It's true."
She bit back a smile. "Well, hopefully it'll be in better shape soon."
George muttered something under his breath and went back to sorting through a pile of outdated magazines.
Bucky straightened, brushing dust off his hands, and finally looked at her properly.
"You bring the whole hardware store?" he asked, nodding toward her bag.
"Just the essentials," she said lightly. "Figured we'd need them."
His lips twitched.
Tom clapped his hands together. "All right. What's the plan, boss?"
She blinked. "Boss?"
"You're running this operation," Tom said with a grin. "We're just the muscle."
----
They worked for the next hour.
Tom and George took the bottom shelves, pulling books and deciding what could stay and what needed to go. Bucky handled anything that required lifting or reaching. And she moved between them all, wiping down surfaces and organizing the books they'd already cleaned into neat stacks.
George, it turned out, had opinions. Many opinions.
"This one's garbage," he said, holding up a self-help book. "Threw it across the room halfway through."
"Then why'd you keep reading it?" Tom asked.
"Had to see if it got better. It didn't."
Bucky snorted quietly.
She glanced at him, surprised by the sound, and caught the faint curve of his mouth before it disappeared.
"You read much now, James?" Tom asked, not looking up from the shelf he was sorting.
Bucky hesitated. "Not really. Used to, before-" He stopped himself. "Not much time now."
"Bullshit," George said bluntly. "You've got time. You just don't make it."
Tom shot him a look, but Bucky didn't seem bothered.
"Maybe," he said.
George waved a hand dismissively. "You should read more. Keeps your brain from turning to mush. Especially at your age."
"I'm thirty-six."
"Exactly. Prime mush years."
She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
Bucky's mouth twitched again.
She watched him, the way he seemed more relaxed here with these two than she'd ever seen him before. He wasn't precisely chatty, but he wasn't shutting down, either.
It was nice.
----
At some point, she and Bucky both moved toward the same narrow gap between the desk and the shelves, carrying things in opposite directions.
They nearly collided.
She stepped left.
He stepped left.
She stepped right.
He stepped right.
Her heart did something stupid in her chest, and she felt her face heat.
Bucky's ears were already red.
For a second, neither of them moved, caught in the awkward limbo of too close and not sure how to fix it.
Then he stopped, stepped deliberately to one side, and gestured with his hand.
"Go ahead," he said, his voice low.
"Thanks," she managed, slipping past him.
Her shoulder brushed his arm.
Just barely.
But enough that she felt it for the next ten minutes.
----
"So," Tom said casually, not looking up from the book he was flipping through. "You settling in okay? House treating you all right?"
"Getting there," she said. "Still a lot to fix, but it's coming together."
"James helped you with a window, didn't he?"
Bucky snapped his head up. "How do you know that?"
Tom grinned. "Small town, son. Dotty told everyone at bingo."
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
George snorted. "She also told everyone you're single," he said, looking directly at her.
She blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. I-"
"George," Bucky said, his tone sharp.
George waved him off. "What? It's true, isn't it?"
She felt her face heat slightly, but she managed a small smile. "Yeah. I am."
George leaned back against the shelf, crossing his arms. "That won't do. You're young, easy on the eyes. None of the idiots your age have asked you out yet?"
"I-" She let out a surprised laugh. "I've only been here a few weeks. Haven't really gone out much. Haven't found, you know, an activity to socialize at yet."
"So?" George said, clearly unimpressed. "Even the post office dog knows you're new by now. In my day, someone would've walked right up, introduced themselves, and asked you out or at least offered to show you around."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, in our day, people also got married six months into dating."
"And?" George shot back. "Fewer divorces than now."
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Bucky, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were red, his jaw clenched, and he was staring very hard at the shelf in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe.
Tom grinned at her, clearly enjoying Bucky's discomfort. "Don't mind George, he thinks everyone under seventy is doing life wrong."
"Not wrong," George corrected. "Just slow."
----
They worked in comfortable silence for a while after Tom and George's teasing died down.
She wiped down another shelf, sneaking glances at Bucky when she thought he wasn't looking.
She noted again how he was more relaxed now than she'd seen him at the bakery. Still quiet, still reserved, but there was something different about him here. The way he didn't shut down completely when Tom ribbed him. The way he spoke to them, even making dry comments that could border on rude.
She liked this version of him.
Wanted to see more of it.
By the time they finished, the library looked almost unrecognizable.
The shelves were clean, the books organized by genre, and the donation box had been fully integrated into the collection. There was still work to do -updating the catalog cards, labeling the sections properly- but it was functional now. Usable.
Tom and George had left half an hour ago, citing dinner plans and aching backs, leaving just the two of them to finish up.
She wiped down the last of the shelves, stepping back to admire their work.
"This looks good," she said.
Bucky nodded, leaning against the desk. "Yeah. It does."
She glanced at him.
George's words kept circling back in her head. In my day, someone would've walked right up and asked you out.
Well, why was she waiting for someone else to make the first move?
She was new here, sure, and didn't know many people yet. But that wasn't going to change if she just kept going to buy groceries and working from home. If she wanted to actually live here, not just exist, she had to put herself out there.
She could do this.
She should do this.
What was the worst that could happen? He'd say no, and they'd go back to being friendly neighbors who occasionally ran into each other.
She hesitated. Took a deep breath.
Now or never.
"Hey," she said, turning to face him properly. "I... wanted to ask you something."
He straightened slightly, his shoulders tensing. "Yeah?"
"The other day, you mentioned that bar. Will's?"
His brow furrowed. "Yeah."
"I was thinking..." She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "I kind of want to check it out. But I don't really want to go alone. You know, being new, walking into a local spot by myself feels... awkward."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You asking me to go with you?" he said finally, watching her like he was trying to figure out if this was real.
"I mean- yeah. If you want." She shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Just to hang out. Grab a drink. Nothing big."
Bucky's throat worked as he swallowed.
She could see him thinking, could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
"When?" he asked.
"Friday? After you close?"
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
Her heart did a little flip.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She smiled, couldn't help it. "Great. I meet you there? Or-"
"I'll pick you up," he said quickly. Then, as if realizing how that sounded- "It's on the way. Doesn't make sense for you to walk there alone."
"Okay," she said softly. "That works."
They stood there for a moment, the air between them feeling heavier somehow.
"So, Friday," she said.
"Friday," he echoed.
----
Bucky walked home in a daze.
He'd said yes.
He'd actually said yes.
What the hell was he thinking?
He wasn't thinking. That was the problem. She'd asked, and he'd just... agreed. Easily. Like, he went out with people all the time.
He hadn't been on anything resembling a date in years.
And okay, technically it wasn't a date. Just hanging out, getting a drink.
But it felt like a date.
Or at least, it felt like something.
He rubbed a hand over his face, his pulse still thrumming uncomfortably in his ears.
Friday.
He had two days to either talk himself out of this or figure out what the hell he was supposed to talk about for more than five minutes. Figure out what he was supposed to wear. Figure out how to not make a complete ass of himself in front of her.
Sinopsis: She didn't earn the position or ask for it. But now she transmits orders that aren't hers and manages a weapon that shouldn't care who delivers the command. But it does.
note: Just trying to leave my comfort zone here. Why is Reader in Hydra -free will, extortion, debt- is up to you.
Word Count: 1.2k
No one could explain why the Asset responded better to her.
It was gradual, almost imperceptible at first.
During checkup sessions, when three technicians tried to restrain it for routine tests, and it remained rigid, threatening even under compliance, all it took was for her to say "please cooperate" from her station for the Soldat's muscles to relax.
It wasn't immediate obedience -it never was with anyone else- but something more instinctive.
It kept happening, so they relocated her. In the first few months, they only used her as field support. A voice in the comm giving it extraction coordinates, hostile count, and route changes. Information any competent operator could relay, but the Soldat processed it better when it came from her. Faster response time. Fewer variables. More efficiency.
And efficiency was all Hydra cared about.
So when someone suggested assigning her as a permanent handler -it's compliance should reduce the wipe frequency and keep the Asset functional for longer periods without the wear of constant erasure in its brain- the higher-ups considered it.
Not because they trusted her, they would never be that stupid. She simply became a convenient intermediary between the weapon and those who actually wielded it.
Her colleagues resented it immediately.
She hadn't done anything to earn the position. No exceptional merits, didn't come from a relevant family within the organization, and hadn't demonstrated extraordinary loyalty. She simply existed within the Asset's radius of perception in a way that generated results.
And in Hydra, that was enough to put a target on your back.
The accidents started shortly after. Lost reports that made her look incompetent. Doors that closed too quickly on her face, corners where someone turned too sharply against her body. Nothing obvious enough to report, just consistent enough for her to understand the message.
She learned to keep quiet. Keep her head down and do not give any more reasons for resentment.
The ironic part was that the Soldat seemed to perceive it too.
That day, she was walking down the B-level corridor, and the Asset was three steps behind as always, when some agents passed by them. They didn't look at her. Didn't have to. The comment was low enough that she didn't catch it over the ambient noise of the base, but clear enough to reach enhanced ears.
"...bitch parades the thing as a pet and doesn't even-"
She only registered the movement when it was too late.
The Soldat crossed the distance in two strides, and closed its metal hand around one of the agent's throat, slamming him against the wall with a dull thud that made the steel plates tremble. The man gasped, feet dangling inches off the ground, face reddening as he uselessly tried to loosen the titanium fingers.
She closed her eyes for a second. Sighed.
"Put him down."
The Soldat didn't move. His expression remained empty, but the pressure on the agent's throat increased. There was a crack -cartilage, probably- and the agent let out a strangled sound.
"Asset. Put him down. Now."
Three seconds passed. Four. Finally, he opened his fingers, and the man collapsed, coughing, bringing one hand to his throat. She didn't even look at him.
"Let's go," she murmured, turning away and walking, already calculating. This would reach her superiors within the hour. Another incident report with her name and the Asset attached. Another mark against her record that wasn't really her fault but would be treated as such anyway.
The familiar sound of boots followed behind.
She scanned her badge at the door of her quarters, and the lock clicked open with a soft beep. Then, she stepped inside.
The Soldat entered after her without waiting for permission. It never did. After all, she always let him.
It had become routine over the past few months. Even when she dismissed him, he'd find his way back within the hour, sitting in a corner of her quarters, silent and still as a guardian statue. She'd told him he could use the furniture, the chair, even the bed if he wanted.
But he never did. Just stayed there in whatever shadow was available, watching at nothing in particular.
She suspected he knew what she knew: that without him present, she was terribly vulnerable.
She closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, back against the cold steel, closing her eyes.
When she opened them, he was standing in the center of the room, perfectly still, waiting. Always waiting for the next command, the next purpose to his existence.
She exhaled slowly.
"Kneel."
He obeyed without hesitation, swiftly dropping to his knees. The movement was so ingrained that it didn't even register as submission anymore, just another command executed.
She moved closer and reached out to touch his cheek. Her hand was warm against his skin, and for a moment she just looked at him, searching in that blank expression for something she wasn't sure existed anymore.
"What you did will have consequences," she said quietly. Not angry, but tired.
She brushed her thumb along his cheekbone, a gesture that didn't belong in any handler protocol she'd ever been taught, or he ever received with any other that wasn't her.
"The superiors will hear about this, and they'll reprimand me for not having you under control." She paused, keeping her eyes still on his. "I have to punish you. I didn't give you the order to grab that man. He wasn't a direct threat to my safety."
She thought she saw something flicker in his gaze. Shame? Regret? She couldn't be sure. His face remained unreadable, that carefully constructed emptiness that Hydra had beaten into him over decades.
Without further preamble, she pulled her hand back and slapped him across the face.
It wasn't brutal. Not really, compared to what he'd endured from others. But it carried weight. A line crossed that she needed to mark.
His head barely moved from the impact, but something in his posture shifted. Infinitesimal, but there.
She knelt in front of him, bringing herself closer to his level -though he still towered over her even like this- and leaned in gently, pressing her lips to the cheek she'd just struck, a soft kiss over the faint red mark already fading.
"Don't make me correct you again," she whispered against his skin. "You know I don't want to."
As she started to pull back, she felt it- the way he leaned into her, just slightly, following the retreat of her lips with his face like he didn't want the contact to end.
She let out a slow breath and lifted her hand to the back of his neck, threading her fingers gently through the hair at his nape. She brought her other hand to rest on his thigh, steadying herself as she shifted closer, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
She felt him relax under her touch and turn his head just slightly, enough that she knew he was breathing her in.
As he always did.
She closed her eyes. She knew she shouldn't do this, offer him physical comfort. But she couldn't help it.
Outside these walls, reports would be filed. Consequences would come. The accidents would get worse, less deniable. Her superiors would remind her that the Asset was a weapon, and that her inability to maintain proper distance was a liability.
But here, now, in this moment-
She didn't move, and neither did he.
Tomorrow would bring what it always did, but right now, it all felt very far away.
