Summary: You should feel safe with him. He’s your closest friend, the one who watches over you, the one you trust enough to fall asleep beside without worry. But when your guard is down, when you’re at your most vulnerable, he lets the obsession he’s been burying finally consume him.
The next night, you barely noticed the change. You went to bed early, exhausted, drifting off the moment your head hit the pillow.
But Bucky noticed. He always did.
He’d waited until your breathing settled into that slow, rhythmic pattern that meant you were deep enough to dream. Only then did he slip into your room, silent as a shadow.
He sat at the edge of the bed, watching you. He should’ve felt guilt. Maybe even shame. But instead, he felt a vicious thrill clawing at his chest—the same one that had consumed him the night before when your body had welcomed him in your half-sleep.
You shifted beneath the sheets, murmuring his name faintly, and that was all the permission he needed.
This time, he didn’t bother with slow touches. His hands dragged your shorts down, leaving you bare beneath the blanket. He admired the sight, the soft vulnerability of you. The way you spread open without even realizing.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Waitin’ for me, huh? Can’t fool me, doll.”
You stirred, eyes fluttering half-open, lips parting as if to speak—but Bucky was already pushing himself inside you.
The sudden fullness had your back arching, a muffled gasp spilling out. You blinked in confusion, groggy, dream-slow. “B-Bucky…?”
He hushed you with a hand over your mouth, leaning close, his hips grinding steady and deep. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just me. Just a dream. Don’t wake up.”
Your body clung to him, too weak to resist, too drowsy to understand. He pounded into you harder than the first time, his self-restraint snapping. The mattress creaked beneath the force, his metal hand locked around your thigh, keeping you wide open for him.
Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes—not from fear, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation your half-asleep brain couldn’t process. Bucky kissed them away, groaning against your cheek.
“You don’t even know how perfect you are for me. Nothin’s ever gonna stop me from takin’ what’s mine.”
When he came, it was violent, shuddering, his seed filling you in a way that made his possessive streak ache with satisfaction. He stayed buried inside, grinding lazily, savoring every second of your limp, pliant body around him.
And when you slipped fully under again, lost to unconsciousness, Bucky whispered against your ear, “Tomorrow, doll. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Summary: You agreed to one night, but Bucky has other plans, making it clear he’s going to keep you—and he wants you carrying his baby.
Pairings : Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Note : non-consensual behavior, forced pregnancy
The air in the room is heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Bucky stands in the doorway, his massive frame dominating the space, eyes dark and predatory. He’s watching you, that familiar smirk playing on his lips. It’s unsettling how calm he is, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knows exactly how this is going to play out.
“Why you standin’ over there like you got a choice, doll?” His voice is low, gravelly, and it hits you straight in the chest. “C’mere.”
You hesitate, trying to remember the rules you both set. One night. That’s it. But the look in his eyes says different. There’s no way you’re walking out of here without something much heavier hanging over you—without him making sure his mark on you is permanent.
“I said, come here,” Bucky’s tone darkens, a rough edge creeping in, and your body reacts before your brain does, your feet moving toward him. His metal arm reaches out, pulling you flush against his chest, and fuck, the heat coming off him makes your pulse race.
“I’m not letting you go, y’know that, right?” His breath is hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “This ain’t some casual thing. You’re mine. And I’m gonna make sure you know it.”
His hand slides down your back, rough fingertips brushing against the bare skin under your shirt, making you shiver. He smirks when he feels it, gripping your waist harder, like he owns every inch of you. In his mind, he does.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Shh,” he growls, his lips brushing against your neck. “I’m gonna take my time with you. Make sure it sticks this time. You’re not walkin’ outta here without somethin’ of mine.”
You can feel the power in his body as he presses against you, the steel in his grip, and the raw desire pouring off him in waves. You try to push back, but his grip tightens, his metal hand circling around your throat—enough to hurt, enough to remind you who’s in charge.
“You agreed to one night,” he whispers, lips dragging over your skin, teasing. “But I’m not a man of half-measures, sweetheart. You’re not leaving here until I’ve put a baby in you. Until I know I’ve claimed you for good.”
Your heart pounds, his words sinking deep into your bones.
“You... you don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a dark chuckle.
“Don’t gotta do a damn thing. But I want to.” His lips curl into a smirk, and he lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bed. The room spins for a second, and then you’re beneath him, pinned by his weight, his hands already working to pull your clothes off, rough and demanding.
His lips crash into yours, claiming, devouring, and you can’t help but moan into the kiss as his tongue pushes past your lips. His hands grip the waistband of your jeans, yanking them down without a care, shredding any barriers between you.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, running his hands over your now-bare thighs, squeezing, as if memorizing the shape of you. “Gonna ruin you, doll. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
You’re panting, barely able to think straight as his mouth trails down your body, his breath hot against your skin. His metal arm holds you in place, cold against the burning heat coursing through you, while his other hand grips your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s his goddamn right.
“You like this, don’t you?” he teases, voice dripping with that rough, dominant tone. “You like the way I fuckin’ own you.”
His fingers tease you for only a second before he thrusts them inside, rough and unrelenting, stretching you out in a way that makes you arch your back, a cry ripping from your throat.
“Bucky!”
“That’s right, baby,” he smirks, his fingers working faster, deeper, curling inside you just to hear you scream again. “You’re fuckin’ mine.”
He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with himself, pushing into you with a rough, demanding thrust that has you seeing stars. Every muscle in his body is taut, coiled with tension, and you can feel how fucking hungry he is for you. The pace is slow at first, teasing, but you know it’s only a matter of time before he loses control.
“You think I’m gonna let you go after this?” he growls, his hips snapping against yours, hard and rough. “Nah, baby. You’re stuck with me. Gonna fill you up until you’re pregnant. You’re gonna carry my kid, and I’m gonna make sure of it.”
His words send a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes your lips, the way your body responds to his every move. He’s relentless, his pace brutal, pounding into you like it’s the only thing that matters, and in this moment, it is.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw with desire. “So tight. You’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch of me, and you’re gonna thank me when I’m done.”
You can barely breathe, barely think as he keeps thrusting into you, harder, deeper, making sure you feel every inch of him. He leans down, his lips ghosting over your ear.
“I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna make you mine in every fuckin’ way. You’re gonna carry my kid, and you’re gonna love every second of it.”
You can feel yourself unraveling beneath him, your body tightening around him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Let me feel you fall apart.”
You shatter beneath him, your body convulsing as pleasure crashes over you like a wave, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He just keeps fucking you, riding you through your orgasm, determined to make this last.
When he finally lets go, he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you, and you can feel the hot rush of his release as he fills you.
“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice rough and breathless. “Now you’re mine. And you’re not going anywhere.”
❝ knight!bucky x princess!reader ❞
── as the princess' coronation approaches so does her time to marry, james, her steadfast knight is always there for her-- five steps behind to be exact. always there to protect, to serve. falling in love was never apart of the job, not for you or james.
⤷ tags: alternate universe - royalty, mentions of violence via blood, fighting & war, medieval era typical misongyny, fluff, bucky is referenced only as 'james', yearning, forbidden relationship, semi slow burn, wannabe medieval era but not everything is 100% accurate, tags to be added in each part. ⋮ warnings: 18+ mdni! eventual smut, p in v, mutual masturbation, unprotected sex, breeding kink/talk, individual tags added in each part.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── this whole thing was based off one line that me and @chateaubarnes ran away in the wind with. if you hate it... soz
── chapters + extras
part one ⋮ part two ⋮ part three ⋮ part four
word count: 1.6k
disclaimer: uncle kink. (not actual uncle, it's reader's dad's best friend.) all characters are 18+. moderate depictions of anxiety. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.
a/n: based on this ask. I missed uncle bucky so much! also this was not supposed to be sad but then I had a day so this is for all the anxious readers!!!
✦ series masterlist ~ previous part ~ next part ✦
~~~
"god, you're so perfect like this," he whispers like a prayer into your skin, his warm breath making you shiver.
your parents had finally gone away for the weekend, after a lot of subtle hints and encouragement from you. "it'll be good to get away, just the two of you..." is what you would tell them.
they couldn't have known you wanted them to leave for more... selfish reasons. you just wanted a weekend where you didn't feel like you had to sneak around.
you pretended to be surprised, pretended to be pissed when you were told:
"your Uncle Bucky is going to check in on you while we're gone."
"I'm an adult! I've lived by myself before!" you try to argue with them, somewhat genuinely on principle, but mostly for show. even though you were getting exactly what you wanted, you couldn't let them know that.
"either you agree, or we're not going."
and that was how you got away with spending an entire weekend alone together, naked, in your bed.
you tangle your hands in his hair once more. you've already given him enough shit for letting it get so long, but you just can't help it.
"you need a haircut," you comment to him, and he instantly pulls his head back from where he's been sucking marks on your chest. he lets out a low, breathy laugh as he looks up to your eyeline.
his hair is still damp from showering hours ago, strands dangling left and right. it's longer than you've seen it in quite a while.
"don't like it?" he teases. he knows you just love to give him a bad time.
"you're literally sporting a bob, Bucky," you laugh. "it's all the way past your chin!"
"you're a little shit," he says, bringing a hand to your bare hip. "you're going to admit you like it. one way or another."
"should give you a little man bun," you say and gather his hair into a small ball at the nape of his neck. you pretend to be annoyed as you tell him, "goddamnit, you still look hot."
"you know it, babygirl," he says, pressing his lips back to your chest.
it's nice, you think. getting to relax together, getting to pretend like you could ever have more than just these stolen moments.
your gaze trails up to the ceiling as your mind contemplates it, the fact that you even have to call these moments "stolen.” you begin to get distracted by the anxiety welling in your stomach.
you try not to let on that the stress is taking over, that you're quietly being eaten alive by your own thoughts.
but you can't hide anything from him.
"what's going on, kid?" he asks you as he pulls back.
"what if they find out?" you ask, incredibly quiet, still focusing your gaze on a small divot in the ceiling.
he pauses again.
"they won't," he assures you. he doesn't sound too confident, though.
"Bucky, they're your friends. they're my parents. and…” you trail off. you know that what you mean to say next won't help the situation.
"and?"
the anxious pit in your stomach worsens, another wave of nausea broiling in your throat.
"they trust you with me."
you know you shouldn't have said it. you knew it was a bad idea, and now you're regretting it. he speaks again before you can continue.
"they trust that I'll take care of you and protect you with my life, and I will. I would never break that promise."
it doesn't help. you wish it did.
he leans in close again. "I'm still the same person to you that I was before all this, okay?" he assures you.
you nod and turn your face towards his. the fear of being caught never fails to send you into a panic, causing that horrible pins-and-needles sensation in your hands. you try to scratch at your hands to get it to go away, and like always, it doesn't work.
"need you again," you deflect, bringing your hands to his back and pulling him up closer against you. his chest is warm against yours, the feeling soothing, but it's not enough.
"alright, pretty girl," he whispers, punctuated with a nip at your ear, proceeding to then run his tongue over your pulse point. "you know that, right? you're my gorgeous girl."
you feel his knee slot between your legs, his bare thigh pressing up against you between your own thighs. you're still dripping from the last round, the feeling of him spilling out of you. your combined release leaks onto the skin of his upper thigh as he gently grinds against you, eliciting a delicate moan from high in your throat.
"don't want anyone but my pretty girl," he tells you, running a metal thumb over your swollen lips, his fingertips then trailing down over the column of your throat in appreciation. his gaze follows the path of his fingers, admiring the sight of your skin under his touch.
his knee ever so slightly shifts between your thighs, just enough for you to feel the movement and move your hips against him in response.
"you like that? getting off on my thigh, baby?"
"mhm..." you respond, once again moving your hands to tug at his hair. "feels so good. you're so strong, Uncle Bucky..."
he smirks at that.
"and you're so delicate. look at you, baby, under me like this," he says. he gently cups the soft flesh of your breasts in his hands. "love your tits, baby. hate it when you hide them from me in those hoodies of yours. want to see all of you, always."
his flesh hand radiates heat on your skin, a sharp contrast to the coolness of his prosthetic. you feel so sensitive to his touch, every move making you feel electrified. his knee moves again between your legs, and he watches as your face reacts so strongly to the motion.
"wanna keep you laid out for me, forever, baby. just you and me. nobody else." his hands come to the back of your thighs, gripping just enough to dip his fingertips into your skin, holding your legs still.
the muscle of his thigh is so powerful against you, and you're trapped under him. it's maddening how good it feels. you're suddenly reminded of how grateful you are for all the time he spends at the gym.
"imagine that, kid," he whispers in your ear. "just you and me, like this, forever."
you feel so overwhelmed, the thoughts still pooled in the back of your mind suddenly brought back to the forefront. the physical sensation of him against you, his body pressed to yours, combined with your emotional distress is enough to bring tears to your eyes.
"don't cry, sweetheart," he whispers, pressing kisses to each of your eyes as they well up. "I'm always gonna be here for you. no matter what happens, okay?"
you're not used to him being this soft with you.
for as long as you've known him, he's loved to mess with you, give you a bad time, tease you. that was his job as your dad's best friend. that wasn't going to change just because you were sleeping together, and for the most part, it didn't.
but this? this was arguably the most important job he held, one hidden under the surface of jokes and playfulness. he was a pillar for you, always. when you were a teenager, and you couldn't call your parents, you could call him. he would always be that man, that figure for you, above all else.
the thoughts of how much you care for him scare you.
"Uncle Bucky," you cry, eyes shut tightly, tears falling harder.
you don't have to say anything else. he knows.
"I'm here, kid," he tells you, manually moving your hips quicker against his thigh to bring you the pleasure he so badly wants to see replace the sadness on your face.
he's always had a soft spot for your tears.
"look at me," he instructs. you're grinding against him ardently, your body trying to seek out the climax that's building so slowly. you force your eyes open. "you're my girl. say it."
"'m your girl," you whine, and then you feel the pressure of his knee fall away from you. before you can even comprehend the change, his hand is on you, quickly burying his fingers inside you and pressing his thumb to your clit.
"that's right. come on. let me see you come, baby," he tells you, fingers working faster.
he speaks to you so softly, and it's as though all the stress and anxiety floats away when you're reminded of how much this is worth it.
"good girl," he says, feeling you squeeze around his fingers, and then your whole body lets go. you breathe heavily through your orgasm, filled with nothing but pleasure and desire for the man bringing it to you. "love watching your perfect body come for me, only for me."
he quickly wraps you in his arms as you come down, trying to stave off the inevitable return of the anxiety you can't seem to let go of. a few minutes pass like this before you speak up.
"I'm sorry I'm ruining our weekend," you whisper into his neck.
"don't say that. you're not ruining anything. you're happy I'm here, right?" he asks you, looking down at where your face is hidden. you nod against him.
"good, 'cause I am too. that's all that matters," he coos, a hand brushing over your hair. "I'm here, kid. Uncle Bucky's here."
and for a second, you feel like everything will be okay as long as he's there.
Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.
Word Count: 7.9k
Warnings: Bucky is a dick; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives; loss of parents; sexism; violence; prejudices
Author’s note: First part. Hope you enjoy! I'd be happy if you let me know what you think ♡
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
The evening went well. Or that’s what you tell yourself every single time.
You played your part impeccably - every nod, every word, every glance, and every smile was measured and graceful.
Even the rivals among the lords seemed charmed tonight.
You didn’t really catch a glimpse of your father, but that is nothing new to you.
Thankfully, you could spend a little time with your mother before the banquet began. She always insists on braiding your hair for formal events. Usually, that was meant to calm you down when you were little but she still insists on doing it, despite the fact that those formalities don’t matter to you anymore.
They always leave you feeling uncomfortable, like you are merely a sculpture to be appraised.
Tonight’s garment had been chosen with precision. Of course not from you. You don’t get to choose your own clothes. They are softly lilac colored silken folds, embroidered with delicate threads of gold to catch the light. It hugs your frame in a way meant to flatter but left you feeling exposed the whole evening.
You play your part, but you hate it.
The music, the scent of roasted meats, the spiced wine, the laughter of guests - it’s always the same. You scarcely even remember what kind of occasion today’s banquet even marked.
All you remember are the gazes lingering on your body.
Men who have long since passed their prime looked upon you with the hungry eyes of wolves, their smiles a thin veneer of civility. Their eyes did not see a girl barely stepping into adulthood, they saw a prize. A princess. A pawn in the great game of power.
Gazes can move away but the heat of every single one lingers. You still feel it on your collarbones, the curve of your neck, the way the gown cinches at your waist.
Your worth is measured not by your thoughts or your dreams, but by the alliances your hand could forge.
You despise it.
But your father doesn’t care. He doesn’t look out for you in situations like that. He just expects you to play the part you are meant to. And sadly, you do. Because you don’t have a choice. This is what your life was meant to be.
Only your mother would notice the way your shoulders always stiffen when a lord leans too close or the way you avoid the wine, lest you dull your senses in a room full of predators.
She would smile at you kindly, reassuringly, probably trying to give you some strength in knowing that she understands what it feels like. And you do appreciate her gesture.
But even her love and her sympathy can not unbind you from the duties imposed by your birth.
You wanted to scream the second you stepped into the great hall. You wanted to tear the silken gown from your body, strip away the gold and jewels, and stuff them into the faces of the many greedy men. You wanted to shout until your voice grew hoarse.
But you can not.
You are a princess.
A princess does not scream. She does not cry. She does not falter.
Your life is not your own. Your voice is not your own. Even your smile belongs to the court, to the crown, to the men who watch you with eyes that devour.
Sometimes, you long for freedom. But what does freedom even mean?
You have no frame of reference for a life beyond these walls, these duties, these suffocating expectations.
The world outside the palace is unknown to you - a mystery, a threat, a promise so far out of reach.
And yet, as you sat at the banquet table just hours before, smiling politely at a lord who complimented your gown while his eyes lingered far too long, you thought even the unknown would be better than this.
So now, back from hell, you are so ready to get into bed and sleep your misery away as you try every day. It hasn’t entirely worked out yet, but a princess can hope.
The tight corset, the layers of silken skirts, the necklace that hangs heavy - all symbols of your station, all unbearable tonight. Every night.
A maid is at your side, about to loosen the clasps at your wrists and shoulders to let the gown slip away.
You’re ready to let it pool around your feet and step into your robe, letting the candlelight brush and warm your collarbone and bask in the silence of the faded music from the hall below.
But before anything of that can happen, there is no silence anymore.
It’s distant at first, muffled. Unrecognizable.
But the sounds grow louder, sharper, and the hands of the maid freeze. You do too.
A roar pierces the stone walls, then another, and another. Steel clashes.
A scream, then another, and another.
Those aren’t screams of surprise, or anger, or perhaps the aftermath of too much alcohol. No, those are long, guttural wails that make your blood run dry.
Death spills over into sounds just outside your doors.
Your candle wavers as the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble. You clutch the edge of the dressing table to steady yourself.
It is as though the palace itself is exhaling its last breath.
The doors to your chambers burst open with a force that sends the wooden panels crashing against the walls.
Your lady screams at the sound.
You spin around, equally in fear, heart leaping to your throat and almost spilling over into a sound as well.
A relieved exhale flutters out of your body at the face you see.
It is Sir Barton.
He has always been there, from your earliest memories. You see him more often than your own father, though his face now is drawn, pale, and streaked with soot. His blond hair is usually meticulously combed, but now it’s disheveled, and his armor bears fresh scratches and bloodstains.
His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths and his eyes - fierce and determined, but aching with something more - lock onto yours.
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice breaking through the panic. “You must come. Now!”
He doesn’t spare a glance at the hyperventilating lady hiding behind your dresser. And after you take a second too long to follow him, he steps forward and grabs your arm - not with the gentleness of a knight guiding royalty but with the desperation of a man trying to save a life.
He leads you out.
“What is happening?” you whisper, a shudder raking down your spine at the way the sounds are getting so much more real with each step you take.
“The palace is under attack,” Sir Barton says, eyes still focused forward. “They’ve breached the outer gates. We don’t have much time.”
He seems to feel you hesitate because his grip tightens on you. His steps don’t falter.
The hallways are dark and thick with the acrid stench of smoke. Shouts echo from all sides, some distant, some too close.
Barton shields you with his body as a deafening crash shakes the walls, sending dust raining from the ceiling.
“This way,” he commands and you have no choice but to follow him blindly, clutching at his cloak.
At one point, he stops abruptly, pressing you into the shadow of an archway, shielding you again and only turning to you after the commotion turned far away. His face is grim, his voice a whisper.
“Stay close to me, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
You nod, though your throat is too tight to form words.
The air in the tunnels he leads you through is cold and damp, pressing in from every side. But you can barely feel it. Your legs burn from the fast pace Sir Barton holds, your lungs clawing for breath.
Sir Barton's tight grip on your wrist is the only thing you can latch on in this darkness. His armor clinks with every step.
You don’t ask him where you are going. But there is a question you need to ask.
“Where are my parents? Where is Mother? Are they both led here as well? Will they follow us?”
Alright, perhaps more than one question.
Seconds stretch without an answer. His armor still clinks. He squeezes your wrists - a warning not to ask further. A warning not to expect an answer.
Something creeps into your mind, something insidious and cold.
Sir Barton guides you into a small alcove carved into the rock, barely wide enough for the two of you. His shoulders heave heavily and you make out the glistening of sweat on his face even in the darkness.
You open your mouth again, taking a breath, but his expression stops you.
Sir Barton, the unshakable knight, the man who stood at your father’s side for decades, looks broken. His usually grey eyes are shadowed. His lips are parted, but no sound comes out, the weight of what he has to say even too much for him.
His jaw is tight. There is a tiny shake of his head as he releases a breath that cracks you open right in the middle, leaving a gaping hole where your heart once was.
And in that shatter, you linger. You don’t know if you’ll ever get out.
Because you know what his silence means.
“No.” the word is barely audible. You stumble in your steps. “No. They can’t be. Don’t tell me they’re gone. They… They’re not!”
More silence. More tension.
“No!” You shake your head, stepping back until your shoulders hit the cold, rough stone. Your legs feel as though they might give way beneath you.
“Your Highness.”
Sir Barton takes hold of your arm again. Almost roughly. His voice is clipped, his breath is broken. But there is vehemence in his words. Something deep weighed, but strong and determined as he meets your eye intensely, gripping you hard.
“I feel deep regret for their loss. But I swore an oath to protect you. And I will keep it.”
With that, he hauls you forward again, falling into his fast pace.
You can’t help but follow. You let yourself get dragged.
The tunnels seem unending. And although the screams and the tumult are no longer in earshot, every sound you hear feels like a betrayal. Every footstep, every breath a reminder that your parents would breathe no more.
Your thoughts are wild things, crashing against the confines of your skull - flashes of your mother's sweet smile, your father's stern but still warm eyes, the sudden attack with the screams, and the clashes, and the steel.
Grief is an excruciating pain. Your breaths are trapped, pounding on the walls of the cage that is your chest. Begging for release. Your heart still seems to be missing. Or it simply is divided into so tiny pieces it feels like it vanished entirely. It disappeared into the crack of the earth, giving way to roots, the tremor of something breaking open to grow.
Grief is the fullness of too much.
Too much feeling, too much meaning, too much of the world compressing itself into a single-held breath.
And that breath lingers.
Not because it cannot rise, but because rising would undo you.
The tunnels end.
You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking them, but you emerge into a hollow chamber, dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The air is colder here, less stagnant. It smells faintly of earth and steel. Your pulse quickens.
There is a man.
He stands there, leaning against the far wall, the flicker of firelight wildly illuminating the sharp planes of his face.
He didn’t move when you entered, not even a shift of his shoulders. He remains standing there, utterly unbothered, casually sharpening his blade against the whetstone in his hand, as though your arrival is an inconvenience rather than an event of consequence.
His leather armor looks worn, clinging to his tall frame as if he’s been wearing it for years.
His hair is dark, a smooth chestnut brown, and it is unruly, curling slightly at his temples as though it had been left to grow wild for too long.
He looks like a mercenary. He probably is one.
You try to find strength in Sir Barton's solid presence beside you. He doesn’t seem surprised at this man being here. More like, he is relieved.
The mercenary sighs, long and exaggerated, as if this entire meeting is a chore he’s been dragged into against his will.
He tugs the blade back into its holster at his side, throwing the stone casually aside and the clank of it against the ground sounds out loud enough for you to shrink into yourself ever so slightly.
Slowly, the man pushes himself off the wall with the effortless poise of a predator, standing to his full, imposing height.
He is still a little distance away from you, but you find your skin prickle when his gaze falls over you. He seems utterly unimpressed.
His eyes struck you. They are icy, strategic. It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the color blue. However, that’s the essence of the blue in his eyes.
He doesn’t regard you as a princess. He regards you as a problem.
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that makes the title sound more like an insult than an honor.
He gives the faintest bow, a mockery of decorum, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that barely hides his amusement.
This man regards you with the same detached air he might afford a stranger begging for coin.
His posture remains loose, almost insolent, and yet there is something in the way he carries himself that warns you not to mistake his casual attitude for weakness.
“Is this it, Barton?” he asks, turning his sharp gaze to the knight, who stands protectively at your side. “This is the prize you want me to bleed for?” He raises a single brow, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of sardonic disbelief. His voice is rough, perhaps shaped by years of commanding others or cursing the world.
He throws you a single, apathetic glance. His smile turns into a sneer. “She seems awfully fragile to be worth the trouble.”
Your cheeks burn with anger and humiliation. Perhaps you are, in a sense, fragile. Your hands have never gripped a sword, your feet have never trudged through mud and blood, and the realization that your parents are no longer alive threatens to make you crumble right then and there.
But his dismissal feels like an assault on everything you still hold within yourself.
You open your mouth to respond, but the words are sticky and stay clinging to the back of your throat, the glue being grief and exhaustion.
Sir Barton, however, steps forward, his voice low and authoritative.
“She is not your concern to judge,” he firmly declares. “She is your charge, whether you like it or not.”
There is a pause. Sir Barton stands rigid and straight before he continues. His words seem to have trouble coming out but he still makes them sound strong. But you can see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his grip on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesties - The King and Queen - are no longer with us.”
You flinch, breath catching sharply.
The mercenary stands still. Dark brows shoot up in genuine surprise, though his face remains otherwise unreadable. The contrast is startling, though. His indifference was disrupted by that sharp, flickering reaction.
His surprise unsettles you. His lips part slightly, but whatever words have formed behind them don’t emerge. For a fleeting second, his hard, smug veneer cracks, but just as quickly it reassembles itself.
He purses his lips, looking at the wall for a few moments. His face smooths into something almost deliberately blank. Then his eyes narrow slightly, and though his expression is hard to read, there is something dark and bitter there. But what scares you is the tiny glimpse of satisfaction.
“They’re dead,” he grounds out almost flatly and you find yourself flinching again.
The mercenary gives a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound echoing painfully. He shakes his head, smile slipping from his face. “Well.” His tone is laced with bitterness. An air of irritation floats around him as he exhales sharply through his nose. “I do believe that changes things,” he then sneers.
Your heart is pounding so drastically, you hope it doesn’t echo around the room as well. You try to breathe as silently as possible. Barton's eyes gleam fiercely as he takes another step toward the man. The mercenary meets his gaze with raised eyebrows, not backing down, not bothered in the slightest.
“I am sure you have not forgotten, Barnes. Do not make me remind you.”
The mercenary - Barnes, you guessed - narrows his eyes, a flicker crossing his features. “I have not forgotten,” he says, voice quiet, almost a growl.
“You swore to protect what mattered to her. You swore to see her will be carried forward. You swore an oath to her. What mattered to her still lives. The princess lives. She is what the Queen cherished above all else, and it is her safety you are bound to protect.”
You watch Barnes’s jaw tighten, displeasure clear on his features.
“You will protect her daughter. Therewith, the oath will be discharged.”
Barnes’s gaze flickers to you, and for the first time, you see something other than indifference or scorn in his eyes. It isn’t kindness, not for a long shot, more like conflict. As though he is weighing you, judging you against the memory of the woman who had once earned his loyalty. The woman that is your mother. Or was your mother, you acknowledge with a lump in your throat.
“I swore to protect what mattered to her. But I did not know it would be her daughter. His daughter,” he spat out the last part, disdain following along his harsh tone.
Your skin is flushed, your chest is heaving, your hands curl into fists. You are confused beyond belief about what exactly is going on. It’s like you are watching yourself getting shoved off into the arms of a mercenary who couldn’t care less about your life.
You don’t know what your mother has done for this man, how deeply her actions have tied him to your family.
But you really don’t like this conversation.
Sir Barton is clearly losing his patience. “And yet, you will protect her still.” His words brook no argument. “The oath binds thee, not to the Crown, nor to me, but to the memory of the Queen. Do you mean to forsake it now?
Barnes exhales a frustrated sigh.
“Fine,” he says at last, the word dropping from his lips like a stone into a well. He straightens, his broad shoulders squaring and his hard eyes fixed on you. “I will keep you alive. But you better not expect me to bow, curtsy, or kiss your hand, your Highness. Do not expect me to coddle you. I am not your knight, and I am not your servant. I’m just the man who gets to clean up your mess.”
He then steps closer to Barton, standing almost nose to nose but none of the men back down. Barnes’s gaze is menacing. “I am a man of my word. But do not mistake my actions for loyalty to the Crown.”
“I would not dare, Bucky Barnes,” Sir Barton counters coldly.
Something twists inside you at this man’s words - anger, yes, but also something deeper, something more profound, something hard to press down.
You hate the way he dismisses you, the way he refuses to see you as more than your title.
You want to protest, to tell Sir Barton that this is a terrible idea. And that this is not his decision to make. You should have a say in who guards you, who holds your fate in their hands. Though, being realistic, you never had a say in anything. Your father always made sure of that.
And despite him not being here anymore, the safety of the palace is gone, just like your mother's love. There is no way you are getting out of here safely without some help and you hate it. You hate the fact that you have no idea how to wield a sword, throw a knife, or face the horrors of war.
You grew up in the sheltered halls of the palace, surrounded by courtiers and silks, not steel and blood.
So, Barton’s faith in this man - however misplaced it seems to you - is all that stands between you and whatever awaits beyond the damp darkness of the tunnels. It’s all that can get you out of here in one piece.
You want to hate this Bucky Barnes. To rail against the unfairness of it all - fleeing in the dead of night in a gown that is not at all suitable for an escape, weighed down by the pain of your parents’ demise, entrusted to a man who seems to care little whether you live or die.
He might have sworn to keep you alive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t happily watch you get hurt.
And yet - for all his roughness, for all his scorn - you can’t shake that there is something more to him.
He is dangerous, that much is clear, but there is also a sense of control about him, an air of competence that both reassures and unnerves you.
This man does not want to protect you.
He does not care about your title, your lineage, or your grief.
He is here because he has to be, because of a single promise he made.
You wonder if he really is a man of his word.
Bucky Barnes studies you again. His expression is hard, inscrutable. Then he says, his tone dry, almost mocking. “The road ahead will not be kind. Do not expect me to be sympathetic.”
****
You stumble forward through the tunnels.
Your limbs feel like lead, your breaths are shallow.
The air seems to have forgotten to hold you.
You don’t know how your legs keep moving, how your body is able to obey commands you no longer consciously give.
Perhaps it is the inertia of shock. The kind that shakes in your hands, makes them search for a reality that is no longer solid. The kind that makes you believe the universe is folding in on itself, a star imploding in the vastness of your chest. You are the void it leaves behind - immense, consuming, and desperately reaching for light.
But there is no light.
The tunnels are silent and dark, except for the torchlight the man in front of you carries and the footsteps that sound out. But the torchlight seems to illuminate more shadows than it chases away.
There is a distant drip of water echoing through the labyrinth but you are too tired to try and make out where it comes from.
Bucky - or Barnes - or whatever you even are supposed to call him now, moves through the darkness as though it is his domain, as if the passages yield to his command.
He scarcely takes a moment to reflect on his path, turning corners and selecting forks with an animalistic accuracy that disturbs you.
His pace is brisk, his steps calculated. There is a certain confidence, a strength, in the way he holds himself, an instinctual awareness that might have captivated you, were you not so consumed by sorrow and wariness.
Just earlier this day you had imagined leaving those constricting castle walls but it seems the freedom you had dreamed of meets you in a way you never would have thought possible.
You don’t feel like the perfect princess you played just hours earlier.
You are a disheveled figure trailing behind a stranger in the bowels of the earth.
The air is lacking the lavender and citrus of the gilded halls you walked through your whole life. Here, the air is damp, heavy with the scent of soil and decay. The stones of those walls are cold and rough, nothing like the smooth marble walls from the polished balustrades of the palace.
The man walking ahead of you hasn’t spoken a single word to you since you parted from Sir Barton.
You’re not sure if the silence is meant to intimidate or if he simply doesn’t care enough to speak.
His broad shoulders move steadily. His stride is long and swift, forcing you to half jog just to keep him in sight.
He doesn’t look back. Not once.
Maybe it's for the best, you reflect with resentment. Any word that could escape his lips would likely be brimming with animosity towards your family regardless. And distance between you and this man feels safer.
There is something coiled about him, something you can’t name but feel in the way he carries himself.
The torch he holds throws flickering light across the sharp planes of his face when he passes too near a wall.
His jaw is set, his expression grim.
His eyes - bright in color but oh so dark, when they had deigned to glance at you before - are unreadable pools of shadow, devoid of warmth.
He is not kind. He is not comforting. He is a stranger, forced into your service by circumstances neither of you have chosen.
You don’t know what desperation Sir Barton must have felt to send you away with this wild man. Bucky Barnes seems as indifferent to your survival as he is to your existence, and yet, here he is, leading you through an underground labyrinth you can only hope leads somewhere safe.
You feel the urge to speak - to inquire about where he is taking you, to seek answers, to convey the growing frustration and fear that seem ready to shatter you. Greater than you already are.
But the words flee as soon as they are formed. Leaving only the roar of nothingness.
There hasn’t been time to mourn, no time to feel.
Sir Barton had hurried you through the secret corridors under the palace, with his hold tight on your arm, and his tone tense with urgency.
He didn’t ask if you wanted to flee. He didn’t ask what you thought was best. He simply acted, as though you were another piece in this tragic game of chess, to be moved and sacrificed as necessity demanded.
You are a princess, yes. But first, you are a person. And in this moment, you feel like neither. You are a shadow following a stranger in the dark, uncertain of the path ahead or the person leading you.
But there is nothing you can do about it.
The tunnels begin to shift.
The walls widen slightly, though the ceiling remains low.
The air grows colder, fresher, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine.
You realize with a start that you must be nearing the forest. Relief and fear wars within you. The palace is behind you, but how is this supposed to go on?
Barnes slows. Finally.
He comes to a stop at a rusted iron gate, the hinges creaking in complaint as he shoves it open with one hand.
Beyond it lay a rough-hewn staircase carved into the rock, leading upward into a faint glimmer of moonlight.
He turns to glance at you for the first time since you are alone with him.
“Keep up,” he says, his voice low, and rough, and utterly devoid of warmth.
You say nothing, biting your tongue. Perhaps to stifle the frustration that threatened to shove a snarky retort out of your mouth that might lead to your early grave, or the tears that threatened to sting behind your eyes ever since you heard of your parent's passing.
Instead, you nod curtly - he isn’t even looking at you anymore to see it - and step forward, legs trembling, feet already aching, with the effort, and follow him up those stairs.
The stone steps beneath your shoes are rough - like everything in your life now as it seems.
Each step you climb seems to strip something away - your strength, your breath, your will. Each step seems to demand more from your trembling legs, every motion a reminder of how deep you’ve fallen - from grace, from safety, from everything you have ever known.
Erratic shadows move over Barnes's ahead of you, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the faint moonlight spilling down from above.
You struggle to keep up. The air is cold, sharp with the sting of frost and pine, but it does nothing to clear your thoughts.
As you reach the top of the stairs, the night sky opens before you, vast and infinite, studded with stars.
But their light is dim against the inferno that rages behind you.
You turn around slowly.
Shock and utter terror flood every single one of your senses. The world seems to pull away beneath your feet, but it does not let you fall. It lets you hover, holds you suspended in a hollow-out silence as if it means to forget about you. As if you’re not worth the fall. Meant to suffer in silence. Meant to suffer the terror of drifting in a void where even gravity has abandoned you.
Far in the distance stands your palace.
Your home for every single day of your life.
And it is all up in flames.
Consumed by them. Greedily gulped up by them.
The towers that once touched the heavens now spit fire and ash.
The gilded walls, the halls where you had danced and dined and dreamed, collapse in on themselves, devoured by the flames’s hunger.
The sight steals your breath.
Your legs give out for a moment, and you stagger, clutching the bark of a nearby tree.
Barnes notices you falter, his gaze flickering back toward you.
You don’t make a move to look at him. You don’t do anything other than stare at your life breaking apart in the distance.
But for his indifference and gruff demeanor, he does not bark at you to move along. He just stands tensely.
The flames lick at the night sky, their glow painting the darkness in hues of violent orange and crimson. Smoke rises in thick, twisting plumes, swallowing the stars, blotting out the heavens.
The great spires that had once stood so proud against the skyline now crumble beneath the viciousness of the fire. The golden banners that had fluttered in the wind just hours ago are ash now, carried in the same breeze that chills your skin.
It has been only hours - hours since you stood in the great hall, dressed in the very same silks you are still wearing, the air filled with laughter and music. The banquet, the formalities, the endless charade of being a princess - all of it suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.
You had thought it then. How it might feel to leave it all behind. How it might feel to shed the heaviness of the crown, to break free from the stifling demands and expectations that constrained you, the scrutiny of the court.
You dreamed of freedom, of a life beyond these walls. You imagined it. You wanted to see the world, to be more than a title, more than a pretty body in a gown, more than a vessel for alliances and admirations.
And now here you are, watching it all burn.
It doesn’t feel like freedom.
It doesn’t feel like anything you had dreamed of.
Your body becomes foreign, a machine running on instinct alone. Your chest heaves. Because it knows it needs air. But it doesn’t seem to get enough, judging the harsh rise and fall of your chest.
Your heart thunders, but it seems to have lost its rhythm, shaking but not steadying. It’s in panic. Pumping and pumping and pumping so much blood but where is it supposed to go?
Every room that now is a pile of ash on the ground held a memory. Every part of the castle was your home. The gardens where your mother had taught you the names of every flower growing there. The study where your father's voice sternly had shaped your understanding of duty. The kitchens where the maids had smuggled you pastries as a child.
It is all gone.
You are gone.
Your parents are gone. The King and Queen - your mother and father - are dead. Their crowns, their rule, their lives reduced to ash.
Yes, you wanted to be free. You wanted to leave this life behind but you never wanted it to happen like this. You never wanted your home to burn, your family to die, your title to become meaningless in the most violent of ways.
You wanted to leave the crown and not have it ripped away from you.
You wanted to see the world but now you aren’t sure you even have a place in it.
Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you force back the sting in your eyes.
You want to scream, to rage, to fall on your knees and weep until there is nothing left of you.
But you can’t break down now. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
Barnes still stands a little away from you. He has turned as well, though his expression is unreadable. His eyes reflect the firelight, the flames flickering like tiny ghosts in his gaze.
He doesn’t say anything and you are sure you don’t want him to. He surely would not tell you he is sorry.
He doesn’t look sorry at all. If anything, he looks tired. Detached. As though this is just another job, another mission. Another life going up in flames.
He simply stands there, his figure slightly outlined by the torch and the moon, waiting.
You hate him in that moment. Hate the way he stands there so calmly, so unconcerned, while your world is crumbling down. Hate that he isn’t doing a single thing to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.
But then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something crossing his expression. A shadow of something too fleeting to name. Pity? Regret? Compassion?
No, you tell yourself. He doesn’t care. Why would he?
And he shifts then.
After all, the world hasn’t stopped for your grief, and neither would he.
A clear of his throat. “C’mon. Told you to keep up.”
He doesn’t say it unkindly, but he says it bored. Monotone. Flat. And that might just be worse.
You draw in a shaky breath and turn away from the fire, though the image remains burned into your mind. It might be reduced to ash there too, but it won’t ever be swept away by the wind.
****
You have no idea how long you’ve been dragging your body through this forest.
It seems like an eternity.
Aching legs barely lift high enough to make the next step. The soles of your feet throb in time with the pounding of your head.
Your steps are so heavy, you might think the earth sought to pull you down, to bury you beneath its roots and brambles. You might just let it.
The thin slippers you wear - so ill-suited for a flight through the wilderness - offer little protection from the rocks and gnarled roots beneath.
The tightness in your chest is beating. Thud. Thud. Thud. It might be your heart, but it doesn’t feel like it.
Each inhale burns, the night air carrying shards of glass instead of cool relief. They scratch your throat and your face heats at the effort to keep from coughing.
Your arms hang limply by your sides. They are scraped and raw from pushing against barks and thorns. Even lifting your hands to brush a stray branch from your path feels like a monumental effort at the moment.
Your fingers are pale, losing their place in the map of your body.
The trees surrounding you loom high above. They stand so close together that only the faintest slivers of moonlight dare to filter through.
There are endless shadows, all connected with each other, twisting and merging, until there is no discernible path, no way to tell where you are or where you are going.
Not that you have a clue anyway.
The shadows seem to breathe. They surround you completely, absorbing every noise except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the sporadic hoot of an owl, which causes you to jump each time it calls out.
Even Barnes seems like a shadow himself, moving with a surety still too many steps in front of you - silent, unknowable, untouchable.
And then he is gone.
You didn’t even notice at first. You were too focused on keeping your legs moving, too consumed by the fog of your thoughts. But when you lift your gaze, he is nowhere to be seen.
The tightness in your chest keeps thudding, so loud, so sharp, so fast. Thud. So many thuds. Thud. They try to escape. Thud. Try to leave your chest all of a sudden. Thud. Escaping. Thud. Fleeing. Thud. But there is no way out. Thud. Your ribs are closing in. Thud. Your chest is a locked room with no windows.
Panic.
Wild eyes are darting around, breaths sound in your ears, hands tremble at your side so helplessly.
You knew this was a bad idea. What in the world did Sir Barton think would come out of giving you into the care of a mercenary? Those men are not to be trusted. Those men don’t care about the things they promised.
Bucky Barnes waited for the perfect moment to leave you alone. He took you out, deep into the forest, and then vanished.
He left you alone. He left you to die. He left you to rot.
You should have seen it coming and yet your heart is thundering, your world is spinning faster than you can hold.
You won’t give this man the satisfaction of calling for him. Wherever far he might have gone already.
But you wouldn’t get a word out even if you tried.
Your body becomes its own betrayal, muscles taut and trembling, teeth clenching against the unbearable roar of your own pulse.
He betrayed your mother. He betrayed Sir Barton. He betrayed you-
There he is.
Leaning against a tree, arms casually crossed over his chest, making his muscles strain under the grey shirt beneath his brown leather armor.
He looks as though he’s been waiting there for hours, watching you stumble through the dark like some clumsy, lost creature. His head tilts slightly, his face twisted in an impassive expression that doesn’t make you relax as much as you had thought.
But then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. Amusement and mild exasperation mix in his gaze, as though your panic has been nothing but entertainment and a burden for him.
Your blood boils.
He doesn’t say a word. The slight raise of his brow, the subtle shift of his weight against the tree, say everything.
He simply turns and starts walking again, knowing you will follow.
You hate him.
Oh, how much you hate him.
But unfortunately not because of his smirk, tough that certainly stokes the fire. Not because of the way he moves through the forest so effortlessly, while you struggle for every step. Not because of his silence, his cold aloofness that feels like a slap to the face every time you dare hope for some shred of kindness.
You hate him because he is right.
You are fragile.
There is nothing you can do but follow. He knows it, and you know it.
You are helpless, a princess who grew up like one, trailing after a man who barely tolerates your presence. Because the alternative is unthinkable.
You don’t know these woods. You don’t really know any woods. Don’t know what or who might lurk within them.
You hate that he holds all the power, that your life is now tethered to his whim.
You hate that he seems so unaffected by it all while you are falling apart.
You hate the world for thrusting you into this nightmare.
You hate the gods that took your parents.
You hate the crown that marked you as a target.
You hate the life you lost in the span of a single, horrific night.
But most of all, you hate yourself.
For your weakness. For your dependence. For your title. For not fighting for freedom when you started hoping for it. For not learning what freedom even meant when you started dreaming of it.
Maybe you really aren’t even worth all this.
That would make him right again.
You would love to scream at him. To demand he acknowledge you, to force him to see you as more than a burden, more than a thing to be tolerated.
However, if you don’t believe in yourself as anything other than a hassle for him, then you definitely won’t persuade him to think differently.
Your hopelessness is rewriting you into silence.
And again, you hate yourself for it.
The forest stretches on and so does your pain. And somewhere ahead, Barnes moves through the darkness, being the guide you despise but can’t abandon.
The trees are swaying above you, almost whispering like they are mourners at a funeral. Your funeral.
Barnes stopped walking.
You almost noticed it too late, nearly colliding with him, his wide back suddenly a wall in front of you.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes flickering down to your trembling form before moving past you to survey the shadows.
He says nothing - he never seems to say much - but you get the sense that this is where you will stay the rest of the night.
Or at least you hope so.
Your feet won’t carry you any longer.
He turns his back to you again and moves forward.
You follow his gaze. There is a small, haphazard clearing, tucked between the roots of a tall oak.
There is nothing welcoming about it.
A rough bedroll lay crumpled near the base of the tree. Its fabric looks weathered and stained. Beside it, there are charred remains of a tiny fire pit, though the ashes are long cold.
A battered pack leans half open against the roots, some of its contents spilling out. You glimpse rope, whetstone, and a dented flask.
You take in the thinness of the bedroll and how it might not even do anything for the hard ground, wondering how anyone could sleep like that.
Thoughts drift to your own bed that now may be reduced to ashes. It was high, draped in silk, the pillows stuffed with down. You used to sleep with the warmth of the hearth that burned low through the night.
It seems like a dream now, something too far removed from the reality that is your life now.
Barnes moves toward the tree, picking up the pack and tossing it down beside the bedroll.
He kneels, checking the contents quickly, before sitting back on his heels.
His eyes catch yours, and the twinkle of humor you had seen earlier is gone, replaced by his coldness, hardness.
You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to fend off the chill, partly to brace against the words that spill from your mouth before you can stop them.
This silence just got a little too unbearable.
“Is this where you slept?”
He looks at you, his expression flat. “What of it?”
The bluntness of his tongue stings, but you press on, emboldened by your desperation and the icy air that feels too silent.
“It does not look like much.”
His brow twitches. “S’ not meant to be.” Irritation roughens his words.
You hesitate. “Do you-”
“Let me make something clear,” he says, his voice low and dignified. He stands then, and even in the faint moonlight, his presence looms over you. He feels more imposing than the trees around you. You swallow hard. “I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m not here to keep you company or make you feel better about your little situation.”
Your cheeks burn, your arms around you tighten at the condescension in his tone. You say nothing, your breath caught in your throat. Your tongue is locked in your mouth.
His jaw is clenching and he exhales a sharp sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh though.
“I’m here because I have to be,” he continues. His eyes are fixed so intensely on you, you have to look away. “And you are here because you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Don’t mistake this for anything else.”
He turns around stiffly and walks over to a patch of ground a few feet from his bedroll. He starts lazily removing sticks and stones to clear the space of dirt.
After he’s done, he moves away and gestures towards it with a careless hand, not even looking at you.
“You’ll sleep there.”
You are about to open your mouth, a protest on your tongue but his head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a warning look.
“Go to sleep.” His voice is commanding. Unkind. He is done with tolerating you for today. “Now!”
You swallow the words that had risen, relieved they didn’t make it up all the way. Because there is no way you can win against this man and you don’t have the fight in you to argue at the moment.
Sinking to the ground he pointed at, you wrap your arms around yourself harder. The dirt is damp beneath you, cold seeping up through the ruined fabric of your gown. It is streaked with dirt, torn by brambles, and clings to you all wrong.
You shiver, your body curling in on itself, though that doesn’t make a difference.
You press your knees to your chest, burying your face in the crook of your arms.
But the chilly air still carves into your cheeks and whispers to your blood to slow.
You think of your mother then. Of the warmth in her smile and the way she used to stroke your hair as she tucked you into bed. You think of your father. He has always been a little harsh on you, a little distant. But you still relied on him in ways you always took for granted.
They are gone. And you are here. In the dirt. In the cold. In the woods. Alone but for a man who doesn’t care for you. He most certainly would leave you here without hesitation if it wasn’t for the oath he gave. To your mother.
You blink back tears, biting down hard on your lip to keep from crying. It is bad he already sees you like this. He can’t also see you cry.
The sound of Barnes’s blade scraping against the whetstone fills the silence.
You close your eyes and try to focus on the sound, trying to let it lull you into some semblance of sleep.
But it only makes your stomach queasy.
“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”
thea’s note: hii! first chapter is here! i’m so excited!! let me know your thoughts in the comments!! also, in my mind, bucky is in his late 30s and the reader is in her mid to late 20s!! i’m working on a playlist for this series so also let me know in the comments if you’re interested in that!! MWAAAHHH <33
You arrive glittering.
Not because you feel glittering — God, no — but because there are cameras and lights and screaming voices and every flashbulb insists that you must be a thing that shines. You step out of the car and the world goes up like a match being struck: bright, abrupt, blinding.
You’ve survived auditions, call sheets, sleepless nights memorizing sides, being told you are too green, too soft, too unformed. You survived your own doubts. But none of that prepared you for this — for the sound of your name ricocheting off hundreds of strangers’ mouths, like they’ve always known it, like it’s theirs to call.
The carpet feels endless, too red, too loud. You feel yourself becoming something — a symbol, a performance, something glossy and unreachable — and yet inside you are still the girl who used to rehearse monologues in a bathroom mirror until her voice cracked.
And then the air shifts.
You feel him before you see him.
Like a change in weather.
James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky to everyone who pretends they know him — steps out of his own car down the line, and the crowd tilts toward him like a field of flowers leaning into the sun. The noise sharpens, goes higher, becomes hunger.
He walks like someone who has done this for decades. Not tired of it, just… unsurprised by its desire. Like the world wanting him is just gravity now.
He wears the age difference like a tailored suit — not something to hide but something that fits. Lines at the corners of his eyes that aren’t exhaustion but laughter, whiskey, late-night memories he doesn’t share. His jaw is rougher now, scruff just this side of lazy but intentional. His tie is slightly loosened. He looks like he didn’t need to try.
And you?
You feel twenty-two in a way that is louder than anything else.
You stand straight anyway. You step forward into the light because that is what you are here to do.
The photographers shout for you. Your name. Your name again. They call it like encouragement, like demand. You turn your head, you give them angles, the pose you rehearsed, chin just slightly down, soft eyes, don’t squint, breathe through your mouth so your lips part just enough.
You are doing fine. Perfect, even.
Until someone shouts his name.
Just his.
And the carpet erupts.
You can’t help it — your eyes look for him.
And his are already on you.
Not lingering. Not dramatic. Just there. As if he’d been waiting for you to turn. As if of course you would look to him first.
The stories about him were campfire tales on set — whispered in makeup trailers and rehearsal rooms:
He used to break hearts like habits.
Back when he was younger, before he grew quieter.
Before he learned to dance with his own reputation instead of letting it eat him.
You didn’t believe them.
Or maybe you did.
It didn’t matter — because meeting him the first time was not rumor. It was impact.
You drag your gaze away. You breathe. You keep smiling.
But the knowledge sits low in your ribs:
He’s dangerous for you.
A handler taps your elbow and murmurs, “Move to your mark,” and you nod, stepping forward down the line. Your heels click, your dress whispers against your legs, your pulse is performing acrobatics in your throat.
There’s a pause. A shift again.
Then his voice, close enough to feel at your spine:
“Big night.”
You hadn’t realized he’d moved toward you.
He stands beside you now for the joint photos they want — the leads together — the pairing they will market to death. His cologne is warm, something cedar and smoke, something that feels like a memory you haven’t had yet.
You don’t look directly at him. You look at the cameras.
You say, without moving your mouth much, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His tone is easy. Light. But not careless.
“Call me kid.”
His laugh is soft. Private. Only for you.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The photographers direct you: closer, shoulder to shoulder, bodies angled. He steps in. His hand moves to the small of your back — just a guiding gesture for the cameras. Innocent. Expected.
Your body reacts like he set you on fire.
You keep smiling. You’re good at that. You’ve practiced that. But your breath catches because he is warm and present and steady and real in a way none of this glittering chaos is.
He feels it, the little jolt that runs through you.
You know he does.
But he doesn’t move away.
He just holds the pose.
Confident. Unbothered.
Like standing next to you is the most natural thing in the world.
A photographer shouts something about how good you look together.
He glances sideways, barely a tilt of his head. Just enough for you to hear the quiet murmur:
“Told you you’d handle this.”
“This?” Your voice comes out too soft. Too honest.
“All of it.” His eyes stay forward, but his words aim straight at your skin. “You belong here.”
The carpet, the lights, the noise — it all blurs.
For one suspended second, there is only him.
And the terrifying thing isn’t that he says it.
It’s that you believe him.
The cameras explode again. The crowd roars his name. Someone calls for you to look their way — and you both turn, in sync, like choreography you never rehearsed.
Your heart is a wild, beating animal inside your chest.
He doesn’t look at you again.
He doesn’t need to.
He already knows he’s in your bloodstream now.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
The interview line is a hallway of spotlights and smiles sharpened into weapons.
One reporter after another, each with the same questions dressed in different phrasing. The same compliments wrapped in shiny bows. The same jokes rehearsed long before you ever arrived.
It’s a performance of being you.
Or, at least, the version of you they want: bright-eyed, grateful, star just beginning to rise.
Your cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the carpet. You’re good at keeping your breathing even, answering clearly, seeming like you belong here — but your nerves buzz in your bones like electricity looking for ground.
You know he’s somewhere behind you in the line — but you do not turn to look.
You cannot afford that.
You know what happens when you do.
A handler touches your waist lightly and guides you to the next interviewer. You settle into position on the taped mark. Your dress sways just a little around your ankles, the shimmery fabric catching the glare of the overhead lights.
“Congratulations on the big premiere!” the interviewer says, gleeful.
You smile. “Thank you. It’s surreal.”
They ask the usual questions. You answer like you’ve practiced. Like you’ve learned the difference between truth and presentation.
And then the interviewer glances past you — just over your shoulder. Their eyes light up. Their tone shifts.
“Speaking of the cast — James Barnes is joining us. Perfect timing.”
Your breath pauses.
You don’t turn.
But you feel him arrive.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.
It’s simply presence. A gravity shift. A subtle warm pressure in the air.
He steps beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit could brush your bare arm if either of you moved even half a breath closer.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice smooth, warm, threaded with the faintest amused curve. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
You look at him then — because you have to — and the small, knowing flicker in his eyes tells you he’s been watching you longer than the camera has.
The interviewer beams. “We were just talking about the film! How was it working together?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He looks at you.
Not the way one looks at a colleague.
Not like someone reciting a PR-approved compliment.
He looks at you like there is something worth seeing.
“It was easy,” he says finally, voice deliberate, steady. “From day one.”
Your stomach folds in on itself.
You try to keep your stance calm, composed. But there is a question under your tongue, pressing: Why does it feel like we’re speaking in code?
The interviewer laughs. “Easy? That’s high praise. What made it easy?”
His jaw flexes just slightly — like he’s choosing words.
He keeps his gaze forward now, but his voice is lower, like the words are meant to be heard first by you.
“She listens,” he says. “And she cares. More than most people understand you need to, in order to do this.”
Your breath catches.
He speaks like this is not about acting.
The interviewer doesn’t catch the undercurrent; of course they don’t. They’re already pivoting, asking about the emotional scenes you filmed together. You answer as best you can, keeping your voice steady, your eyes on the interviewer even as you feel him there — warm, steady, unflinching.
Then, the inevitable:
“Some people are calling this your breakout role,” the interviewer says, turning back to you. “Do you feel like you’re ready for all of this attention?”
You hesitate — not because you don’t know the answer, but because honesty rises like a tide, threatening to break surface.
Before you speak, he does.
“You don’t need to ask if she’s ready,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice — not cocky, not teasing, but sure. “Just watch her.”
The interviewer laughs, delighted by the soundbite. “Is that your official endorsement?”
He finally turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes — and the look there is different now. Not the playful glint from before. Something softer. Older. Warmer. Something that knows what it costs to stand where you are standing.
“Yeah,” he says, gentle, sure. “Keep an eye on her. She’s going to be the one everyone’s talking about in a year.”
Your throat goes tight so quickly you almost forget to breathe.
The interviewer reacts in excitement, already thinking of article headlines and pull quotes. You keep your expression steady — polite, grateful, professional — but your heart…
Your heart is a storm.
Because praise from critics is one thing.
But this?
A man who has survived the blaze of fame and come out the other side — telling the world you belong here?
It hits somewhere deep. Somewhere soft. Somewhere raw.
When the interview wraps, the lights shift and the handler moves to usher you to the next spot — but he touches your arm, light, checking:
“You okay?”
Barely a whisper.
Not for the cameras.
Just for you.
You nod.
But the truth is no — you are not okay at all — because something unnamed has begun to settle in your chest.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something you do not yet have language for.
He smiles — but not the public smile, not the charming grin the world knows. This one is smaller, nearly hidden, like a secret shared.
“Good,” he says. “Just keep breathing. The rest will come.”
Then he lets go.
And the moment dissolves back into the noise, the lights, the endless line of interviews — but your pulse doesn’t slow.
Because something has shifted.
Not on the carpet.
Inside you.
And there is no turning back from that.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
It comes back to you in pieces.
Not a memory so much as a temperature.
A particular way the air felt.
Thick.
Expectant.
Like something was about to begin that you did not yet understand.
The lot was bigger than you imagined — all white trailers and cables and yellow tape on concrete. People moving with purpose. Voices calling scene numbers and equipment needs and coffee orders like some vocabulary you hadn’t learned yet.
You walked through it all clutching your little binder of annotated script pages like a lifeline. Trying not to look as young as you felt.
The director found you first — warm, excited, already thinking six shots ahead. Praise pouring out like confetti, the kind that feels good but doesn’t land anywhere.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” they said, hand on your shoulder. “He’s going to bring out the best in you.”
He.
You’d heard his name whispered the night before — in the makeup trailer, in the wardrobe room.
Rumor spoken like prayer.
Bucky Barnes is intense.
Soft-spoken until he’s not.
Used to be reckless with his heart. Used to be reckless with others’.
Got older and quieter, but some men don’t lose the gravity. They just learn how to wear it differently.
You’d nodded. You’d acted unbothered.
But even then, something restless had stirred in you. Something like anticipation disguised as nerves.
The director led you across the lot to the rehearsal space — a warehouse nearly empty except for taped marks on the floor and two chairs near a script supervisor. Bright afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust particles that drifted like slow snowfall.
And he was already there.
Sitting in one of the chairs.
Elbow propped on the armrest.
Hand resting against his jaw.
Reading sides he probably didn’t need to read.
A man who had long since memorized how to hide his own storms.
He looked up when the door opened.
Not dramatically.
Not like in a movie.
Just… simply.
Eyes lifting.
Landing on you.
And that was the moment you knew.
Not because of anything he did.
But because your whole body recognized him.
Like you were stepping into a scene already written somewhere under your ribs.
The director said your name like an announcement: “This is her.”
Something gentler happened then — the smallest shift in his expression. Not surprise. Not interest exactly. More like confirmation.
As though he’d been expecting you.
He rose from the chair — unhurried, like the world always had time for him.
“James,” he said, offering his hand.
You took it.
His palm was warm.
The grip firm but not claiming.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, and hoped your voice didn’t betray the tremor running down your spine.
He said your name — and when he did, it was quiet.
Like he tested the weight of it.
Like he didn’t want to waste it.
You had spent weeks preparing for this. Rehearsing character motivations, arc development, emotional pacing.
None of that helped with this.
Because no acting textbook covers what to do when your scene partner looks at you like he already knows where the soft parts of you are.
He didn’t stare.
He didn’t smirk.
He didn’t give off the practiced charm of a man used to being wanted.
No — he looked at you like someone reading weather.
Assessing.
Considering the storm patterns.
Like he wanted to learn you, not impress you.
The director talked for a while — blocking, emotional cues, tone of the first scene — but the room felt like it had narrowed to just two points:
You.
Him.
And the distance between.
You sat when they told you to sit.
Opened your binder.
Tried to steady your breath.
He leaned back in his chair. Script resting loosely in one hand, legs stretched out just enough to look at ease. A man comfortable taking up space without needing to demand it.
You caught him watching you once — not your face, but your hands. How tightly you were holding your pen. How your thumb pressed into your palm like a warning.
His voice cut through the quiet.
“You nervous?”
You didn’t look up. “Should I lie?”
He huffed a soft breath — not quite a laugh, but the idea of one.
“No. Don’t waste your time lying to me.”
You looked up then.
His eyes were blue.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the movie-star kind.
The kind that looked like they had once been too bright and were now softened by years of surviving their own intensity.
“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “Then yes. I’m nervous.”
His gaze held steady — not pitying. Not superior. Just… present.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Means you care.”
The director called for a run-through before cameras.
You and him moved to the marked spots.
Your first scene together — close. Emotional. Loaded with unsaid things.
You stepped into your character.
He stepped into his.
And when he looked at you in that scene — not as you, but as her — the world changed shape.
Not because it was romantic.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because something inside you recognized him again — in character, in silence, in breath.
You forgot the lines for just a moment.
Not because you didn’t know them.
But because the gravity shifted.
His voice was softer when he delivered his dialogue than it had been in rehearsal.
Not changed — just adjusted.
To you.
After the run-through, the director praised the chemistry.
Someone joked about how natural it felt.
People laughed.
But when the room began to move again — when the noise returned — you were still anchored in that quiet, impossible awareness.
You hadn’t even spoken to him beyond a handful of words.
And yet some part of you already knew:
He would matter.
Maybe too much.
Maybe exactly enough.
But either way —
Your life had just changed.
And you were the only one who felt the ground shift.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
Time bends strangely when you’re being watched.
The interview line dissolves behind you, swallowed by handlers and coordinated movement, and soon you’re being guided through velvet ropes and unwritten hierarchies into the theater where everything you made will be projected ten times larger than life.
Your heartbeat is a slick, restless thing at the base of your throat.
He walks beside you.
Not leading.
Not following.
Just there.
But it feels like the world notices anyway — like the heat between your bodies exists in visible wavelengths.
The theater is dim except for the soft amber aisle lights. The crowd murmurs — coats shifting, whispers weaving, laughter sparking in tiny pockets. You feel the collective waiting.
You are shown to your seats — and of course they are together.
Lead talent, they say, like that explains everything.
You slide into your seat. The dress folds around you like water. The air is cool enough to raise thin goosebumps along your arms.
He sits beside you.
Not close enough to touch.
Just close enough that if either of you stopped holding yourselves exactly the way you are holding yourselves, the space between would collapse.
You look forward. At the screen. At the still nothing of it.
He’s quiet for a long moment — the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
Then—
“You handled that well,” he says. Voice low, meant for you alone, in the hush before the film begins.
You swallow. “The interview line?”
“The whole thing.”
And there’s something like… approval there. Not the kind given from above. Not patronizing. No — more like recognition.
Like he’s seen this battlefield before and sees the way you’re standing on it.
You take a breath. The air smells faintly of popcorn and perfume and warm fabric.
“Thank you,” you say, even though something in you wants to ask why it matters to him at all.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts one elbow on the armrest between you — not touching, just… near.
The lights dim further.
The audience hushes into a single held inhale.
And as the studio logo flickers into blue light, you feel it:
Him turning his head, just slightly, toward you.
Not to look at you.
To make sure you are ready.
It is absurd how much that undoing lives in your chest.
The movie begins.
There you are — on screen — younger by months but worlds away from now. You watch yourself move, breathe, break, rebuild.
But the strange thing isn’t seeing yourself.
It’s seeing him.
It’s seeing the way he looked at you even then.
Not romantic.
Not hungry.
Like he saw you.
Before anyone else did.
Before you even knew how to see yourself.
The first scene between your characters arrives — the one you filmed on your first day. The one where your breath had caught without warning.
The audience reacts — soft murmurs, the smallest shift of attention, leaning forward.
You feel every muscle in your body tense.
Beside you, he leans in.
Just enough for his shoulder to nearly brush yours.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
Barely a whisper.
Barely sound.
But you hear it.
Of course you do.
Your body is tuned to him whether you admit it or not.
You exhale.
On-screen, your character looks up at his — and there it is, the moment where something unsaid sparked to life.
You remember filming it — the way the room felt smaller. The way silence thickened between you. The way the director had whispered perfect under their breath.
You remember your pulse being a desperate thing.
And now the whole room gets to witness it.
Your stomach flips — not with embarrassment, but with something resembling… grief? Longing? An ache for something that was never spoken but lived in the spaces between breaths?
In the dark, he shifts just slightly, enough that his knee could touch yours if you moved even a fraction.
But he doesn’t touch you.
He doesn’t have to.
The restraint is the touch.
Another scene passes. Laughter ripples through the crowd at a line you improvised. Your chest warms. You glance at him — quick, instinctual.
He is already looking at you.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Softly.
Like he’s proud in a way he doesn’t know how to disguise.
Your breath stutters.
You look forward again.
The screen light flickers over both your faces — white-blue-gold-blue. And in the dark, the world feels smaller. Simpler. Like just the two of you exist in a quiet universe.
Halfway through the film — during a moment of silence — his voice reaches you again, soft enough that you almost think you imagine it:
“See?”
You blink. “See what?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Why they’re all looking at you.”
You don’t say anything.
You can’t.
Because the thing you feel is not vanity.
It’s not pride.
It’s something tender.
Something terrifying.
Something like being witnessed.
The film moves on — scene after scene — and the tension between your on-screen characters becomes the tension in the room. The kind you can’t disguise. The kind you can’t perform.
You feel warm. You feel too aware of your own breathing. You feel like if you looked at him again, something would break open in your chest.
So you don’t look.
And neither does he.
But the space between your bodies is not empty.
It’s alive.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
Applause begins like rain — scattered at first, then swelling, filling the room all at once.
The credits roll. Your name appears larger than you’ve ever seen it, and the theater responds with something that sounds like belief.
Your chest goes tight.
Not painful — just full.
You rise with everyone else. The lights return slowly, taking their time with you. People turn in their seats, smiling, congratulating, touching your arm, praising with the frantic brightness of those who want to say I was here first.
But it all blurs.
It all floats.
Distant.
Because he is right there beside you. Standing. Straightening his jacket. Running a hand through his hair like he’s shaking off sunlight.
You don’t look at him.
But you feel him.
You move together toward the aisle — not walking as one, but falling into step like you have done this for years. Like your bodies know something your minds are still catching up to.
Someone stops him. Someone else stops you. Your hands brush as you step aside for different greetings, different compliments. The contact is nothing.
But your entire pulse skips anyway.
You keep smiling. Thank you, yes, so grateful, unreal, unbelievable — the words all folding into each other like they mean the same thing.
Eventually, a handler waves you both toward a side exit — smaller, quieter, away from the main flow of the crowd. You follow, heels tapping soft rhythm on carpet, the dress whispering around your legs.
He follows too. Or maybe you followed him.
You can’t tell anymore.
The door swings shut behind you, and the noise dims to a hum on the other side of the wall. Like you’ve stepped out of the world and into the space between moments.
A narrow hallway. Warm light.
No cameras here.
Just breath.
Just you.
Just him.
You stop without meaning to.
Or maybe you did mean to.
He stops too — close, but not invading. Just enough that the air seems to vibrate between your bodies.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Your heartbeat is too loud. You’re certain he can hear it.
You’re certain the world has narrowed to this one hinge of time.
He looks at you then — really looks.
Not like on the carpet.
Not like on the interview line.
Not like on set.
This is the look of someone taking inventory of the truth.
“You alright?” he asks, quiet.
Your first instinct is to lie. Smile. Say yes. Keep the mask on. But the mask feels… wrong here.
So you exhale.
And you shake your head. Just once.
He nods. Not surprised. Not worried. Just… understanding.
“It’s a lot,” he says softly.
You swallow. “More than I thought.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Yeah. It always is, the first time.”
There’s a weight behind that sentence.
A history.
A memory you have not earned the right to touch.
But he stands here anyway. Sharing it, somehow.
Your hands twist together at your waist, and his eyes flicker down — a small movement, barely there — before returning to your face.
Then, slowly, he steps closer.
Not to touch.
Not to close the space entirely.
Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
Close enough that your next breath trembles.
His voice drops to something almost private.
“You did good, you know.”
You laugh — quiet, embarrassed, too small.
“I don’t know. I kept thinking I was going to mess up.”
“You didn’t.”
You lift your head. “How do you know?”
He tilts his head, and there is something like softness at the edge of his mouth.
“Because I was watching.”
There it is.
The truth neither of you will name.
Your breath stutters. His does too — barely, but you feel it, like a shift in the air pressure.
He looks at you like you are something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
Like he knows exactly what this is and exactly why it shouldn’t be touched.
You step back — not because you want space, but because you need to breathe.
The distance resets the world.
He notices. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does — a tiny loosening, a silent thank you for holding the line with him.
His voice comes low, almost gentle:
“Ready for what comes next?”
The words land like a question and a warning.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Because there is no safe answer to that.
Because yes is too much.
And no is a lie.
So you hold his gaze.
And he understands.
Of course he does.
A small breath leaves him — not frustration. Not disappointment. Something steadier.
Respect.
He nods once, slow.
Not breaking eye contact.
And then the door at the end of the hall swings open — handlers calling both of your names, the next moment ready to swallow you up again.
You look away first.
You walk forward first.
He follows.
But something has already taken root.
Something that will not go away.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
You remember it all too well. It was late.
The kind of late that settles into your bones, where the air feels thinner and the world feels smaller, like everything outside this moment has gone to sleep.
You had made it through your first emotionally heavy scene — the one where your character cracks open, the one the script said required rawness, the one that had lived under your skin since the table read. And you had done it — or at least, you hoped you had — but the weight of it stayed on you like a second skin.
You stepped outside the soundstage to breathe.
The night air was cool.
Not cold — just enough to remind your lungs they were real.
The studio lot was quiet now, most of the crew gone, the set pieces sleeping in the dark. A couple of floodlights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across asphalt.
You leaned against the trailer wall and lit a cigarette.
You didn’t even like the taste.
You just needed a moment that belonged to you.
Something to hold.
Something to ground you.
The smoke curled upward, slow and silver.
Then the door of the neighboring trailer opened — and he stepped out.
Not stumbling. Not searching. Just… arriving.
He didn’t look surprised to see you.
He didn’t look like he expected it, either.
He just existed in the space with the quiet kind of confidence older men carry — not performance, not ego, just a familiarity with his own presence.
He walked toward you — slow, unhurried — hands in the pockets of his coat, hair a little mussed from running his hands through it. He looked tired in the way people look when they’ve given too much of themselves on camera and haven’t figured out how to take it back yet.
He stopped beside you, not close enough to assume familiarity — just close enough to be companionable.
Neither of you spoke.
The night didn’t need words yet.
After a moment, his eyes flicked to the cigarette between your fingers.
He let out a breath that was almost a quiet laugh — barely there, just the exhale of someone who understands too much.
“You’re too young for that,” he said.
Not scolding.
Not patronizing.
Just noticing.
You didn’t look at him.
You took another drag.
“So are you,” you said.
He huffed — an actual laugh this time. Soft. Real.
“Probably.”
You offered him the cigarette.
He didn’t take it.
He plucked it from your fingers instead — slow, delicate, like he was removing something breakable — and then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot.
You stared at him.
He didn’t apologize.
He just said, “There are other ways to come down from a scene.”
“Like what?” you asked, folding your arms to hide the tremor in your hands.
He shrugged. “Breathing. Music. Shower hot enough to peel your skin off. Whiskey, when it’s a bad day.”
“Which was today?” you asked.
He didn’t answer for a long moment.
The night stretched around you.
The floodlights hummed.
Then he said, quietly, “Not for me.”
You turned your head to look at him.
He was watching you.
Not intensely — not the kind of look that takes something from you — but the kind that waits.
The kind that says:
I saw what you did today.
I saw what it cost.
You don’t have to pretend with me.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t know if I got it right,” you said softly.
“You did,” he replied without hesitation.
“How do you know?”
He looked up at the night sky — empty except for the washed-out haze of city glow — and then back at you.
“Because it was honest,” he said. “And you can’t fake honest.”
The words landed somewhere deep — low in your ribs, where belief and longing share the same room.
You wanted to look away.
You wanted to hold the moment still.
You did nothing.
He leaned back against the wall beside you — not touching, but near.
The kind of nearness that builds its own gravity.
“You did good today,” he murmured.
You almost told him he didn’t have to say that.
But you didn’t.
Because you needed it.
Because you wanted him to be the one saying it.
You let your head fall back against the trailer wall.
You let the quiet return.
After a while, he spoke again — softer this time.
“You’re going to have to learn how to put yourself down after scenes like that,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll eat you up. This job — it doesn’t end when the cameras cut.”
You looked at him then — really looked.
At the lines beside his eyes.
At the tired shadows under them.
At the history sitting in the slope of his shoulders.
“Did it eat you?” you asked.
He didn’t look surprised by the question.
But he didn’t answer quickly, either.
He took a slow breath.
Exhaled just as slow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Once.”
The floodlight buzzed. The air felt still.
He didn’t say more.
You didn’t push.
Some truths don’t need audiences.
Some are only meant to be held, not spoken.
You nodded.
He nodded back — a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between you.
After another long moment, he pushed off the wall.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You should sleep.”
You expected him to walk away.
He didn’t.
He waited for you to move first.
So you did.
And the two of you walked back across the lot — side-by-side but not together — saying nothing at all.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was a promise.
One neither of you had agreed to.
One neither of you had named.
One that had already begun.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
It was weeks later.
You were no longer the new one trying to memorize where the marks were taped on the floor. No longer the girl who held her script like armor. You had learned to breathe inside your character. To live inside her skin. To let her heartbeat run parallel to yours without swallowing you whole.
And he — he was steady as always.
Steady like a tide comes in.
Steady like gravity.
Steady like something you could lean on, if you were foolish enough to try.
The scene was a quiet one.
No shouting.
No crying.
No fast movement.
Just the kind of silence that means something is about to happen.
Your character had just revealed something. Not everything — just enough. Something vulnerable. Something sharp. The kind of vulnerability that asks for nothing but is still a question.
And his character was supposed to be the audience to that.
Witness, not savior.
The crew quieted in that way they only do for scenes that matter. The director didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. The room already understood what this moment was supposed to be.
You took your mark.
He took his.
The distance between you was small — close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body across the air.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said.
You didn’t even hear action anymore.
You simply stepped into it.
The scene asked for stillness.
So you gave it stillness.
Your character speaks first.
Voice soft.
Words stripped of pretense.
The kind of line that can only be said once in a story — and only when it matters.
You remember the way your voice wavered — not because you were acting, but because something in the words had been sitting in your chest for days, waiting to come out.
You lifted your eyes to him.
And he was already there.
Not acting.
Not performing.
Seeing.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t soften or tighten or adjust for the camera.
He received you.
There is a kind of intimacy in being looked at like that.
A dangerous one.
A quiet one.
A truthful one.
Your breath caught.
Not loudly.
Just enough to shift something in the room.
Your next line came out lower than rehearsed.
Warmer.
Truer.
He stepped closer — that was in the script — but the way he did it wasn’t.
Slow.
Not hesitant.
But like something inevitable.
His gaze never left yours.
You didn’t move back.
You didn’t breathe.
You didn’t know how.
His character was supposed to touch your cheek next — gentle, grounding, careful.
He lifted his hand — exactly as written.
But the moment before the touch — the space just above your skin — that was the thing.
Your breath shifted.
His did too.
No one else in the room existed.
His hand cupped your cheek.
Warm.
Steady.
And your eyes closed — not because your character would — but because you would.
Your heart was a live wire.
You opened your eyes again — slow, like waking up.
And he was there, pupils darkened, jaw tense, breath deep and controlled like he’d had to rein himself back into his own body.
The scene gave you your final line.
You spoke it.
Soft.
Bare.
True.
And that was when something happened the script never asked for:
Neither of you stepped away.
The silence settled.
The air held itself.
The director didn’t call cut.
The crew didn’t move.
No one breathed.
Because everyone could feel it.
The invisible thread.
The pull.
The moment that was not character, not blocking, not craft.
Just you and him.
Your eyes stayed locked.
His thumb barely — barely — brushed your cheekbone.
Not enough to be deliberate.
Enough to undo you.
Your pulse hammered.
His throat worked in a swallow.
Your bodies did not move apart.
The scene was over.
Every instinct inside you said:
Don’t move.
Don’t break this.
Don’t breathe.
And then —
“Cut.”
The word broke the spell.
He dropped his hand.
You stepped back.
The world returned.
Crew started adjusting lights. Someone laughed. Someone rolled cables. Someone complimented the natural tension. Someone said the chemistry was unreal.
You couldn’t look at him.
But you could feel him.
A gravity at your back.
A pull you did not know what to do with.
You went to your mark for the reset.
You stared at your own hands.
You tried to slow your breathing.
Behind you — the sound of him breathing out through his nose.
Calm.
Measured.
Controlled.
Like he had put something dangerous back behind a door.
But doors like that are never locked.
Not really.
୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧
The night was almost over.
The interviews were done.
The cameras had stopped flashing.
The red carpet had cooled from something electric into something close to normal again.
The theater lights spilled onto the street. Cars idled at the curb, waiting to take people back to hotel rooms, afterparties, quiet apartments where their costumes would finally fall away.
You stood near the entrance, arms wrapped loosely around yourself — not because you were cold, but to keep your body from floating off into the air. You could still feel the premiere inside you — the lights, the voices, the questions, the eyes on you.
Your first premiere.
Your first leading performance.
Your first time seeing yourself that big on a screen.
Too much and not enough all at once.
And then — like gravity remembering you — he appeared beside you.
Not from across the room this time.
Not from a shadow or a doorway.
Just there.
Like he had known where you would be.
Like he always would.
He didn’t speak right away.
You didn’t either.
The night hummed between you — busy and loud and somehow distant. Cars. Voices. Laughter. Music drifting from somewhere nearby.
But here — in the small pocket of space you shared — it was quiet.
Finally, he said, “You okay?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Not because you didn’t know — but because you did.
And saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge.
You nodded. “Just… taking it in.”
He hummed — a soft, approving sound.
“You handled yourself well,” he said. “Better than most do their first time.”
You glanced up at him.
There was something in his tone.
Not mentor.
Not co-star.
Not friend.
Something warmer.
Something proud.
Something careful.
“You meant what you said earlier,” you murmured. “About the paps keeping an eye on me.”
His mouth curved — not a smirk.
Something real.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied. “You’re going to be big. People are going to know your name. Soon enough you’ll be tired of hearing it.”
You wanted to laugh — or deny it — or brush it away with something light.
But you didn’t.
Because you remembered the smoke break.
And the scene where the world stopped.
And every small moment in between where he looked at you like he recognized something in you.
Something dangerous.
Something familiar.
Something he couldn’t name either.
You exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
He looked at you — really looked — and something softened in his eyes, the way something softens only when no one else is watching.
“Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “You did the work. You earned this.”
You felt your heartbeat where it lived — deep in your ribs, where breath and want intertwine.
A driver called out a last boarding for the cast van.
A producer waved at him from across the pavement.
Someone was ready to pull him back into the night.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
You stood close — closer than public should allow — close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, not touching but nearly.
Your bodies had always known how to find that distance.
That half-inch of space that feels like a question.
He lowered his voice — quiet enough that only you could hear it.
“You did something on that screen tonight,” he said. “People saw you. Really saw you. That’s rare.”
Your breath caught.
He watched that happen.
His gaze didn’t leave your face, even when someone called his name again.
“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s going to be loud.”
You nodded.
Though neither of you moved.
For a moment — the kind of moment that could tilt an entire future — he leaned in.
Not a kiss.
Not a touch.
Just close enough that the air changed.
Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.
Close enough that you felt how carefully he was holding himself back.
Close enough that you knew — he felt it too.
Then he stepped away.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Measured.
He walked toward the waiting car.
Crew. Publicists. Cameras. Flash.
But before he got in — he looked back.
Just once.
A look that was not for the public.
Not for the movie.
Not for the story you’d filmed.
A look that said:
This isn’t over.
We both know it.
We just haven’t said it yet.
And then he was gone.
Leaving you standing in the warm spill of streetlight, heartbeat loud in your chest, the night too full, your lungs too tight, the world newly tilted.
author's note: this is a possible teaser for a series i kinda want to write after over a year or so long hiatus😭 anyway, would anybody even read this??
“Huh,” his voice is like nails on a chalkboard on the gloomy Tuesday morning after your non-boyfriend boyfriend dumped you with an ‘I’m bored, sorry’ text the night prior. “It’s actually happening. The world is healing again.”
You shove yet another journal that is as unnecessary as it is cute into the cardboard box perched atop your desk and glare at the looming man. James is wearing his usual middle-of-the-week sallow grey shirt, which somehow manages to dull his sharp features more than Thursday’s yellow, and Prada trousers. Always with the Prada trousers. He loves Prada more than Rebecca Bloomwood and that is saying something.
He’s a… fashionista like that.
“I’m not quitting.” Why James has yet to successfully fire you is a miracle. The pair of you are like Tom and Jerry. Dracula and Van Helsing. Pandora and her box. Surely he must have tried to sweet talk his daddy into terminating you for good. “This,“ you motion to the empty (besides the wine opener, stress balls, and an emergency tube of red lipstick—obvious essentials) drawer, "is called organising. Learn it, live it, love it. It’s after organise and before o-fuck you in the dictionary.”
“Real big talk for someone who keeps a diary.”
“That was…” you take in a deep breath in hopes to maintain at least an ounce of sanity. It doesn’t work. Why would it work? It never works. James and peaceful work hours is only a concept in a hypothetical world full of other ridiculous things such as your neighbour quitting drums and affordable Manolo Blahniks. “That was not… this is not a diary. It’s a journal. A journal I use for very important business meetings. And calls. And conferences.”
“Right,” he quips with a hint of a smirk and sits down on the edge of your desk, the wood creaking underneath his weight. Journal my ass, he ponders but stays surprisingly quiet about it.
“Not a diary. A journal is different from a diary. Maybe there’s no shame in keeping a diary, but I do not have a burning desire to write down every reason why the Wicked Witch of the West would make a better boss than you.” The words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can realise his painfully infuriating sneer is only growing. You hate that stupid smile of his. James knows you hate that stupid smile of his. That makes it all the more alluring for him to torture you with it. “I talk about it with my therapist like an adult.”
“Not a diary. Got it.” James nods as his eyes flicker to the open (and totally unfinished) Word document on your work laptop before slowly raking across the wrinkled cotton of your shirt until they find yours again. “I was wrong to assume this box of trash on your desk,” he vaguely gestures to the cardboard and smirks just a fraction more, “is for diaries. Though you definitely have the look of a girl who keeps one. But anyway. Why are you organising when the entire PR department is having a meeting?”
A… silence settles between you. It’s neither awkward nor peaceful, like it often is with James—he asks a somewhat reasonable question and you can only stare at him like he’s the biggest idiot on planet earth. Because sure, there is an important meeting happening on the forty fifth floor of Dioro right this moment. After all, you are a goodie two shoes of an employee with a busy Google calendar and a functional corporate email. You would know. But it is so like James to assume you would organise over attending, as the freaking head of public relations nonetheless, that you can only stare at him with those blank, are-you-serious eyes.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Yes?” James cocks his head to the side as if expecting you to say something, anything, else in addition, and when you don’t, his eyebrows furrow, too.
Yes. Yes. Yes is not remotely an answer to my question, you infuriating woman, he thinks, and though he knows he should not expect anything less than for you to be as annoying as his shoelaces coming undone on a bright and early morning run, “yes” still takes him off guard a little.
“Yes,” you shrug, promptly closing the laptop because James has no place to see the opened Word document that is half a plan for next year’s PR strategy and half a series of good lunch places around the office, and straighten up. He’s not the only person that’s confident in their words around here.
“I sincerely hope you know the company does not pay you to look cute and gossip in the break room. If that was the case, you would’ve been let go a long time back.” It’s his turn to flash you the blank, dead, are-you-serious eyes.
Exasperated stares are one of the many love languages between you.
“I don’t just look cute and gossip. I also take precious time to share all of those memes in the company’s group chat. Good for morale.” You quip and James pinches the bridge of his nose.
He should have managed to fire you a long time back. But to his credit—he has tried. Once. Twice. Thrice, if somebody was to count the time he got drunk at the annual Christmas party and pettily tried to end your employment over a disagreement about Creedence Clearwater Revival. Surprisingly, it stuck. For a whopping total of twelve hours. Before you stepped through the elevator doors once more, his father exasperated, and right beside you. To this day, James finds it a mystery you’ve managed to charm the man because you’re as charming as a wet towel. But his father is also a fan of Raisin Bran, so there must be something wrong with his judgment. At least when it comes to choice of breakfast cereal and the annoyingly annoying girl’s personality. You are great at PR, much to James’ frustration, and Dioro is habitual with scandals. The very last name Barnes is habitual with scandals that you make go poof! So don’t get it twisted—James is gra… gra… grateful for your talents in PR. At least until the glorious day when he takes over the company completely and can finally make you go poof! A flute of Dom Pérignon in hand as he stares at your empty desk out of his glass office is a nice dream, one to keep him from full blown insanity.
James just might need a hobby.
“Team-building activities are good for morale. Recognition programs are good for morale. Social events are good for—“ he starts listing on his hand, his features dark with disappointment, aggravation, and a hint of resignation. Good. Maybe you could break him before autumn.
“Stop. Nobody cares about a lecture on morale from Dolores Umbridge.” You wave a dismissive hand and place last year’s Dean Winchester themed calendar atop the abyss of journals and trinkets. He’s fine and all, but Sam’s much more tempting to go back to. There’s just something about a strong man with longer hair and a kind heart. “I know about the meeting, Sophie’s leading it because I’m taking the rest of the week off. Plus maybe Monday. Probably Monday. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, do NOT expect me back on Monday.”
“I expect you to find another job, but y’know. Tuesday’s fine.” He deadpans, not that you pay much attention to his tone. You’re much more interested in the fact his ass leaves the anguished, abused edge of your desk. “Why are you taking time off? It’s like the middle of July. And who the hell approved it?”
“So there’s this Linda us lowly employees visit when we need time away from work,” you drawl out and cover Dean’s smouldering face with an old February issue of Vogue. “And it’s July second, which is not even remotely the middle. I hope you know that. It’s important to me that you know that.”
His eyes drop to the magazine and the calendar that peaks out from beneath it, but he’s suspiciously silent about it. Instead when he speaks, his voice is a deep, almost frustrated rumble on—surprise, surprise—the HR department. “I’m aware of what a Linda is.”
“Good, boss. Glad to know you’re following, boss. And before you say anything, Linda approved my request for time off months ago, so there is nothing you can do about it, boss.” A lazy smile curls your lips as you stack more publications of Vogue until Lady Gaga’s staring back at you from the top of the pile.
“Linda loves you, employee. She would give you a raise without hesitation if she could, employee. I specifically instructed you to come to me for these things.” James pinches the bridge of his nose before his arms fold over his chest. “Employee.”
Pet names are another one of your love languages.
“We have been at each other’s necks for the past three miserable years.” You shove the flaps of the box closed and when they pop back up, you wrestle with the cardboard as elegantly as a girl on merely three hours of sleep can manage. “And it’s like you don’t even know me.”
James rolls his eyes, but not because you always find loopholes and roundabouts when it comes to his demands—you just… bring out his unprofessional side. You are a lunatic in business casual clothes.
“My apologies.” He leans forward, abusing your poor desk again as his hands grip the edges. “I should have recognised you would go on a vacation when your department is in the midst of a crisis.”
“Thank you,” you flash him a smile as sweet as sugar, a mighty contender to his infuriating smirk, and lean over the acrylic divider to steal a tape dispenser from some underpaid intern’s desk that’s been abandoned all morning, not that you blame him. You consistently avoid President Business, too. “You had me scared for our marriage there.”
“It may be for the best you start looking into divorce lawyers,” James comments dryly, watching as you tape the box shut. Mostly. Lady Gaga’s still peaking through the crack a little.
“Whoa. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fight for us.” The reply is almost absentminded as you cover Gaga with a bright pink Post-it—she’s remarkably eerie in the blue, whatever-it’s-made-of coat on past September’s issue of Vogue. “Besides. It’s possible my heart will yearn for you after the long, long six days Linda oh-so-graciously approved, despite July shaping out to be busy.”
His baby blues flicker from your face to the bright Post-it, fingers curling around the oak of your desk as he ponders different ways to snap you out of whatever realm of professional defiance you seem to exist in without forcibly shaking you by the shoulders. Though the latter is an appetising thought.
“Earth to James. Somebody’s spacing out again.”
James pushes the wooden ruler you use to nudge him out of his face before his stare slowly returns to your features, hard and narrowed, and most likely unimposing given that he’s talking to a whack-a-doodle. “Sorry, honey. Got lost in curating the perfect celebratory afternoon for your inevitable demise.”
“Oh.” A slight raise of your eyebrows accompanies the soft reply. The perfect celebratory afternoon for my inevitable demise? In his world, it could mean a gazillion possibilities. After a healthy beat, you settle on the most likely based on nothing, but vibes and the fact the man’s an asshole. “Bourbon, cigars, and a flock of hookers?”
A sardonic smile curls his lips as James straightens up and shoves his hands into the pockets of those damn Prada trousers. “Golf, caviar, and setting your desk on fire.”
After being told by Juniper about Bucky's betrayal, you do everything in your power to distract yourself. Wanda makes a discovery, and Steve and Thor realize they need to up their ante if they're ever going to fix things.
Content Warning: Frat!Bucky x F!Reader, mature themes, angst, mention of sex, mention of hard drug usage, reader is self-destructive.
Series Masterlist
His hands are all over you, but you can barely feel them. You're too lost in the kiss to know which parts of your body he's groping, but you do know it feels good to be focusing on something physical rather than floating in your mind. "Shall we head back to my place?" He mumbles, pulling his lips away from yours for just enough time to spill out the question.
You pull his head down, resuming the kiss and ignoring his query. It isn't until someone clears their throat beside you and bursts your bubble that you finally pull away. Turning your head to the side, you see Thor, semi-healed bruises adorning his chin and cheek, and he doesn't look happy.
"What are you doing?" Thor asks, shooting a cold look at the man who still has his hands on your ass.
"What?" You respond blankly, shrugging your shoulders.
"We're in public, you know," Thor says lowly, glancing around the diner. "And that's Tony. You know, your ex? The asshole you swore never to go back to, ever again?"
With an eye-roll, you take your hands off of Tony's shoulders and take a step towards Thor. "Chill out, T," You say casually. "It's nothing serious. Not like we're dating, or anything."
"For now," Tony says with a lazy smirk, slinging his arm around your shoulder. "What's wrong, Odinson? She finally realized she misses my dick. Nothing wrong with that."
You grimace at his words, but do nothing to push him off of you. That would take more energy than you have right now.
Suddenly, Thor's eyes narrow as he stares at your face. "What are you on?" He asks accusatorily.
With a dry laugh, you look away from him. "Oh, my God. What are you, my father?" You ask with a scoff. "Just leave me alone, T, I'm fine."
"Yeah, T, she's fine," Tony repeats slyly, pulling you closer into him.
You give Thor a pointed look, silently telling him that he needs to back off. Thankfully, he both understands and complies, clenching his jaw as he turns and leaves.
"Thank fuck he's gone," Tony mutters. "Was totally killing my buzz. You want another pill?"
You know what the right answer is - no. You should sober up and head home, and get a grip of yourself. But that means you have to think about things, and you don't want to have to think about Bucky. A cold layer of embarrassment coats your skin as you're reminded of the conversation you had with Juniper a few days ago, and immediately you decide this bender isn't over yet. "Yes," You reply to Tony, who gives you an eager grin in response.
Juniper is having a great day.
After waking up in Bucky's bed, knowing that there's no other girl threatening to take that place anymore, how could today be anything less than great? She was a little worried there when you came into the picture - the girl who Juniper was sure was the one Bucky would sometimes talk to Steve about. He found you pretty, stunning was the word he'd often use, but apparently he never had a reason to talk to you, so you just ended up being conversation fodder when he needed to fill a silence or when Steve asked him if he was interested in anyone.
But then, you approached him.
Juniper didn't see you as a threat until that party. You were everything she wasn't; girly, flirty, and the type to spend an hour doing your makeup. You were the ultimate antithesis of her, which is what she found the most frustrating. Bucky knew he enjoyed spending time with Juniper - he got along with her better than anyone else - so why would he go for someone that was so... not her?
But none of that mattered anymore because as swiftly as you entered Bucky's life, you chose to exit it again. He was heartbroken, but Juniper knew he'd get over it. As long as you stopped trying to get back with him, that was.
"I think you should try dating apps," Wanda suggests as she digs her fork into the spaghetti Steve made last night. "There's no misunderstanding on dating apps. You know exactly what you're there for, and what they're there for."
Juniper's eyes narrow at Wanda, but the redhead simply ignores her. She's known Juniper for far too long and knows her far too well to be intimidated by her.
"I don't know," Bucky grumbles, nursing his iced coffee as he rests his arms on the marble island. "I tried in freshman year, but-"
"What?" Juniper cuts in with wide eyes. "What are you talking about?"
He lets out a half-laugh, shaking his head. "It was nothing serious. I had Tinder for a little while, but-"
"Jamie, how could you not have told me that!" She exclaims, grabbing his arm. "I never saw that app on your phone?"
Bucky raises a brow. "Uh, yeah, like I said, I didn't have it for long. Realized it wasn't for me," He explains, looking back to Wanda who has an amused look on her face. "I need to know there's a spark in person, you know what I mean? I dont wanna spend weeks or months talking just to find out that we don't click in real life."
Realizing she's dealing with a hopeless romantic rather than a typical frat boy, Wanda nods. "Understood," She mumbles, before frowning. "You should put yourself out there in other ways, then. When's the last time you had a girlfriend? Was it that Wren girl?"
Juniper stiffens. If she was glaring at Wanda before, she's now shooting a death stare her way. "We don't say that name in this house," She says gravely.
Bucky chuckles, nudging her arm. "It's fine, Junie, it was three years ago," He says casually, before nodding at Wanda. "Uh, yeah. Nothing serious since then." Bucky couldn't help but wonder if he was the problem. He wasn't a typical frat boy who was only after sex - he wanted more. He wanted the relationship, and the anniversaries, and the intense arguments that only happened when two people really cared for each other. But maybe there was something missing in him. Something that made him unsuitable for a healthy relationship.
"Why'd that end, again?" Wanda inquires, enjoying the way that the topic is making Juniper squirm.
"She turned out to be a crazy bitch, and was jealous of my relationship with Jamie," Juniper says bitterly. "She tried to come between us and turn him against me. She was insane!"
"It came out of nowhere. And then, she just ghosted me," Bucky mumbles with a shrug, realizing it's still a slight sore spot. "Dropped out."
"That's weird," Wanda mutters with suspicious eyes. "What exactly was she saying to turn you against Juniper?"
"Do we really have to go over this?" Juniper interjects with her hands folded across her chest. "You were there, Maximoff. You know what happened."
"I don't remember the details," Wanda counters. "Just that there was a huge argument at Bucky's birthday party. Didn't you have a fight with her?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," Juniper snaps before closing her eyes and letting out a long sigh. "Like I said, she was crazy, and tried to make me out to be the crazy one. I hate girls that can't handle it when their boyfriend is friends with a female - like, how insecure can you get?"
Bucky, having been lost in his thoughts before Juniper's last comment, sits up. "There was a lot she was accusing Junie of, but it's been three years. We were practically still kids at that point," He says simply. "I'm sure she has her own explanation for whatever happened, wherever she is."
"Right," Wanda mumbles almost inaudibly.
"Anyway," Juniper says, clapping her hands together. "Enough about dating. Jamie - what you need is some time with your number one girl. Let's go out and do something fun!"
While Bucky and Juniper make plans for their day, Wanda is reserved. Something doesn't feel right to her, and she isn't the type to be able to forget and move on.
So, when Bucky and Juniper leave to go to the movies, Wanda makes her way to the Student Services building.
It's a small building connected to the library, but it's exactly what she needs. As she walks in, she sees that it's almost empty except for the blond at the reception desk. She's wearing a white polo neck with the college's logo on the right side, and on the left is a nametag that reads YELENA.
Yelena looks up from the steamy book she's reading to see none other than the girl she's been daydreaming about standing before her. She quickly pinches herself to make sure she isn't still daydreaming, holding back a wince when it smarts. Could this be a weed-induced hallucination?
"Hi, Stu- welcome to Student Services," Yelena says, stumbling over the phrase she's been saying every day for the past year. "What can I help you with today?"
Wanda rests her upper body on the counter, leaning forward. The sight of her cleavage makes Yelena stir in her seat. "Hi. Is this the right place for student records?" Wanda asks, looking at the copious filing cabinets behind the desk.
In a daze, Yelena just stares up at Wanda with parted lips. How could one human being hold so much sex appeal?
"Hello?" Wanda cuts in, furrowing her brows. "You okay?"
Snapping out of it, Yelena blinks quickly. "Yes. I'm sorry, I just-"
"Don't worry about it," Wanda says coolly, noticing the way her words make Yelena's cheeks flush. "I was just wondering about student records?"
Making sure to focus on Wanda's words rather than the way her lips move when she says them, Yelena nods. "Uh, would you like to see your file?" She asks, assuming Wanda's here for the same reason as plenty of other students.
"Not exactly," Wanda says slowly, standing up straight. "I need to see someone else's."
Yelena's eyebrows fly up. "Oh. Um... that isn't... you can't actually... that would be a data breach-"
"I hate this stuff," Wanda cuts in, tapping the perspex board between them with her knuckle. "Feels suffocating. Is it okay if I come around to talk to you?"
Stunned, Yelena just stares at her wide-eyed. Deciding to take her silence as permission, Wanda walks through the door on the right and enters the office, looking at the filing cabinets before making her way over to where Yelena is sitting. Wanda sits on the desk while Yelena tries to remember how to breathe.
"It's just one person's record I really need to see," Wanda says lowly. "Really, really bad."
The smell of Wanda's strawberry scented shampoo is all Yelena can focus on. And when Wanda reaches out to tuck a piece of Yelena's hair behind her ear, Yelena's a goner. "Yeah," She breathes out weakly. "Anything you want."
Wanda beams down at her. "I don't know her last name, but there was a student called Wren who dropped out in freshman year. Three years ago, now. Can you find her file?" She asks sweetly.
"We destroy all data on drop-outs a year after they leave," Yelena says with a slight frown, wondering how she can help the angel in front of her. "But..."
"But?" Wanda repeats with a hopeful look.
"Do you know why she left? If there was some kind of issue, bigger than just the fact that she didn't like it here, there may be records in Paladin; our safeguarding database," Yelena says.
"I'm not sure why she left," Wanda admits. "But it might be worth a try."
"If she made any complaint at all, about a staff member or fellow student, it'll be on Paladin," Yelena says as she pulls up the website on her computer. "Legally, we have to keep that data for, like, ever."
"Makes sense," Wanda mumbles, getting off the desk and instead sitting on the arm of Yelena's chair. Yelena's breath hitches in her throat but she does her best to remain calm, swallowing thickly as the website loads up.
"What did you say her name was, again?" Yelena asks, trying to keep her eyes on the screen. It takes some time to find her, but thankfully there aren't many Wrens on record, and only one who was a freshman three years ago. "That's odd," Yelena mutters.
"What is it?" Wanda asks, her heart racing.
"There's a complaint here, but it wasn't written by Wren," Yelena says with a frown. "It was written about her."
Wanda and Yelena share a quick look before Yelena quickly clicks onto it, and Wanda begins to read it aloud. "Wren Wragley needs to be reprimanded for her conduct. It is disgusting what she has gotten away with. Professor Derrickson is a respectable man and she took advantage of his kindness, offering him sexual favors in return for high grades. I overheard this myself after class had ended. She is a threat to the reputation of this college and needs to be dealt with accordingly," Wanda reads, shaking her head. Her eyes lower until she sees who the complaint was written by. "Juniper Ann Johnson."
"No fucking way," Yelena whispers, eyes wide.
"What does that mean at the bottom?" Wanda asks, pointing to a box with red text in it that reads, Investigation launched. Unfounded.
"It means they looked into it but didn't find any proof," Yelena explains. "That's a serious accusation - I assume they'd have asked Derrickson and Wren for their side, maybe interviewed Juniper for more details regarding the date and time, and checked the CCTV footage of whenever she said it happened."
"So, she lied," Wanda whispers, her stomach flipping. She knows Juniper has a cruel streak and can be protective over Bucky, but she never thought Juniper could take it this far. "What's her surname, again? Wragley?"
"Yep," Yelena answers. "Sorry there aren't more details."
"No, it's fine; I can find her on socials," Wanda says before turning back to Yelena. "Thank you so much. I really appreciate this." With that, she leans down and places a soft kiss to Yelena's cheek.
Knowing she can't squander this opportunity, Yelena says, "You seem a little shaken. Wanna smoke?"
Wanda raises a brow. "You have weed?"
Yelena lets out a scoff, sitting back on her chair. "Only the best on campus," She says arrogantly.
"Yeah," Wanda breathes out, running a hand through her hair. She needs to process the information she just learned and she can't do it sober. "Fuck it."
"What is this?" You ask as you look around campus which is busier than it usually is on a Tuesday evening. There's music playing and some stalls set up along with the smell of smoky food, but you can't tell what the event is.
"I don't know, but I'm feeling this music," Tony mumbles with his arm around your hip. He walks you closer to the large speakers where there's a big crowd. Some people are dancing and singing along, but you're too high to make out the words. "What the fuck is going on?" Tony asks with a laugh, his eyes bright.
You look around, stopping when your eyes land on Bucky. He's by the barbecue and Juniper's got her arms wrapped around him. Immediately, you feel sick to your stomach. Bucky's eyes flicker around until they meet yours, and you quickly look away, unable to maintain eye contact with him after learning what a bastard he is.
"Tony," You whisper, pulling on his arm.
"Yeah, babe?" He asks, looking down at you.
You place your hands on his face and pull him down for a kiss, half wanting a distraction and half wanting to piss Bucky off. That is, if he even cares about you - but even if he doesn't, you're sure the primal side of him will hate that his enemy is sleeping with who used to be his girl. Maybe he'll feel some sort of possessiveness and it'll make him sick to see Tony grabbing your ass - that thought keeps you going.
"Hey," A deep voice calls out from next to you, and a part of you thinks it's Bucky. You pull away from the kiss and look up to see Thor who doesn't look happy at all.
"What's up?" You ask him while Tony continues sucking on your neck.
"I've had enough," Thor booms. "This is over. You're coming with me."
"Excuse me?" You scoff. "You're not my dad. Leave me alone."
Thor sighs, his eyes narrow. "I let you off last time, but this is going too far. I don't wanna see you with this fucking asshole," He says, glaring at Tony who pulls back and glares right back at him.
"Loosen up, Odinson, we're just having some fun," Tony utters in a bored tone. "You can have her back when I'm done. 'Kay?"
Having had enough, Thor shoves Tony back before grabbing you by the wrist and marching you away, ignoring your protests. You claw at his hand in an effort to get him to release his grip but there's no use; he's a strong man with a clear goal in mind, and you have no chance against that.
"What the fuck are you doing?" You yell as he drags you across campus, causing a few people to give you strange looks - including Bucky, who has an unreadable expression on his face. "Get off me, you're being insane!"
"I'm being insane?" Thor asks, taking you back towards the dorms. "You were making out with Stark! He's the last man you'd ever want to make out with!"
You let out a loud sigh, giving up on trying to escape and letting him drag you to your apartment building. "I said that over a year ago. Minds can change, you know," You say with a bored tone.
"Not yours, and not about Stark," He says gruffly, using his key card to get into the building. It isn't until he gets you in the elevator that he speaks again, his voice a little calmer. "What's going on, huh? You've been off since Friday. Did something happen?"
You keep your mouth shut, leaning your back against the mirror and watching the small screen as it slowly reaches 7. Once the doors open up, you walk out and make your way to your shared apartment with Yelena. Thor lives two floors up, but follows you into your place.
"There you are!" Yelena exclaims with wide eyes from where she's sitting cross-legged on her yellow yoga mat, arms outstretched upwards and hands clasped together in a fist above her head. "You've been gone for days, I was worried sick!"
"Days?" Thor repeats, narrowing his eyes at you.
"I texted you," You say to Yelena, ignoring Thor.
"Yeah, once on Saturday morning and then nothing for the past four days," Yelena says with a raised brow as she lowers her arms. "Where you been?"
"You should ask her who she's been with," Thor grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. "That's what's concerning me."
"Concerning you?" Yelena asks with a frown as she slowly stands up. "Why? Who were you with?"
You kick off your shoes and push them against the wall beside the door before making your way to the kitchen, deciding you can't be bothered to receive a lecture from Yelena. She watches you, baffled, as you walk into the kitchen and shut the door behind you. While you pour yourself some orange juice from the refrigerator, you hear Thor's muffled voice before Yelena lets out a loud, shrill, "What?"
Groaning inwardly, you lean back against the refrigerator, waiting for the chaos to unfold. The door to the kitchen is slammed open and Yelena storms in, followed by Thor. There's a wild look on her face as she stares wide-eyed at you. "Tell me he's kidding," She says gravely.
A long sigh escapes your mouth. It would probably be good to explain yourself, but you're starting to come down from your high, and talking doesn't seem appealing right now.
"Tell me what's going on," Yelena demands firmly. "You can't just go off the deep end and expect me not to drag you back up. Explain. Now."
With a groan, you push past her and Thor and walk back into the main room, slumping down onto the couch with a huff. Thor stays in the kitchen, and Yelena joins you on the couch.
"What's up, buddy?" She asks, her voice softer than before.
You shake your head, looking down at your hands which you rest on your stomach. "Nothing. I just... wanted a fun weekend, and Tony happened to message me at the right time," You say. "I'm not getting back with him. Promise."
She slumps down so her head's at the same level as yours. "If all you wanted was a fun weekend, you would've told me to bake my special brownies," She states flatly. "This isn't the first time you've wanted to have fun, but it's the first time you've gone back to Tony."
Wincing, you know you can't keep the truth from her for too long. "He's not terrible in bed," You claim. "And... he has more than weed."
Her face drops. "What have you been doing with him?" She asks, and you know it's taking every iota of strength she has not to blow up at you.
You shrug and honestly admit, "I'm not really sure. Mostly just pills, but there might have been a tab on Sunday, I think."
She purses her lips together, and now you can tell she's really trying hard not to scream. But, as angry as she is, she remains calm and lets out a deep sigh. "What's going on? And be honest with me; I know you aren't doing all this just for fun," She says sternly.
In all honesty, you didn't have any intentions of having a drug-fuelled sexcapade with Tony. All you wanted was to have a one night stand in the hope that it would take your mind off Bucky, but Tony has a way of sinking his claws in you once he's got you in his sights.
Deciding it's best to be honest, as Yelena would know if you were lying anyway, you turn to face her. "I was upset," You say bluntly. "I knew Tony would be able to distract me completely."
"Upset about what?" Yelena asks, being careful not to come across as too pushy.
"Last Friday... Juniper cornered me at the library," You begin. "I knew she was a bitch; I don't care about the insults, but it's what she said about Bucky. I think... during our fling, or whatever it was, he was showing her everything. The texts, the... pictures. Even if he wasn't laughing at me like she says, the fact he showed her at all..."
Yelena takes in your words, her eyes narrowing. "Hmm," She replies simply, before raising a brow. "It is very, very likely that she was lying, buddy. Don't ask me how I know this, but she isn't the most truthful person in the world."
You shake your head, ignoring her cryptic words as you don't have the energy to wonder what she means. "No, she wasn't lying," You say. "She knew a detail about one of the pictures. Didn't seem like a lucky guess."
A huff leaves Yelena's mouth. "Shit. Seriously?" She asks, the anger slowly building inside her. "That asshole showed her?"
"And if he showed her, who's to say he didn't show his other friends?" You question, your guts churning at the thought. "And if he's the type to do that, he probably said what Juniper claimed he did. That I was just an easy fuck he was using until he got bored."
"He doesn't seem like that type of guy," Yelena mumbles.
"They never do," You argue, looking down. "I just... I thought it was just her who was the problem. But now that I think about it, what does it say about him that she's his best friend? Maybe he isn't as nice as I thought."
Yelena comforts you with a hug, holding you tight. For some reason, something feels off to her. Taking out her phone, she finds Wanda's Instagram account and sends her a message.
anditwasall_yelena: Hey, weird question, but do you by any chance need any help looking into this whole Juniper-Wren thing?
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Thor's texting Steve.
Steven
Wait, what??
No, Buck would never, ever do that. He doesn't even tell us details about dates he goes on, he would never talk about intimate shit like that, let alone show nudes
I'd beat the shit out of him if he did
Thor💋💋
Not even to Juniper?
Steven
They might be close but not that close. He's very reserved when it comes to talking about sex
Thor💋💋
You could learn a thing or two from him
Steven
Shut up. You love it.
Thor💋💋
What I love is my friend and I want her to be happy. We need to fix this before she does something she regrets more than going back to Tony
Steven
We need proof that Juniper's crazy
Thor💋💋
And where do we get that from??
Steven
I've been thinking recently about this girl Bucky was dating back in freshman yr
Wren Wragley. She had a bust up with Juniper and ended up dropping out
Thor💋💋
So what?
Steven
She said some stuff about Juniper, at the time nobody believed her. But now that I think about it, with this shit Juniper's said about nudes, I think Wren might have been telling the truth
Thor💋💋
Do you know where she is now?
Steven
No, but I remember who she used to be friends with. I can find out where she is now and we can pay her a visit
Thor💋💋
Sounds like a plan
Steven
You're driving
Thor💋💋
Why?
Steven
Easier for me to give you road head.
Thor💋💋
I'm regretting this already.
sorry for the lack of bucky x reader content in this series lately but i'll do my best to give them plenty of interaction in part 7 🙈
PART SEVEN >
i do not have a tag list - follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifs.
