I love this post so much. “we used to make posts about loki on here” is the gentlest way possible to describe this website’s history. It’s like saying einstein dabbled in science
SUMMARY: bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath. (but don’t save him! he is exactly where he wants to be).
PARING: grumpy!reader x lovesick!bucky
WORD COUNT: 2.7k
WARNINGS: lovesick!bucky, bucky is an idiot in love, fluff, weapons, suggestive comments, no use of y/n.
NOTE: it’s always grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader. i thought i’d switch it up ;) i’m not too sure how i feel about this tbh, but if i stare at it anymore i’ll go crazy </3
If someone was to tell Bucky Barnes two years ago that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who was all flirty smiles, baked cookies and wore pretty pastel sundresses, respectfully?
He would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
Now, if they were to tell that same Bucky Barnes that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who threw knives for sport and had the permanent expression of I’m going to kill you and enjoy doing it on her face?
. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.
The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.
Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.
It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.
There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.
You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.
“You good?” You ask simply.
Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.
He was doomed from the very start.
———
After your first encounter, he kept running into you.
In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.
Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.
This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.
“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.
“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.
He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.
The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.
And to his surprise? You say okay.
He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"
You shrug, "Sure, why not."
His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."
Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.
The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.
You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.
"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."
"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"
Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.
———
Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.
Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.
Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't.
You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.
You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.
And he. . . doesn’t do anything.
Brain short circuits.
Bucky.exe has stopped working.
What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.
“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.
“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”
You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”
Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”
You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.
Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.
All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?
He’ll never win.
———
You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.
“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”
Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.
A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”
“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”
Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones.
"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.
"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.
"He's trying to get under your skin."
"He's annoying."
"Aggravatingly so."
You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.
"Bucky?" You say softly.
That tone of voice is never good.
That tone of voice means he's in trouble.
He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting.
Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"
You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"
His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"
You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"
Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes.
He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."
You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"
Bucky doesn't say a word.
You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.
The look on your face says he's fucked up.
"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.
"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?"
He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."
You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.
"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."
At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.
"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."
Bucky nods solemnly.
"I did."
"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"
"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"
You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"
"I just— I missed the red sock!"
"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"
"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"
You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.
You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.
He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.
Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there.
Love.
And it's for him.
And isn't that something special in itself?
"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."
You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.
"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”
"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.
He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt.
Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.
Everything the two of you deserved to be.
"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.
"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."
"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."
You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."
You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight.
If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.
He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest.
Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.
Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.
But for right now? You can settle for this.
———
Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.
Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.
Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.
In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.
It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour.
Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.
Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.
"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.
That alone could've made him melt.
His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep.
Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more.
He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.
———
You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.
He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.
Bucky sighs wistfully.
Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.
“She’s doing her job, Buck.”
Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”
“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.
Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.
You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side.
He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.
"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.
You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."
"What about me?"
"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.
"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.
And that's for him.
When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."
Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.
There's no place he'd rather be.
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
dead wife montage but it's a henchman reminiscing about da boss after he got put six feet under. picking flowers before hiding the bodies, wiping cocaine from your nose after a big night, that long drive down the beach to find the bookie who squealed. where did the days go
What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 5.1k
author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!
series masterlist
You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.
Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.
Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin.
Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed.
Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.
But it wasn’t the pain that scared you.
It was the silence.
No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.
To him.
It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.
You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth.
Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments.
He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.
You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision.
And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.
The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.
“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”
Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”
You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping.
Maybe from strangling you.
Or perhaps himself.
“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”
“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”
“That was different.”
“Why? Because you decided it was?”
Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”
“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.
Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”
He stalked off, clearly done.
You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.
“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”
His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”
“Then what am I?”
Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.
You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.
“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”
He said nothing.
Denied nothing.
Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.
The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.
Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.
“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”
You looked away first.
Back then, you always looked away first.
You shouldn’t be this cold.
The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.
You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe.
One slow breath in.
One measured breath out.
Again.
Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.
Still, you bit down.
Just to remind yourself you were still here.
You didn’t cry.
You never cried.
But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.
That he would come.
And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.
You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.
Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.
You hated him, sometimes.
Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape.
You were thinking about him.
And Madripoor.
And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.
You were never supposed to let it get this far.
This complicated.
You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people.
And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.
But something in you had always pulled toward him.
The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.
Maybe it did.
But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.
A complication.
That’s all you were.
And complications always get left behind.
You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.
He’s not coming.
You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.
But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die.
A quiet voice whispering: He will.
He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.
You couldn’t accept that.
You wouldn’t.
So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:
“Please.”
Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
Just enough for your own breaking heart.
The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.
Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first.
The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.
You didn’t look up.
Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.
“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”
Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.
Andrei.
You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken.
“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.
He clicked his tongue, stepping closer.
The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.
“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”
Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.
But that was all it took.
His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.
“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”
You said nothing.
“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.
He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.
“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”
He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.
“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”
“You know nothing,” you spat.
Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”
He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.
“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”
You didn’t move.
“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”
He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.
“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”
Your stomach twisted cold.
“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth.
The part that scared you most was that he was right.
He saw it.
He knew.
“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.
“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”
You flinched.
Couldn’t stop it.
He smiled wider, satisfied.
“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”
Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips.
Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear?
God, you didn’t know.
“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”
He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.
Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.
Tried to steady your ragged breath.
Tried to forget his words.
Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.
And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.
The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.
Until suddenly it wasn’t.
A faint crackle flickered through the feed.
Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.
And a voice came through.
Not yours.
His.
“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”
The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.
Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.
Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.
“Don’t call me that.”
What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives.
Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.
The room held its breath.
Not a single soul dared to make a sound.
Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.
And then—
“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”
“Not now.”
Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.
He didn’t meet their eyes.
His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.
“I need to find her.”
Time had stopped making sense.
You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you.
Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.
Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.
You didn’t let it. Not yet.
Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.
Then—something changed.
It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.
A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.
Then chaos broke loose.
Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.
Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door.
You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.
A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.
Then silence.
Just for a breath.
Two.
BANG.
The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.
And then—
A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.
Andrei.
He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.
But you didn’t see her.
You saw him.
Bucky.
His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.
He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast.
Desperate.
“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.
He didn’t answer.
Not at first.
Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.
His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.
“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”
You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.
“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”
You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.
He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him.
You sagged into it.
Couldn’t fight it.
Didn’t want to.
He held you like you were made of glass and grief.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Your eyes were already sliding shut.
It felt good. Too good.
But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.
A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.
“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”
You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.
But none of it touched you.
Just him.
Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him.
Bucky didn’t beg.
Not for anything, not until now.
Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.
Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.
She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.
Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.
“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”
He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.
Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.
“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”
John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust.
“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”
Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.
“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”
She twirled the knife between her fingers.
The blade caught the light like a smile.
“We enjoy this part.”
Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.
“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”
“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.
“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”
“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”
Yelena stood.
“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”
The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all.
Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different.
This was you.
“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.
Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion.
Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.
“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”
Bucky didn’t move.
“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”
“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”
“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”
His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light.
He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.
He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”
“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”
The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.
It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking.
You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it.
He hated it.
And envied it.
“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.
You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”
He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.
“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”
That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.
Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”
The brunette nodded, barely.
He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
Bucky remembered that night.
You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.
He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”
“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.
You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below.
You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.
He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.
It hadn’t hit him all at once.
It crept in.
A glance that lingered too long.
A silence too full.
The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you.
But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.
You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.
“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”
He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.
Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”
Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all.
He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”
You nodded. “You still want that?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know if I get to.”
That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.
Then you said it. “You do.”
Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.
You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.
He looked at you.
The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.
Not pity.
Not forgiveness.
Belief.
And in that moment, something split open in him.
He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.
But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.
It’s you.
It had always been you.
You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.
The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from.
And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.
But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.
Because love wasn’t safe.
It wasn’t calculated.
It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.
Love meant losing.
Risk. Vulnerability.
And yet—
When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.
No hesitation, no questions.
Just go.
But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.
Comfortable.
Easy.
And he stayed beside you.
He always would.
Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.
Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.
Not for you.
Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks.
Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.
And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.
It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.
“I love you.”
You didn’t stir.
No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.
Just in case you heard him.
a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 3.5k
author's note: hi sweethearts! we are at chapter of this series and oh my gosh, i am so excited to get the last 2 chapters out because i am debating between the type of ending i would like this series to have! your feedback is always welcomed 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💕
series masterlist
The penthouse was excessive.
It was the kind of wealth that laughed at subtlety—the kind that didn’t whisper its power, but screamed it. It assaulted the senses in every direction, a crystalline fortress carved into the sky, perched at the top of Monaco’s most elite tower.
Glittering chandeliers hung like jagged ice sculptures from mirrored ceilings, casting fractured rainbows across floors of polished ivory marble. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and money.
A wall-to-wall aquarium stretched across one entire side of the room, aglow with bioluminescent fish imported from some private reef halfway across the world.
Even the water shimmered like it had been distilled from diamonds. Every inch of the space screamed exclusivity, opulence, danger.
You could feel it in your skin—like silk suffocating you.
Beyond the towering glass windows, the Monaco skyline glittered against the velvet night. Yachts drifted below like ghosts, their lights blinking lazily on the dark sea.
And at the center of it all was Raskovic.
He was built like a war—not a man, but a monument. Thick-necked, wide-shouldered, a towering frame that made the tailored lines of his suit look stretched and choked.
He radiated the kind of threat that didn’t need to be spoken. Every guard in the room flinched just slightly when he turned his head—a glance carrying the weight of a command.
You’d seen powerful men before. But this… this was different. Raskovic didn’t just own power. He embodied it.
His face was carved in hard lines, his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It didn’t soften him. It made him look sharper. Hungrier. Like a lion watching dinner stumble straight into the den.
“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice smooth like old leather and too much vodka. He didn’t stand, just gestured lazily for you to join him at the long glass table set in the center of the room.
Bucky was close behind you. His hand slid to the small of your back—part of the act, of course. But his fingers pressed in slightly harder than they needed to. Like a warning, like reassurance. You didn’t know which one you needed more.
“We’re honoured,” you said smoothly, your voice polished and poised, as if the glittering tension didn’t make your skin itch. Bucky gave a nod beside you, his eyes tracking every guard, every movement.
The table had been laid out like an art piece, foie gras resting atop toasted brioche with violet fig compote, lobster bisque in impossibly thin porcelain bowls, and Duck à l’orange carved so precisely it looked painted.
Surrounding the spread were polished silver utensils and deep-red wine glinting in faceted crystal flutes, poured with care by servers in floor-length black gowns.
You sat, and the moment your body touched the chair, something in your gut twisted hard.
It wasn’t anything obvious.
No flashing lights, no sudden danger. Just instinct—a whisper at the base of your skull that grew louder with every breath you took. The way the servers didn’t meet your eyes. The way Andrei leaned in the shadows of the far wall, watching, waiting.
You knew.
Something was wrong.
Raskovic took his wine in hand and swirled it lazily. “So. I heard from Andrei…” He turned those cold eyes to you. “You know me?”
Bucky didn’t even blink. “Who wouldn’t?”
A smile crept across Raskovic’s face. “A good answer.”
He chuckled and sipped his wine, exuding the confidence of a man surrounded by his kingdom. You let the conversation glide around you like smoke, lips curved just enough, playing your part.
Andrei hadn’t moved from the wall, but you could feel him, gaze heavy, predatory. You didn’t trust the shadows here—they belonged to him.
“And what do you specialise in?” Raskovic asked, breaking off a piece of bread with delicate fingers. “Explosives? Biochemical toys? Or are you more... traditional?”
Bucky leaned back in his chair, casual on the surface but coiled beneath. “Mostly smart-range pulse rifles. Electromagnetic scatter rounds. Some Stark-modified EMPs, the kind that make your eyes bleed if you’re standing too close.”
Raskovic laughed, low and genuine. “Ah, Stark. Yes. He did have flair.” He lifted his glass. “To creative destruction.”
You raised yours to match. Glasses clinked. The wine shimmered.
You hesitated.
Then drank.
And regretted it instantly.
You blinked. Swallowed. Your hand tightened around your glass as you turned slightly in your chair.
“I—I don’t… feel so—”
Your words fell apart, slurred and sticky. Your throat closed. The room twisted violently beneath your feet. Bucky was on his feet before your head even dipped forward.
“What the hell did you do?” he snarled, voice tight.
Raskovic didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Andrei moved like a shadow—fast, precise, and cruel. You barely saw him before his arm wrapped around your body, dragging you upright as your legs gave out beneath you.
One thick arm locked around your chest, yanking you back against him, while the cold edge of a knife pressed into the delicate line of your throat.
You whimpered—not from the pain, but from how far Bucky suddenly seemed.
He surged forward. “LET. HER. GO!”
But the guards were faster than he was.
Two lunged first, catching him at the arms. Then another. Then two more. They tried to hold him down, to pin the fury inside the soldier’s body—but he was already gone.
Not Bucky.
Not James.
The Winter Soldier raged, and the man underneath him broke.
His scream tore through the air—raw, unfiltered. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”
He fought like a beast, like he was tearing out his own soul to get to you. Every muscle locked and screamed with effort as he dragged the men across the polished floor. His eyes were wide, burning blue, locked on yours like they were the last thing tethering him to sanity.
You could see it—the pain in him. The terror.
“Get off me!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into someone’s face with a sickening crack. “You touch her again, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you all!”
“Try something, Barnes,” Andrei hissed into your ear, his knife pressing harder into your skin. A thin line of blood slipped down your neck. “Give me a reason.”
“STOP,” Bucky roared, his voice shredded and frantic, “PLEASE—please, take me instead—just let her go—”
But Raskovic only leaned back in his chair, amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice like rot. “The infamous Winter Soldier. Look what they turned you into.”
Bucky thrashed harder, dragging three men with him as he reached toward you, fingertips almost brushing yours before another slammed into his gut. He coughed, staggered, and still tried to crawl.
“Let her go!” he screamed again. His voice cracked this time—a break in the steel.
You could barely keep your eyes open, your limbs like water. But you turned your head—just slightly—enough to meet his gaze.
And even through the fog choking your mind, you knew what you saw in him.
Rage. Fear.
“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.
“No—no, don’t—” His eyes widened, frantic. “Please—don’t—don’t leave me.”
“Go. Please.” you managed to choke out.
And then you fell. Andrei’s arm caught you, yanking your limp body back as you slipped into unconsciousness.
The last thing you saw—or maybe only imagined—was Bucky’s face as he screamed your name like a prayer no god ever answered.
You came to with the sharp sting of blood in your mouth and the icy ache of metal biting into your wrists.
At first, it was hard to tell what was real—the room swam at the edges, spinning in slow, nauseating waves.
Your head throbbed. Your lips were cracked and dry. And your shoulders screamed from the strain of your arms wrenched behind your back, cuffed so tight that you could already feel the skin splitting beneath the metal.
Cold concrete bit into your ankles where they were tied to the chair legs. Your knees burned and your spine howled with every twitch of movement.
The drug was still in your system—not fully, but enough to slow your thoughts, to fog the corners of your brain like frost on glass. You blinked, trying to force focus into your vision.
The room was dim, windowless. Cement walls scarred with water stains and age.
It smelled like damp stone and blood and the metallic tang of old air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling on a rusted chain, swaying with each low hum that vibrated through the floors—generators, maybe. Or worse.
You were underground.
You were alone.
And then you realised—you weren’t.
A figure sat in front of you, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees. Like this was casual. Like he was waiting to chat over coffee.
Andrei.
But he wasn’t smiling this time. Not exactly. The amusement from the dinner—the smug, showman’s flair—was gone now. What was left behind was leaner. Sharper. Hungrier.
He looked at you like prey.
“Tough girl,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and smooth. Too calm. “Didn’t even scream when I hit you.”
He stood slowly, circling the chair. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. You followed him with your eyes but didn’t move your head—your neck was too stiff, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Trained well,” he murmured, coming to stand behind you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and intimate and rotten. “Let me guess. Romanov?”
Still, you said nothing.
Silence was all you had left. Silence and the rhythm of your heart, pounding slow and hard in your chest.
One beat for every second Bucky wasn’t here.
One beat closer to whatever came next.
Andrei exhaled, circling around again. He crouched low in front of you, arms braced on his thighs, and looked up at you like you were something he’d found crawling under a rock.
“Almost believed your little act,” he said. “Almost. You were very good. And he—he was damn near convincing. Protective. Devoted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Barnes might actually care about you.”
The corners of your mouth curled in a humorless smile. “He doesn’t fake things well.”
Andrei raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not wrong.”
He stood again, restless energy leaking into his movements now. Pacing. Turning. Talking more to himself than you. “But Layna—sweet girl, fucking dumb, but she has good memory. Told me she saw you before. You were blonde, standing behind a Swedish diplomat during a black-tie in Prague.”
You stiffened.
That op had been burned. Buried.
There should’ve been no trace left.
Andrei’s grin returned, sharp and self-satisfied. “Told you. Almost.”
He drifted to the side of the room, plucking something off the metal tray on the workbench behind him. You couldn’t see what it was at first—until the low light caught the blade. Polished. Thin. Surgical.
Your blood ran colder.
“You know,” he said casually, running his thumb down the flat of the blade, “I’ve dealt with a lot of spies. A lot of agents. They’re all the same when you strip them down—arrogant, mouthy, trained to suffer but everyone breaks eventually.”
He turned toward you again. His boots scraped slightly across the floor as he came closer, blade gleaming.
“But you,” he said, voice lower now, almost admiring, “you’re different, so impressive. So decorated. Partner to Steve Rogers, mentored by the Black Widow."
He crouched again, placing the knife under your chin—just enough pressure to tilt your head up, to meet his eyes.
“But look at you now,” he murmured. “All alone.”
You glared at him, breathing hard.
Your ribs ached with each inhale.
“You’re still not gonna get out of this,” you rasped.
Andrei gave a soft, mocking sound—almost a laugh. “Still fighting,” he said. “I love that.”
He pulled the knife back. Then his hand—the same one holding the blade—cracked across your face.
Your head snapped to the side. Fire bloomed in your cheek. Your vision spun again, and for a moment, you tasted nothing but copper and heat.
You forced your head back up.
Stared at him.
And then spat blood on his shoes.
His expression twitched—not anger, not quite. But it changed. Shifted. Amused and annoyed all at once.
“So dramatic,” he muttered, straightening up. “Barnes really married a firecracker.”
You smiled, lips cracked and bloodied. “Yeah. He has excellent taste.”
He turned his back to you.
You didn’t trust what that meant.
“You know,” he said, picking up something else—a cloth, maybe. “When I first saw the two of you, I thought it was a clever front. Pretty couple, good chemistry and such an easy cover.”
He turned.
“But then I saw his face when we took you.”
Your heart lurched.
“I saw the way he screamed for you. Like he’d rather die right there than let you go. And that,” Andrei said, walking back toward you, “told me everything I needed to know.”
You went still.
“And now,” he said, crouching once more, “we find out just how long it takes to make you scream.”
You didn’t flinch.
But somewhere, deep in your chest, you whispered a prayer.
Not to be saved.
But that Andrei would get out alive.
Because you knew Bucky was coming.
And if he didn’t find you soon—
He’d tear this whole place apart.
Yelena slammed a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click that echoed through the hangar.
“I’m done,” she snapped. “I’m done waiting around like a fucking headless chicken."
Her vest hit the open duffel with a thud, followed by two extra mags, a smoke grenade, and a roll of wire.
Her hands moved fast, efficiently, but her face—her face was all fire, controlled only in the loosest sense of the word.
“Val said to hold,” Ava said from across the room, but even her voice sounded unsure. Her fingers were curled too tightly around the hilt of her blade. “It’s too risky for an extraction.”
Yelena’s jaw clenched as she zipped the duffel shut with a savage pull.
“Bullshit,” she cursed.
“She said their cover was still good!” John yelled suddenly, pacing across the cracked concrete like a caged animal. His voice cracked from frustration, boots striking hard with each step.
“Cover’s blown, Ava. Raskovic’s got them. We saw that footage from the drone feed. You think Bucky screams like that when things are fine?”
No one answered.
The silence that followed was deafening.
They had all heard it— the live feed that cut out halfway through, but not before they heard your slurred voice, the scrape of a chair, and—
Bucky’s scream.
It wasn’t just your name.
It was a sound torn from the center of him, ripped out like something primal—like grief, rage, and helplessness all wrapped into one brutal, broken cry. A roar that echoed through the comms with so much pain it made Ava flinch and John go deadly silent.
It didn’t even sound like a name by the end.
It sounded like a man being ripped in half.
“Val’s still trying to assess options,” Ava said finally, quieter. “Wants to keep it clean. Low profile. Wait for the opportune moment.”
Yelena turned sharply. “She wants to wait until there’s nothing left to save.”
“(Y/n)'s not dead,” she added, voice lower now, shaking. “Not yet.”
Across the room, Alexei tightened the last strap of his tac vest and let out a heavy grunt from the loading ramp of the jet.
“Then we go,” he said simply. “Fast. Before is too late.”
It was Ava who moved next.
She didn’t say anything.
Just unsheathed her blade, slid it into the thigh holster, and grabbed her gear.
Bob passed her the radio jammer without a word.
John pulled a second glock off the weapons table, racked it with a sharp motion, and tossed a rifle to Alexei.
“You’re flying.”
Alexei caught it mid-air. “Da. And if Val calls mid-flight?” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“Ignore it,” Yelena muttered, strapping her vest down tight. “Unless you want to hear more bureaucratic bullshit while someone guts her open.”
“Val have our asses for this,” Ava said flatly, though she didn’t slow her pace as she climbed into the jet. “You know that, right?”
John snorted. “What’s new?”
The engines roared to life behind them—a deafening hum of rebellion.
Back in the jungle of halls and locked doors, Bucky was losing his mind.
He had already taken down four men—maybe more. He couldn’t keep count anymore, it was all a blur of fists and fury, of red-soaked sleeves and splintered bone. His knuckles were split wide open, blood running down his fingers like oil, blood that he didn’t even know was his own.
The once-pristine black suit he’d worn to dinner, tailored, pressed, immaculate was in ruins. The white shirt beneath was streaked with blood. Buttons missing, collar torn, cufflinks long gone.
He looked like a ghost dressed for a funeral.
Yours.
Somewhere behind him, alarms blared in a shrill, endless loop. He had triggered them when he shattered the keypad on the security gate with his bare hand.
“I can’t—I don’t know where they took her. They drugged her. He had a knife at her throat—I couldn’t fucking stop it—”
He swallowed a sob. Tried to breathe, and failed.
“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. She knew. She felt it in her gut. And I just let her get taken.” He pushed off the wall, stumbling forward down the corridor, every door a dead end, every hallway too quiet.
The sound of his shoes—black dress leather, scuffed now, stained red—echoed down the sterile concrete like a countdown.
And he was running out of time.
John’s voice came through next.
“We’re in the air. Twenty minutes out. Hold tight, Bucky. We’ve got you.”
But the brunette wasn’t listening anymore.
He stopped in the middle of the hall, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, blood dripping to the floor beneath him.
“She was scared,” he whispered. “She told me to go. Begged me.”
The words tasted like glass in his mouth.
“She looked me in the eye like it was the last thing she would ever say to me. And I fucking left her. I left her there.”
His voice cracked again. Barely a sound.
“I can’t lose her.”
His hands curled into fists — raw, trembling. “I can’t.”
He slammed his fist into the wall—vibranium meeting concrete in a sickening crunch—and staggered forward. He was pacing now, wild and cornered and coming undone.
“I know I screw things up. I know I push people too hard. Say the wrong thing or nothing at all. I don’t... I don’t let myself feel shit unless it’s already too late.”
He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, dragged it down his face.
“But (y/n), I—”
A pause. A beat of silence.
“Every time she disobeys me on a mission, I yell. I chew her out like she’s reckless. Like she’s careless.”
He swallowed hard.
Blinked.
Focused on the darkness ahead.
“It’s not control. It’s not protocol. I just—fuck, I’m scared she won’t come back.”
He stopped, spine against the wall again. Voice low, almost fagile.
“That I’ll lose her. And it’ll be my fault. Because I never told her what she really means to me.”
Yelena’s voice crackled through the line again. “Then don’t stop.”
A pause.
“You find her.”
His jaw tightened.
“I will,” Bucky said.
The tone in his voice changed—gone was the shaking, the hesitation.
“I swear to god, I’ll find her.”
His steps quickened. He pushed through the next door like it owed him something, storming into a stairwell, eyes wild, movements sharp. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
“Even if I have to burn this whole fucking place down.”
And he meant it.
He’d burn the compound, the mission, the goddamn world to the ground.
He was coming for you.
a/n: and that's chapter 5!! i hope you enjoyed, and please drop a comment or a reblog, it genuinely gives me so much motivation to give you guys my best! love y'all!
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, unresolved sexual tension, jealousy, possessive!bucky, slow burn-to-explosion, angst
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 4.6k
author's note: hi my loves! i hope you enjoy this chapter!! 💓
series masterlist
The sun poured through gauzy curtains, brushing golden light across the silken sheets—but the space beside you was cold.
Empty.
At first, your half-asleep mind tried to explain it away, maybe Bucky was in the bathroom. Maybe he’d gone for a walk. Maybe he was on the balcony again, brooding over the ocean like he had the first night you got here.
But minute after minute ticked by in silence, and each one carved deeper into the pit of your stomach. Your pulse climbed. The soft rustle of sheets as you sat up sounded impossibly loud in the stillness.
You pushed the covers back and rose to your feet, the cool tiles shocking against your bare skin. Something in your chest thudded—not quite panic yet, but close. You tried the comms, voice low and clipped.
“Yelena? Ava? Anyone?”
Nothing.
Just a crackle of static, followed by silence. No signal, no voice.
Your heart rate kicked up, you tapped again, harder this time.
“Come on. Don’t do this now.”
Still nothing.
Your hand hovered over the emergency line. It was protocol, something you’d never had to use—a last resort tether. You didn’t want to overreact, but your jaw was clenched, throat thick, fingers trembling faintly.
Because he didn’t just disappear.
Not without a word.
Not after last night.
You were about to hit the button when the door clicked.
You froze, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding.
It creaked open slowly,
You froze.
Bucky stepped through the threshold with a tray in his hands. He didn’t look rushed or rattled, just composed, like he’d never been gone at all.
Your panic collided with a rush of anger.
But all you could do was stare.
“I, uh…” he started, glancing at you as he shut the door behind him. “Got us breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”
Your chest heaved once with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. He stood there awkwardly for a beat longer, then gestured vaguely toward the en suite.
“I’ll wash up.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was thick. Dense. It wrapped around your throat like humidity in a storm, and you hated that he could still do this to you, could disappear and leave you unraveling like a live wire. You turned sharply on your heel and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you a little too hard.
The marble was cool beneath your feet, the steam from the last shower still faintly fogging the mirror. You stared at your reflection, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes too wide. Still shaken.
You hated it. Hated that one quiet morning could break your control like that. That you’d woken up in that soft bed and your first instinct had been dread.
That it hadn’t been just the mission anymore.
That it was him.
Not of him.
Never of him.
But for him.
You gripped the counter edge with both hands and closed your eyes. Inhale, then exhale, deep and even. He was fine. He brought breakfast.
This wasn’t Kabul.
This wasn’t Madripoor.
You weren’t losing your mind.
A soft buzz crackled in your ear.
“Sweetheart? Comms were down. Sorry. Bob fixed it.” Yelena’s voice chirped in casually, like you hadn’t just been seconds away from spiraling. “You okay? What happened last night? You two sounded…off”
She let the sentence trail off—not coy, exactly. But definitely fishing.
You swallowed. “It was fine,” you said too quickly. Too sharp. “Nothing happened.”
A pause. Then the unmistakable crunch of something in her mouth.
“Mhm. Sure,” she said flatly. “If you say so honey.”
You pulled the robe tighter around your waist and sighed.
By the time you emerged, Bucky had already set the table on the balcony. The scent of coffee and warm syrup hung in the morning air, soft and too domestic for the state of your chest.
The sun cast golden slants across the plates, silverware gleaming under the soft breeze. Bucky stood with his back to you, one hand braced on the railing, gazing out at the horizon like he hadn’t just sent you into a tailspin.
When you joined him, he turned and offered you a plate.
Omelettes. Sausages. And chocolate chip pancakes.
Your throat caught.
“I… didn’t know you remembered these.”
He gave a half-shrug, avoiding your eyes. “You said it once. When Walker got diner duty in New York. Thought you liked ’em.”
You sat down slowly, the chair cool beneath your thighs. Appetite gone, you stared at your plate, twisting the tines of your fork into the edge of a pancake you didn’t touch. The silence stretched again, thicker now, tinged with something raw.
It was you who broke it.
“About last night…”
Bucky didn’t flinch, but you caught the way his fingers tightened just slightly around his coffee mug. His expression didn’t change, but something in the way he held himself shifted.
“Yeah?” he said finally.
You hesitated. Then: “I didn’t mean for it to get, I don’t know. That close.”
He met your eyes over the rim of his cup.
“Neither did I.”
You waited, hoping he would say something more. That he’d reach across the table or crack a smile or offer something, anything, that might give you clarity.
Instead, he cleared his throat and looked away.
“We should stay professional,” he said, voice even. “Makes things less complicated.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
Your stomach dropped. Your hands curled under the table.
“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, quietly. “Complicated?”
He blinked. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “I didn’t—”
“Just stop, Bucky,” you said, cutting him off, your voice barely holding together. “Let’s just finish the mission and go home.”
He didn’t respond.
And for the second time that morning, silence swallowed you whole.
The rest of the week was a lesson in discipline, in restraint. You and Bucky slipped into your roles like second skin—Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, honeymooners flush with love and lust.
Your movements in public were seamless. Your interactions, flawless. To an outsider, you were enamored, addicted. The kind of couple that made heads turn in envy.
But behind the perfect facade, every glance, every touch simmered with unspoken tension. The silence that stretched in private was deafening, unbearable in its weight. It was a performance—a painfully convincing one. And it was starting to eat you alive.
At breakfast the following day, you sat on the open-air veranda with a glass of fresh juice sweating between your fingers. The sea breeze tousled your hair, and Bucky sat across from you in his crisp white button-down and sunglasses, the picture of effortless masculinity.
You were midway through pretending to laugh at something he said when Andrei strolled past your table.
“Morning, lyubimaya (darling)” he purred, espresso in hand, his grin oily and practiced. He didn’t even look at Bucky when he said it.
Before you could speak, Bucky’s arm slid around your shoulders, dragging you in until your body pressed tight against his side. His fingers flexed possessively along your collarbone.
You barely had time to react before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple—slow, deliberate, searing.
His lips lingered just a second too long.
Your throat went tight, pulse thrumming at your neck. The moment passed, but the phantom burn of his mouth remained. Andrei didn’t stop, but you felt the weight of his stare as he moved on, the air behind him thick with suspicion and something darker.
Moments like that repeated themselves.
At the pool, when Fred and Layna struck up a conversation about the spa packages, Bucky played his part perfectly. You listened and laughed on cue, legs dipped in the water, sunglasses perched on your nose.
And every now and then, Bucky’s hand found your waist, casual, proprietary, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your bare skin beneath the thin fabric of your wrap.
When Fred made some bland, slightly flirtatious comment about your laugh, Bucky didn’t say anything. But his hand slid higher, fingers splaying across your ribs like a silent warning. A boundary. His grip wasn’t rough, but it lingered, just firm enough to remind everyone who you belonged to, at least in front of others.
You didn’t pull away. But your breath hitched all the same.
He smiled as the conversation continued, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
That night, you walked with him hand-in-hand along one of the garden paths that wrapped around the west wing of the resort. The lanterns overhead cast dappled shadows along the stone walkway.
You tried to breathe in the scent of sea salt and hibiscus, tried to lose yourself in the illusion of warm intimacy. Your dress clung to your body from the heat, and his hand in yours felt both grounding and suffocating.
A group of guests passed by—loud, laughing—and among them,
Andrei.
His gaze caught yours, amused. Expectant.
You barely lifted your chin to acknowledge him when Bucky stopped short.
Before you could say a word, he turned and backed you into the nearest marble column.
Then his mouth was on yours.
There was nothing polite about it. No finesse. Just heat and pressure and a clash of teeth as his hands pinned your waist, body flush against yours like a shield. The kiss was possessive. Aggressive.
You could hear Andrei’s footsteps fading down the path—but your brain couldn’t process anything but the way Bucky’s body felt pressed tight against yours, the way his tongue curled hot and angry into your mouth.
When he pulled away, his lips hovered near yours, breathing hard.
“Just doing my job,” he muttered.
You didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
You stood there in silence as he turned and kept walking, leaving you trembling against the column with your mouth still tingling and your knees barely steady.
The act continued.
Holding hands at dinner. His fingers trailing down your bare back as you leaned over a blackjack table. Kisses to your shoulder while you lounged by the pool, sunglasses hiding your eyes, heart pounding with every brush of his lips.
His hand would often rest on your thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. His voice would drop low when others were near.
Every contact was calculated.
Every movement choreographed.
But the ache growing inside you wasn’t.
And the worst part?
He was so good at pretending, it almost broke you.
Because sometimes, sometimes, it didn’t feel like an act.
Like the way his hand would tighten when someone else looked at you too long. Or the way his jaw flexed when you wore something a little too revealing. Or the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you weren’t talking, like he wanted to kiss you but didn’t trust himself to stop again.
He didn’t say anything.
He never did.
But you could feel it, thick and heavy in the space between you.
And then he’d pull away. Go cold. Professional.
It made you want to scream.
That night, you lay in bed beside him, facing the opposite direction. The sheets were warm from his body, but the distance between you felt like a chasm. You stared at the ceiling, counting the sound of the waves outside.
One. Two. Three.
You remembered the way he’d said, “You looked good today,” after your cover-dance with Layna. The way his eyes had dragged down the slope of your shoulder when your dress slipped during the mock twirl. The way he looked like he might burn through you with the heat in his stare.
And yet, he hadn’t touched you since. Not when you returned to the suite, not when you changed, not when you climbed into the same bed.
He hadn’t even looked at you.
You hated him for it. For being so cruelly good at making it feel real, only to take it back the second the curtain dropped.
But not nearly as much as you hated yourself.
Because you wanted it again.
Wanted him again.
And the worst part?
You didn’t know if it was because of the mission… or in spite of it.
The evening air buzzed with the low hum of the resort’s ambient music, barely audible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your silk cover-up from earlier, legs tucked beneath you as the comms unit clicked to life on the table. Bucky stood beside it, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.
The moment Val’s image flickered into focus, you felt the static tension in the room shift— like the crackle before lightning strikes.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” Val snapped, lips pressed in a tight line. “You two have been living in luxury for ten days now, and you’re telling me you’ve got absolutely nothing?”
You straightened instinctively, fingers curling against the fabric of your robe. “We’ve been gathering patterns, watching contacts. Andrei’s circling. He’s brought up Raskovic a few times, but nothing concrete yet—”
“I don’t want patterns,” she bit out. “I want results. Raskovic hasn’t slipped. No suspicious transfers. No hard evidence. You were supposed to be our in.”
Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he stayed silent. You pushed on. “We’re trying, but things are delicate. Too much too fast and they’ll get spooked. They’ll know—”
Val leaned forward, her eyes sharp, voice clipped. “You call this trying? Sounds to me like you’re not pushing hard enough. Not doing your damn part.”
You flinched. The words hit harder than they should’ve— because some part of you feared she was right. The days were blurring into each other. The mission was dragging. And maybe, just maybe, you were letting your emotions compromise your focus.
But before you could speak, Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low, even, laced with steel.
“Back off.”
Val raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward, arms still crossed but posture charged.
“She’s done everything you asked. She’s played her part, charmed half the inner circle, and kept her cover airtight—despite having to flirt with these smug bastards. So if there’s a problem with our progress, maybe it’s the shitty intel we were given. Not her.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even Val blinked, momentarily thrown. You stared at Bucky, something coiling tight in your chest. The protectiveness in his tone had been fierce. Unflinching, almost intimate.
He didn’t even look at you.
Just kept his gaze trained on the monitor, breathing steady.
Val’s expression shifted. She leaned back, mouth pursing.
“Fine,” she said after a beat. “You want to run interference for your partner? Go ahead. But get something, Barnes. I don’t care if both of you have to fuck your way through the entire guest list—I want names. Accounts. Routes. Do you hear me?”
“We’ll get it,” Bucky said flatly. “You’ll have it soon.”
The comms clicked off.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then, quietly, you murmured, “Thanks.”
He turned then—just slightly—enough for his eyes to meet yours. And the look there made your stomach drop.
He remembered.
You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. He remembered the night in the elevator—how close it had gotten.
Your back against the wall, his mouth inches from yours, his hand gripping your thigh like he couldn’t help it. He remembered the way your voice had trembled when he whispered in your ear, the way you’d touched him and how he hadn’t stopped you.
You didn’t answer. For a moment, you weren’t sure you could. The air between you had gone still, thick with something raw, unresolved, something too close to everything you were both trying to avoid.
“And, you’re not complicated,” he adds, so quiet you almost missed it.
You blinked. “What?”
He shook his head. “Forget it.”
“No.” You stood slowly, closing the space between you, the silk of your robe whispering against your thighs. “Say it again.”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t step back, but his whole body went still. That flicker of hesitation in his eyes, that crack of something hot and dangerous—it only pushed you forward.
“Say I’m not complicated. Say it’s all pretend,” you whispered, chin tilted up. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about it. About me.”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Don’t do this.”
“Why not?” you pressed. “You scared I’ll make you feel something?”
That was all it took.
Bucky crashed into you like a breaking dam, hands gripping your waist and the back of your neck as he kissed you like he was furious. His mouth claimed yours hard and hot, tongue pushing past your lips as he backed you toward the nearest wall.
You gasped into it, fisting the fabric of his shirt, barely keeping up as he devoured every breath like it belonged to him.
He broke away just long enough to rasp, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Then do it,” you hissed. “Stop pretending.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.
Your breath hitched as his hands gripped your hips, strong, purposeful, sliding up the curve of your waist. One sharp tug loosed the sash of your robe, and the silk fell open with a whisper. You hadn’t bothered with underwear underneath, and when his gaze dropped to your bare skin, he made a sound you’d never heard from him before, low, almost desperate.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down your arms and letting it pool at your feet. “Look at you.”
Then he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and leaned in.
The first stroke of his tongue was like setting fire to your nerves.
You gasped, one hand bracing against the wall behind you as his mouth latched onto your clit, no hesitation. He groaned into you, tongue flicking and circling before sliding lower, licking through your folds like he meant to memorize every inch. His grip tightened on your thigh, keeping you spread wide, open to him, helpless as he devoured you.
“Fuck—Bucky—”
Your voice cracked as he sucked harder, tongue pressing into you, he was relentless, obscene with how messy he got—spit and slick dripping down your thighs, his beard glistening, his fingers digging bruises into your hips to keep you steady. You were panting, shaking, already so close you could barely breathe.
He flattened his tongue and dragged it up slowly, groaning like he was addicted. “This pussy’s been mine all fucking week,” he said against you. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
You didn’t even get a response out, just a shattered moan as you came hard, thighs trembling, back arched off the wall as heat exploded through your core.
He didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking through it, until your legs threatened to give out and you were clawing at his shoulders to get away.
When he stood, his mouth was wet, his pupils blown wide. He grabbed your face and kissed you again—deep, filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth with the taste of you still fresh on his lips.
Then, rough and breathless, “Bed. Now.”
You stumbled to the mattress, dazed, still high from your orgasm. Bucky followed, shoving his pants down far enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the flushed tip leaking.
You moaned at the sight of it, spreading your legs for him.
He climbed over you and pressed the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it along your soaked slit.
“Goddamn, baby,” he growled. “You’re fucking dripping.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out. You cried out, the stretch perfect and brutal all at once.
“Fuuuck—”
“You kept pushing,” he rasped. “You knew what it’d do to me.”
“So stop holding back,” you whispered.
He snapped his hips forward.
You gasped, fingers clawing at his back as he started to move—hard, fast, deep, his cock slamming into you like he’d been dying for it. He fucked you like he wanted to ruin you, dragging you up the bed with every thrust, his hands gripping your thighs as he drove into you with mindless, brutal rhythm.
“Bucky—” you sobbed. “God—Bucky, I’m—”
“That’s it,” he gritted out. “Cum for me sweetheart, I wanna feel you.”
He reached down between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, matching the punishing pace of his thrusts. You came fast, harder than before—your body locking up, eyes rolling back as your orgasm ripped through you.
“Fuck—fuck—”
“Good girl,” he groaned, fucking you through it. “Taking it so fucking well.”
Your walls fluttered around him, soaking his cock, and he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering.
“I’m not gonna last,” he gritted, voice ragged. “You feel so fucking good—”
“Come inside,” you gasped. “I don’t care. I need it. Please—”
That was it.
Bucky slammed into you once, twice, then buried himself to the hilt with a raw, guttural groan as he came—hot and deep, his cock twitching inside you as he filled you completely.
He collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, his mouth pressed to your neck.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
Then, after a beat, he whispered, voice raw:
“This isn’t just a mission to me.”
You turned your head just enough to see his face, still close, still flushed with heat.
And you didn’t say a word.
Because for the first time since this mission started—you finally believed him.
You didn’t move and neither did he. The moment held, delicate and loaded, like a breath neither of you dared to let go.
The hours that followed passed in a kind of hush—not silent, but suspended.
Bucky didn’t pull away, not right away, he stayed close. His hand remained on your hip while your heartbeat slowed beneath his touch. You lay tangled together in the warm hush of the suite, moonlight pooling on the sheets, the ocean crashing far below like a distant pulse.
At some point, he brushed your cheek with his knuckles and murmured, “We should get some rest.”
You didn’t argue.
He pulled the duvet over you both, and you curled into his chest without hesitation. The lines between real and pretend had already blurred past recognition.
There was only the feel of his body next to yours. The weight of everything unsaid. The quiet terror that maybe this was temporary—a consequence of proximity, adrenaline, heat.
And yet, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady and close.
The next evening arrived with little warning.
You dressed in silence, but it wasn’t the silence from before. It wasn’t cold or stiff, it was charged, waiting. Your eyes met in the mirror as you adjusted the delicate straps of your black slip dress, and Bucky’s lingered just a second too long.
The secure tablet buzzed against the nightstand. You crossed the suite and tapped the screen, perching on the edge of the armchair as the brunette adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal shirt in the mirror.
“Copy,” you said quietly when the line connected. “We’ve got movement. Andrei’s going to be at the restaurant tonight. We’ll be there too, we need to get closer.”
Yelena came in first, her voice even but alert. “You think he’s testing you?”
“Feels like it,” Bucky said, stepping into view behind you.
“He initiated contact?” Ava asked.
“He did,” you confirmed. “This afternoon, said he was going to be at this dinner thing, told us to come.”
There was a pause. Then John chimed in. “You expecting Raskovic?”
“We don’t know yet,” you said. “But it’s possible. Andrei’s acting like someone’s watching him.”
“Then assume someone is,” Ava said flatly. “If Raskovic wants to get a read on you, he won’t make it obvious.”
“We’ll be careful,” Bucky said.
“We’ll scan the floor from our end,” Yelena added. “No chatter from the VIP suites yet, but Bob flagged some encrypted calls coming in from offshore.”
You met Bucky’s eyes for a moment before replying. “We’ll stay close, just keep eyes on the exits. If anything shifts—”
“We’re already listening,” Yelena cut in. “Stay sharp.”
Bucky ended the line with a quiet tap.
Silence fell again—not heavy, but loaded.
You stood, smoothing your palms down the sides of your black dress.
“Let’s go,” you said, voice steady.
He looked at you like he had something else to say.
But he didn’t.
He just nodded.
The restaurant shimmered like something out of a dream.
Carved teakwood latticework framed the walls, filtering the amber glow of chandeliers strung like starlight above velvet-covered tables.
It smelled of seared wagyu and truffle oil, the air humming with soft jazz and the faint clink of cutlery. Waitstaff in gold-threaded uniforms moved like dancers across the polished marble floors.
You sat across from Bucky in a secluded alcove, half-hidden behind lush tropical plants, a private view of the moonlit ocean beyond the arched glass doors.
Bucky looked unfairly good in that collared shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins in his flesh arm flexing as he sipped from a glass of Yamazaki.
He hadn’t said much, but his eyes had barely left you all night. Not with the way your leg crossed over the other and the way your lip wrapped around the rim of your tequila cocktail.
You hadn’t meant to torture him.
Not entirely.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he murmured finally, his voice quiet beneath the music, laced with something darker.
You sipped again. “So do you.”
His mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Just the smallest hint of tension breaking through.
That’s when the shadow fell over your table.
Andrei wore a custom-tailored suit in midnight navy, the lapel pinned with a gleaming insignia you didn’t recognise, some blend of family crest and blood-stained money. His cologne hit before his voice did, expensive, overwhelming, suffocating.
“You two make quite the pair,” he said, lifting a crystal glass of something dark and expensive. “Mind if I interrupt?”
Bucky’s jaw locked, but he said nothing.
You gestured smoothly to the empty seat beside you. “By all means.”
Andrei took it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My boss has noticed you,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Bucky like a predator scenting blood. “James and his beautiful bride.”
Bucky leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the chair behind you. He was projecting calm, but you felt the tension vibrating through him. His fingers ghosted over your bare shoulder, a subtle but unmistakable move. You didn’t move away.
Andrei continued. “He’s… curious. Interested in what you might offer. In what kinds of partnerships you and your husband are open to.” His lips curled. “So he’s invited you both to a private dinner. Just the four of us. Tomorrow night at the penthouse wing.”
“Four?” Bucky asked, voice edged in steel.
Andrei nodded. “Myself. You two. And Raskovic.”
The name landed like a gunshot.
Raskovic, the ghost in the mission file, the man they’d only seen from a distance, always flanked by guards or hidden behind reflective glass.
The boss.
The target.
You felt Bucky’s posture shift beside you, not outwardly, but enough. Enough to know he was already calculating, adjusting, preparing. His hand squeezed your shoulder just once, barely noticeable to anyone but you.
“Tell him we’d be honoured,” you said, smiling as you reached for Bucky’s hand and laced your fingers through his, projecting everything they expected of you. “We’ve been dying to meet the man pulling the strings.”
Andrei’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Good,” he said as he stood. “I’ll have a car sent.”
He left as swiftly as he came, disappearing into the velvet-draped crowd.
You stayed frozen for a moment, your fingers still threaded with Bucky’s under the candlelight. Then, slowly, you turned to look at him.
“This is it,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, like he wasn’t sure what came next.
But even then, you could tell—something had changed.
a/n: and that's chapter 4! i am halfway through proofreading chapter 5 and i'm so excited to have it posted! please remember to leave a comment or reblog, it keeps me motivated! thank you!
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, bucky lowkey manhandling you, possessiveness, angst, voyeurism (things happening in an elevator)
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 3.5k
author's note: yay to chapter 3! i hope this series has been good so far, please drop a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed it! lots of love for you guys and please stay safe out there!
series masterlist
The bathroom was cloaked in steam and rose-scented humidity, mirrors fogged around the edges as you tapped at your comms device.
“I swear to god, Lena, if he tells me to ‘stay close’ one more time—”
Yelena’s voice crackled to life, “Let me guess. He held your hand crossing the lobby? Put floaties on you for the pool?”
You snorted, pacing barefoot across the heated marble tiles. “He’s infuriating, it’s like he needs to babysit me. He is either hovering or micromanaging, like I haven’t survived six ops without him breathing down my neck.”
A beat of silence, then the wry twist of a smirk in Yelena’s voice. “Maybe he just wants to make sure you come back. Preferably with all limbs attached, preferably…you know, clothed.”
You stopped, frowning at your reflection through the fogged glass. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she said, far too innocently. “And if you ask me, the hovering means he cares, you know in his emotionally constipated way.”
Before you could argue, another voice broke through—deeper, rumbling, warm and a thick russian accent.
“Barnes just caring for you, little starfish.”
You blinked. “I—I don’t need him to.”
“Nyet,” Alexei replied. “But maybe you want him to.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Heat surged up your neck as you quickly muted the comm, the silence that followed thick with everything you didn’t want to think about.
You stared at yourself for a moment longer, then reached for the dress.
It was a crimson red, Yelena had picked it out for you, it was the kind of red that made men pray and women curse.The silk clung like a second skin, liquid and shining, wrapping around your hips and hugging the swell of your thighs with lethal precision.
The neckline dipped recklessly low, teasing the curve of your breasts with every breath you took. The straps were thin and delicate, threatening to fall if you so much as tilted the wrong way.
And paired with the stilettos that Ava had convinced you would complete the look, you looked like temptation incarnate. Every inch of you was deliberate. Calculated and weaponised.
The bathroom door creaked open.
He was standing by the window, half-turned away, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
You stopped.
The brunette was in a tailored button-down, the dark fabric clinging to his chest and shoulders like sin, sleeves rolled up just far enough to bare his forearm—thick and corded with muscle, veins rising beneath the skin in clean, practiced lines.
The shirt was tucked into black slacks that fit just a little too well, the cut precise, hugging his hips and thighs like they were custom-made for the mission of destroying your focus.
His hair was pushed back, strands falling just slightly out of place. The low golden light brushed along the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the dusting of stubble.
He looked carved from something old. Dangerous.
Then he turned and saw you.
The shift in his face was subtle, but devastating.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, like he was trying to memorise every curve, every exposed inch. They dropped to the hem of your dress, crawled back up to the neckline, and then higher, locking on your face with such intensity you swore you almost forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.
His jaw ticked and his hands flexed once at his sides.
For a long, aching beat, you both just stared at each other.
He was looking at you like he hated you.
God, he was looking at you like he wanted to fuck you against the nearest surface.
“You ready?” he asked, finally, his voice hoarse, rougher than it had been a moment ago.
You nodded, trying not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shirt clung to his chest.
His eyes dipped again, just for a second. They lingered at your chest, flicked down your legs, then snapped back to your mouth.
Your lips curled. “Try not to pop a vein.”
His brow lifted, unimpressed, but there was a glint there. Dark. Hungry. He stepped closer, brushing past you as he reached for the door.
“Try not to get killed tonight, sweetheart.”
You opened your mouth, probably to tell him to go to hell, but Ava’s voice broke in over comms before you could.
“ I heard Raskovic’s men will be there, armed and probably wired. Keep it clean guys.”
Your eyes didn’t leave Bucky’s.
“Got it. Thanks, Ava,” you replied, voice tight.
He held the door open, you walked through it, letting your shoulder brush his chest on the way out.
You didn’t look back.
But you felt the weight of his eyes burning into your spine the whole way down the hallway.
The walk down to the resort’s private club took less than five minutes, but it felt like descending into another world.
The air shifted as you passed through velvet-draped corridors and followed the curve of marble staircases carved into the side of the estate.
Dim lighting bathed the stone in soft amber, each step echoing faintly beneath your heels as Bucky walked beside you in silence, his shoulder brushing yours every few paces, intentional or not, you couldn’t tell.
Nestled on the lower level, built directly into the cliffside, the club revealed itself behind a pair of mirrored double doors and arched golden trim. It wasn’t flashy, not in the way lesser venues tried to be.
No, this place oozed old money, the kind of place where every detail whispered power instead of shouting it. Champagne-colored lighting glinted softly off crystal decanters and dark velvet walls.
The scent of pine, aged whiskey, and something spiced, cigar smoke, maybe hung in the air. It was gorgeous, and every part of it screamed exclusive.
When you and Bucky stepped inside, you didn’t need to announce yourselves, the staff knew exactly who you were supposed to be.
“Mr and Mrs Barnes,” the host greeted smoothly, his smile polished, professional. “Welcome. We hope your honeymoon’s been memorable.”
You gave him a small, practiced smile, nothing showy. Just enough to charm. Bucky offered a silent nod, hands clasped casually behind his back like he hadn’t just spent the ride down brooding beside you in silence.
The host turned with a gesture, leading you into the heart of the space. Your heels tapped rhythmically against polished black stone, Bucky’s gait slow and deliberate at your side.
“(y/n)!” a voice called, light and champagne-bubbly over the music.
Layna drifted toward you, graceful as ever, her gown a wash of shimmery gold that hugged her figure like liquid wealth. Her smile was broad and curated, her cheeks perfectly blushed, every inch of her styled for the spotlight.
“You look incredible,” she said brightly, looping her arm through yours with practiced familiarity.
Behind her trailed Fred, tall and composed, eyes flicking toward Bucky with a respectful nod.
“James,” he said, reaching for a handshake. “The gentlemen’s lounge is just through the terrace. Cigars, vintage reserves, poker tables. Worth a visit.”
Bucky’s gaze shifted to you, a silent question in the glance. You smiled, letting your fingers trail lightly along his sleeve, not for show, but a subtle signal, something reassuring in its intimacy.
“Go on,” you said, keeping your voice low and playful. “I’ll grab a drink with Layna.”
His jaw tightened at that, not out of disapproval but out of something else. Reluctance, a hint of hesitation. He nodded once.
“Call me if you need anything.”
This time, you didn’t roll your eyes. You just let the smirk tug at your lips. “Always do, babe”
As Bucky followed Fred across the room toward the terrace lounge, you and Layna made your way to the bar. It was tucked beneath a curved alcove of smoked glass and carved wood, with backlit shelves of rare liquors glowing like gemstones.
You slid onto a plush velvet stool, legs crossing with ease, letting the hem of your dress slip up just an inch more.
You ordered something sharp, whiskey, no ice, and answered Layna’s questions with a perfect blend of giggles and detachment.
The honeymoon’s been “magical.”
The views? “Incredible.”
James? “Everything I wanted and then some.”
Every word was laced with just enough breathiness to be believable, every glance down at your glass is calculated to seem casual. And yet, underneath it all, your eyes kept scanning the room.
“I’ll be right back,” Layna said at last, giving your arm a light squeeze. “Forgot my shawl upstairs.”
You gave her a soft nod, swirling your drink.
And that was when you felt it.
The shift in the air. A quiet tension, like silk brushing against bare skin. You sensed him before you saw him, the press of someone standing just a little too close behind you, his gaze dragging across the bare skin of your shoulders like heat.
“Excuse me,” a voice said—low, smooth, perfectly cultured. “Are you alone?”
You turned slowly.
He looked like the kind of man sculptors tried to capture and never quite got right. Tall, lean, and dressed in a dark charcoal suit tailored to sin, the open collar of his black shirt revealed just enough to tease a hidden tattoo.
His features were sharp, aristocratic, eyes like polished silver, mouth curled into a smirk that didn’t quite meet the eyes. Clean-shaven. Too clean. Handsome in the kind of way that made your instincts flare with warning.
“Depends,” you replied, your lips curling. “Who’s asking?”
“Andrei,” he said, offering a hand. “A friend, if you want one.”
His palm was warm when you slide your fingers into his. Confident. Controlled. The grip of someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t fumble.
“(y/n),” you said smoothly, watching him. “You always open with lines that outdated?”
He chuckled. “Only when they work.”
You were about to volley something back when your earpiece buzzed softly.
John’s voice filtered in, low and clipped. “Did a background check. Name’s Andrei Petrov. Raskovic’s right hand. He’s the guy you need to get chummy with.”
And then, rougher, unmistakable—Bucky, “I’m coming.”
A pause. Then Yelena’s voice, calm and curt. “She’s got this, Barnes. Stay with Fred. Raskovic might show anytime, we need your eyes on the floor.”
And finally, Fred’s voice, somewhere distant: “Come on! Shots?”
Then silence.
Andrei leaned closer, voice brushing against the shell of your ear like smoke. “So... what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”
You tilted your head, sipping your drink. “Celebrating. First week of marriage.”
He hummed low. “To a man who lets you out of his sight? Foolish.”
You smiled slow, dragging your gaze across his jawline. “Maybe I’m the dangerous one.”
His laugh was rich, almost charming— the kind of laugh meant to distract. “Dance with me.”
You hesitated. Not long.
Just enough.
Your eyes flicked to the terrace, but Bucky hadn’t reappeared.
“Why not?”
You let Andrei take your hand.
The dance floor was bathed in shadows and refracted light, the music heavy and primal, pulsing through your chest. Andrei pulled you close—his hand settling just low enough on your back to test the boundary.
His steps were fluid, confident. Like he knew how to lead people, how to make them follow. You let your body follow his rhythm, eyes half-lidded, breath controlled.
“Your husband...” he murmured against your ear, “does he know what you’re doing right now?”
“He trusts me,” you replied, cool and unbothered. “He knows I can handle myself.”
Andrei’s hand slid lower. Over the curve of your ass. Testing. Tasting your reaction.
You didn’t flinch. You leaned in closer.
“Does your boss trust you this much?”
His eyes flickered—a crack in the mask, just for a moment. Intrigued. Interested.
And then—
A guard appeared beside him. His expression was sharp. Words in russian, fast and clipped, and you understood every word.
Andrei’s smile vanished.
“Босс хочет тебя. Перестань возиться со шлюхой.”
“The boss wants you. Stop fucking around with that whore.”
Just like that, Andrei dropped your hand and stepped back.
His tone changed instantly. “Until next time. Don’t wander too far.”
And then he was gone.
You exhaled, pulse still unsteady, breath coming slow and tight.
But Bucky was nowhere in sight.
The club noise faded as you moved deeper into the resort halls, heels echoing against polished stone. The cold quiet wrapped around you like static, but your heart hadn’t settled—not even close.
Andrei’s touch still lingered on your skin, ghosting along the curve of your back like smoke that wouldn’t lift.
You hadn’t gotten much before he was yanked away.
But it had been something. Worth it in your books.
You pressed the elevator button with more force than necessary, jaw tight. The whiskey still buzzed faintly through your veins, but it was nothing compared to the slow-burning heat in your chest.
You weren’t sure if it was frustration or adrenaline.
There has been nothing from Bucky, no ping on the comms, no backup, no rough voice in your ear telling you to abort.
He’d stayed with Fred, stayed with the boys.
He hadn’t come.
The elevator doors slid open.
You stepped inside, lips pursed, stabbing the button for your floor. The doors began to slide shut—
—and a gloved hand shot through the gap, forcing them open.
Bucky stepped inside like a storm on two legs.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t look at you.
Not at first.
But you felt it.
The tension rolled off of him in waves. His jaw was clenched, his breath sharp. Hands curled into fists at his sides like he was holding something back.
“For fuck’s sake, (y/n),” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “Why the hell would you do that?”
You blinked, adrenaline still pumping. “Do what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes cut to you, sharp and furious. “Dancing with him. Letting his hands all over you. You knew who he was—”
“I was trying to get information,” you shot back, stepping toward him. “It was working—”
His voice dropped. “And your plan was what? Fuck it out of him?”
The air crackled.
You stared at him, breath catching. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he snarled. He stepped into your space, the force of him pinning you without even touching. “You think you’re subtle? You think I didn’t see the way he was looking at you? The way you let him—”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snapped. “That was the mission. That’s what we’re here for.”
“That’s not what that was,” he hissed. “And you fucking know it.”
The elevator kept climbing, but the floor might as well have dropped out from beneath you. The space shrank, every breath shallow, every movement taut.
And then—he snapped.
Bucky surged forward and grabbed you, spinning you and slamming your back against the mirrored wall with a thud that rattled the glass. Before you could curse him out, his mouth was on yours.
He kissed you like he’d waited all fucking night for permission—like he couldn’t hold it back another second. His tongue slid into your mouth, hot and demanding, his teeth grazing your lip just enough to sting. You moaned into him, hands flying to his chest, gripping his shirt as you arched against him.
One of his hands tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you gasp. The other slid down, over your ass, up under the hem of your dress, fingers digging into the bare curve of your thigh as he shoved your leg up and wrapped it around his waist.
You ground against him, breathless, desperate, needing more.
His thigh pressed between yours, firm and solid and right where you needed it.
You rocked against him.
“Every fucking time you argue with me,” he growled against your mouth, “all I want to do is pin you like this and shut you up.”
“Then shut me up,” you gasped, nails raking down his chest.
He did.
His mouth crushed yours again, more brutal this time. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, then slid lower, down your jaw, down your neck, biting at the soft space beneath your ear. You shuddered, fingers gripping his shoulders as his hands roamed.
He cupped your breast through the silk, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled beneath the fabric. You cried out, hips rolling shamelessly against the bulge straining against his zipper.
“Fuck,” he muttered, breath ragged. “This dress—this fucking dress—”
His hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingers trailing over your bare skin, tracing the dip of your spine, the swell of your hip.
You felt him. Hard. Hot. Pressed tight against you.
You wanted to tear the rest of your dress off. You wanted to let him fuck you here, against the glass, in this box hurtling up the side of a mountain.
But then, he froze.
Just like that.
Bucky tore himself away, staggering back like he’d just realized what he’d done.
“I can’t,” he rasped, eyes wide, chest heaving.
You stared at him.
Your dress was rumpled, your lip swollen, your thighs still trembling. “What?”
“I can’t,” he said again, softer. He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back until his spine hit the wall. He looked fucking wrecked. Wild eyes. Flushed skin. Hands shaking.
“This isn’t real,” he murmured, eyes locked somewhere between your legs and your face. “None of this is. And if we let it feel real—”
His voice cracked.
You stepped forward, barely breathing. “Too late.”
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened, and the cold air hit you like a slap.
You pushed past him, jaw clenched, dress twisted high on your thighs. He reached for your wrist—but you pulled away.
“(y/n)—”
“I need air,” he muttered, staring past you like he was already somewhere else.
You stopped, just for a second. Just long enough to turn your head.
“Then breathe,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to wait while you figure it out.”
And then you left.
You didn’t look back.
Didn’t stop until the door to your suite slammed shut behind you, the echo vibrating through your bones.
You were a mess.
Frustrated, horny, and god, you were pissed, still aching where his hands had been, still tasting him on your tongue.
And so, so done pretending it didn’t mean anything.
Somewhere deeper in the resort, past security checkpoints and beyond velvet ropes no guest ever saw, the world shifted.
No more music, laughter or lights warm enough to be inviting.
Only polished stone, muted shadows, and the quiet hiss of air systems pushing filtered silence through the walls.
The lounge in the VIP wing wasn’t for entertainment, inside, two men stood beneath the dim amber glow of a hanging chandelier.
Cigar smoke laced the air, curling upward in thin spirals that twisted and vanished into the high, vaulted ceiling.
Everything smelled expensive, aged tobacco, rare liquor, gun oil faintly buried in the leather.
Andrei leaned against the wall, casual in appearance but sharp-eyed, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a half-lit cigar, thumb flicking it slowly as his gaze stayed fixed on the mirrored panel across the room.
The panel looked like a decorative installation, with smoked glass inset into the wall, but it wasn’t. Behind it, a discreet camera feed displayed the club below in crisp, colourless detail.
The dance floor was mostly cleared now, the lights dimmed, only a few couples left swaying to the after-midnight tempo.
But Andrei wasn’t watching them.
He was watching the absence.
“They’re good,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet. “Too good.”
Across from him, Raskovic moved with glacial ease, pouring vodka into a cut-crystal glass, the sound of the liquid unnervingly loud in the silence.
His hands were thick, callused, the kind of hands that had held power and destroyed it. Gold rings gleamed on every finger, the diamonds embedded in his pinky catching the overhead light.
He didn’t look at Andrei when he responded.
“You’re suspicious.”
Andrei took a long drag from the cigar. Exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’ve seen agents wear tighter covers. Pretend harder. But there’s something off. Their body language—”
“You think they’re not married?” Raskovic interrupted, still without looking.
“I think they’re not who they say they are.”
Now the Russian did look at him.
He turned, slowly, the crystal glass raised to his lips as his eyes locked onto Andrei’s. He sipped before setting the drink down with precision on the lacquered bar.
A pause stretched out between them like the moment between a trigger pull and the echo.
“Find out more,” he said at last, the words soft. Measured.
Then, in a voice like gravel dragged through ice, he added,
“Если они лгут, я прикажу заживо сдеру с них кожу."
“I will have them skinned alive if they are liars.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
The threat sat between them like a loaded weapon. Final and absolute.
Andrei nodded once, solemnly, then turned back to the feed. His eyes lingered on the last image before the camera cut, the red dress disappearing into the elevator, followed seconds later by a man in a black button-down who didn’t look like he was thinking clearly anymore.
Above them, somewhere in the dark belly of the resort, two agents had just crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.
pairing: foreman!Bucky Barnes x ranch owner!Reader
summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.
word count: 19.8 k (longest one posted yet omg)
warnings: +18 MNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), secret affair, angst, mutual pining, class difference, miscommunication, power imbalance, harassment, attempted intimidation, physical violence, alcohol use, happy ending. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any grammar mistake or mystipo
a/n: as some of you may or may not know, I'm from Mexico so that means I grew up watching telenovelas full of drama and all of that, this idea came to me when I suddenly saw a picture in pinterest and my mind started thinking a lot of what if? I hope you enjoy it! dividers by @saradika-graphics & beta read by my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & Denice ꨄ︎
read in AO3
The sun hasn't cleared the horizon when you step onto the porch, coffee mug in hand. The ranch is already awake. You can hear the low murmur of cattle in the distance, the sharp whistle of someone calling the dogs, the creak of the barn doors and machinery coming to life. This was your ranch. Your responsibility. Your pride.
You'd grown up with dirt under your fingernails and hay in your hair, your father's shadow stretching long over every fence post and pasture. He'd raised you to run this place since you were little. Mainly, because you were his only child, but also because he knew you would take care of the land accordingly.
Now the shadow is yours and you wear it well.
"Morning, wildfire."
The voice comes from near the equipment barn. You don't have to look to know who it is—you'd recognize that low rasp anywhere, the way he says that nickname with practiced ease.
Bucky Barnes leans against the fence, one boot propped on the lower rail, his work shirt already dusty though the day's barely started. His dark hair is combed back, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his blue eyes track you as you descend the porch steps.
"Morning," you say, keeping your voice level professional. "Crew's here?"
"Most of 'em. Sanchez is running late—truck trouble. I sent Pete to pick him up." He straightens, falling into step beside you as you head toward the barn. "We're rotating the herd to the north pasture today. Fencing's solid, checked it myself yesterday."
"Good." You pause at the barn entrance, turning to face him. "What about the irrigation system? Johnson said there was a blockage in sector three."
"Already working on it, it should be cleared by noon."
You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. This is how it always goes—Bucky anticipating problems before you have to ask, handling details before they become emergencies. Your father had hired his dad twenty years ago, and when the old man got sick, Bucky stepped into the role like he'd be born for it.
Which in a way, he had been.
"You're thinking too hard," Bucky says, his mouth quirking. "I can see those gears turning."
"Well, I'm always thinking. Kind of part of my job."
"Yeah, well." He shifts his weight and for a moment, something flickers across his face, something soft and unguarded… you blink and it's gone. "Try to not hurt yourself."
You shoot him a look that would wilt lesser man. He just grins and tips an imaginary hat before heading toward the equipment barn, leaving you with your coffee and the creeping warmth in your chest that you refuse to name.
By midday, you're elbow-deep in the business of running the ranch, fielding calls from suppliers, reviewing feed costs, checking the schedule for the county livestock show next month. Your office is a converted tack room in the main barn, all exposed beams and the faint smell of leather and hay. You liked it here. It feels real in a way that glass and steel never could.
You're on the phone with the feed supplier, arguing about bulk pricing, when Bucky appears in the doorway. He doesn't interrupt, just leans against the frame and waits, and you're hyper-aware of his presence in a way that's become second nature over the past— how long has it been? Ten months since that first kiss in the summer heat, all sweat and impulse and that kid of chemistry that burns.
Ten months of this thing between you that has no name, no rules, no promises.
You finish the call—a victory, 10% discount— and set the phone down. "What's up?"
"Got a situation with the new colt. He's favoring his left foreleg, might be nothing, but I want you to take a look before I call the vet."
You're already standing. "Show me."
The colt is in the training pen, a gorgeous chestnut with a white blaze and too much attitude for his own good. You'd purchased him at auction three months ago, saw the potential in his bloodline and the fire in his eyes. Now he's limping, and your stomach tightens.
Bucky's already in the pen, speaking low and calm as he approaches the colt. The animal sidesteps, nervous, but Bucky doesn't rush. Just keeps talking, that steady murmur that works in horses and people alike, until the colt allows him close enough to run a hand down his neck.
"Easy, buddy."
You slip through the fence rails and approach from the other side, moving slow. The colt's ears flick toward you, but he doesn't spook. Between you and Bucky, he's boxed in by a kind of trust, and after a moment he settles.
"I've got his head," Bucky says. "Check the leg."
You crouch, running your hands carefully down the colt's foreleg, feeling for heat, for swelling, for anything out of place. The colt shifts but doesn't pull away, and you can feel Bucky's presence above you, solid and grounding.
"There," you murmur, fingers finding a tender spot just above the fetlock. "Minor strain, I think… it's not serious, but he needs rest."
"Figured." Bucky's voice is close—closer than you expected. You glance up and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "You want me to call Doc Johnson anyway?"
"Yeah, better be safe than sorry." You straighten, brushing dirt from your jeans. "Good catch."
"Just doing my job."
"You do it well."
Something passes between you— a look, a breath, the weight of words unsaid. The colt stamps impatiently, breaking the moment, and you step back.
"I'll handle the rest of the rotations," Bucky says, his tone careful and neutral. "You've got that conference call at two, right?"
You'd forgotten. "Shit, yeah. Thanks."
"Anytime, wildfire."
There it is again. That nickname. The way he says it—affectionate and just a little bit awed, like you're something bright and untamed and worth admiring from a careful distance.
You walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what it means, why he started calling you that. If it means what you think it might.
That evenings you stop by Miller's feed store in town to pick up supplements. Bucky's with you—he'd been checking on a part for the tractor at the hardware store next door.
Old Miller's behind the counter, and his eyes light up when he sees you.
"Well if it isn't the lady rancher herself," he says warmly. "How's business?"
"Good, been busy lately." You hand him your list. "Need these loaded up when you get a chance."
"You got it," he glances at Bucky. "And how's your foreman treating you" Working you too hard?"
It's a joke, everyone knows you're the one who sets the pace, but you see Bucky's jaw tighten slightly.
"Bucky runs a tight ship," you say. "Couldn't do it without him."
"That's good, that's good. 'Course your daddy always said the Barnes men were the best workers in the county." Miller starts pulling items from shelves. "You keeping busy, Bucky? Staying out of trouble?"
"Yes, sir" Bucky says evenly.
"Good man," Miller chuckles. "Though I gotta say, at your age, figured you'd have your own spread by now. Following in your old man's footsteps is fine work, but eventually a man wants something of his own, you know? Something to build on."
The words are casual, friendly even, but you see Bucky's shoulders stiffen.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," Bucky says, but there's an edge to it.
You pay quickly and get out of there, but the damage is done. Bucky's quiet on the drive back, staring out the window with that same look from earlier.
"Miller's an old gossip," you say. "Don't listen to him."
"He's not wrong though." Bucky's voice is carefully neutral. "I'm thirty-two and I don't own anything but a truck and a cabin on someone else's land."
"You own half the knowledge that keeps this ranch running," you counter. "That's worth more than—"
"It's not the same," he cuts you off gently. "And you know it."
You don't know what to say to that. Because in the world you both live in—where land equals legacy and property equals status— maybe he has a point.
But it doesn't make it right.
By the time the crew clocks out, the sky is bruising purple and gold, the heat of the day giving way to the cool promise of night. You make your rounds, checking that everything's secured, the animals settled, the equipment stored. It's a ritual, this final sweep and you always find peace in it.
You're in the main barn, running through inventory counts one last time, when you hear footsteps behind you.
You don't turn around. "Thought you left already."
"Had some things to finish." Bucky's voice is low in a way that sends heat curling through your belly. "Saw your truck was still here, figured you were doing your obsessive end-of-day check."
"It's not obsessive, it's thorough."
"Right." He's closer now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and hay and something uniquely Bucky that makes you want to turn around and close the distance, and— "You done?" he asks and there's an edge to his voice that makes your pulse quicken.
You set down the clipboard and turn to face him.
He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and streaked with dust, hair falling loose from its tie. There's smudge of grease on his jaw and his eyes are dark in the dim light of the barn, and you know this look. Know what comes next.
"Yeah," you say, your voice already dropping to something lower. "I'm done."
The space between you evaporates. You don't know who moves first—maybe it doesn't matter. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make you gasp, and your fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer. Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding, and you open for him immediately.
God, you'll never get tired of kissing him. The way he tastes like coffee and the mint he chews when he's working, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the way he kisses like he's starving for you.
His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, lifting, and suddenly your feet aren't touching the ground anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through layers of denim, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, walking you backward "You feel—"
"Don't talk," you manage, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Just—"
Your back hits the wall of the tack room and he pins you there with his hips, grinding against you making your head fall back and desperate sounds tear from your throat. His mouth moves to your neck, teeth and tongue and the kind of rough attention that you crave. Your hands are already fumbling with his belt, impatient, needing him out of these fucking clothes.
"Wildfire," he murmurs against your throat, and the nickname sounds different now. "Let me—"
He sets you down just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, his flannel following seconds later. Then his hands are on your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs.
"Off," you demand, reaching behind yourself to unhook it, and he helps, tossing it aside before his mouth replaces his hands.
The first pull of his lips around your nipple makes your knees buckle, makes you grab his hair to stay upright. He works you with his mouth—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his hands work open the button of your jeans. You're already shoving them down your hips, kicking off your boots in a graceless rush, and then you're standing there in nothing but your underwear, while he's still mostly dressed.
"Not fair," you gasp and he pulls back just enough to flash you a wicked grin before dropping to his knees. Oh. "Bucky—"
"Let me," he says again, and this time it's not a question. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear, and when he leans forward and presses his mouth against you through the fabric, you nearly come apart right there.
"Jesus Christ," you manage, fingers tightening in his hair as he mouths at you, the friction not nearly enough. "Stop teasing."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags your underwear down, helping you step out of them, and then he's right there, face level with your cunt, looking up at you like you're something sacred.
"You're so fucking wet already," he murmurs and then his tongue is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.
He eats you out like it's his religion—long, slow strokes of his tongue followed by focused attention on your clit that makes you shake. Your fingers are fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and he takes it all, groaning like your pleasure is his, like this is what he needs.
When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out his name.
"That's it," he encourages, voice muffled against you. "Let me hear you, wildfire. Let me—"
The orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, and you come with his name on your lips and your legs shaking and his fingers still working inside you, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling.
He pulls back, mouth glistening, and the look on his face is pure hunger.
"I need you," you manage, still catching your breath. "Now."
He's on his feet in seconds, shedding his jeans and boxer in quick, efficient movements, and then he's sitting on the old wooden bench and you're straddling him, lining him up, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion that makes you both groan.
He feels so good, thick and hard and perfectly filling, the stretch of him always just on the edge of too much in the best possible way.
"Christ," Bucky grits out, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're fucking perfect."
You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that works, and his head falls back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw clenched. You lean forward and bite the tendon in his neck, and his hips buck up involuntarily.
"Harder," you demand against his skin. "Don't hold back."
His hands tighten on your hips and he starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements, and the angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You brace your hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "You look so beautiful like this, taking what you need from me—"
"Bucky," you gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. "I'm—"
"I know, wildfire, I can feel that pretty cunt of you squeezing me so tight…" His other hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. "There you go, come for me wildfire. Wanna feel you come on my cock."
His touch and relentless thrust sends you over the edge and the orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him. You can hear him curse as he follows you over, spilling inside you with your name broken on his lips.
For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lay down breathing, tangled together in the half-dark of the barn, the smell of hay and sex and the summer breeze in the air, your bodies still joined, hearts pounding against each other.
Then—and this is different, this is new—Bucky doesn't pull away immediately.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, and your head finds the curve of his shoulder like it was made to rest there. His hand slides up yous spine, tracing patterns on your bare back, and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.
That wasn't part of your routine. The sex? Yes. The intensity? Definitely. But this tenderness, this soft aftermath… that was new territory.
"Hey," you say quietly, not moving from where you're tucked against him.
"Mm?"
"You okay?"
He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the stray strands absentmindedly.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds strange. "Yeah, I'm just… catching my breath."
You pull back just enough to look at him, and what you see in his face makes your chest tighten. There's something unguarded there, something raw and almost frightened, like he's said too much, shown to much.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for a second you think he's going to say something important, something that will change the shape of this thing between you.
But then he blinks and the moment fractures.
He lifts you gently, helping you off him, and you both reach for your clothes in a silence that feels heavier than before. You watch him dress—jeans first, then his shirt, fingers working the buttons with a focus that seems excessive for such a simple task. He doesn't glance at you once.
"Same time tomorrow?" You ask, trying to sound casual, trying to rebuild the easy rhythm that's kept this simple for ten months.
He stills, shirt half-buttoned, and for a long moment he doesn't answer.
When he finally looks at you, there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Something that looks like longing and resignation all tangled together.
"Yeah, sure."
Not "same time, wildfire" with that hint of warmth. Just "yeah, sure". Like you're asking him to check the fences, not meet you here tomorrow night.
He finishes dressing in silence, and you pull on your own clothes, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When you're both decent again, he moves toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn't turn around.
"You know Miller's not wrong," he says quietly. "About… a man wanting something of his own."
Your stomach drops. "Bucky—"
"I'm just the foreman," he continues, still not looking at you. "Always will be. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's just how it is."
"That's not—you're more than—"
"Goodnight, wildfire."
The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth now. Distant like he's already pulling away.
Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and you're left in the tack room, fully dressed now but somehow feeling more exposed than when you were naked.
You sink onto the bench, hand drifting to where his thumb had traced patterns on your back, and Miller's words echo in your head.
Eventually a man wants something of his own.
And Bucky's response: I'm just a foreman, always will be.
Like that's all he'll ever be. Like that's all he thinks he's worth. Like loving you—if that's what this is— means settling for scraps instead of building something real.
The thought settles in your chest like a stone, and you realize with creeping dread that something's changed. And if Bucky's convinced himself he's not good enough, that he can't give you what you deserve because he doesn't own land or have money or status… you don't know how to fight that. Or if he'll even let you.
The first sign that something's wrong comes three days after that night in the tack room. You're going over breeding schedules when Bucky comes in to report on the north pasture rotation. He's all business, standing near the door instead of leaning against the frame like usual, keeps his eyes on the clipboard in his hand.
"Rotation's complete," he says. "Moved the last of the herd this morning without issues."
"Good," you wait for more—the usual back and forth, the easy conversation that filled spaces between work tasks, but he just nods.
"Need anything else?" He asks instead.
You, you want to say. I need you to look at me like you did three nights ago. I need you to stop acting like a stranger.
"No," you say instead. "That's all."
He's gone before you can figure out how to ask what's wrong.
Within the days, things get worse.
Bucky starts sending Pete or Sanchez to give you reports instead of coming himself. When you do see him, he's never alone; he's always with the crew, always busy, always with a reason he can't try for long. The nickname disappears entirely. Now he calls you by your name, said in a tone so professional it feels like a reprimand.
Meals with the crew become exercises in studied avoidance. He sits at the opposite end of the table, talks to everyone but you and leaves as soon as he's done eating.
The nights are the worst. You wait in the barn like always, telling yourself you're just finishing paperwork, but he doesn't come. Not that night,not the next, not the one after that.
On the fifth night, you stop waiting.
On the sixth day, you corner him in the equipment barn.
"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.
He doesn't look up from the harness he's mending. "Kind of busy."
"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing's going on, just work."
"That's bullshit," you move closer and he shifts away and the retreat stings. "You've been avoiding me for almost a week, you won't look at me, won't talk to me—"
"I talk to you every day, about work."
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
His jaw tightens. "Don't know what else you expect from me."
"I want you to tell me what changed!" Your voice rises despite yourself. "I want you to tell me why you're acting like—like we're nothing to each other."
"We're not nothing." He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so carefully blank it makes your chest ache. "You're my boss, I'm your foreman, that's what we are."
"That's not— we're more than that. You know we are."
"Are we?" He sets down the harness, standing up. "Or was it just convenient? You scratch an itch, I scratch an itch, nobody has to call it anything more?"
The words hit like a slap.
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" His voice is even, controlled, and somehow makes it worse than if he was yelling. "Been thinking about it, about what this is, and maybe Miller was right, maybe it's time I figure out what I want instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Instead of this."
"Instead of me, you mean."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe— but it's gone too fast to be sure.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." You're trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "If you want to end this, Bucky, just say it. Don't make up excuses about figuring out what you want."
"I'm to making excuses." His hands clench at his sides. "You're running a multi-million dollar operation, you're smart, successful and I'm just—"
"Stop." You know where this is going and you can't stand to hear it. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
"I'm the hired help," he says anyway. "That's the reality, and maybe it;s time we both stopped pretending it's anything else."
You laugh, but it's an ugly sound. "Is that really what you think you are to me? After everything we—"
"After everything, that's still what I am." His voice is flat. "That's all I'll ever be."
You stare at him, at this man you've known for years, loved for months even if you haven't said it out loud… and you don't recognize the stranger looking back at you.
"You're a coward," you say quietly.
He flinches. "Maybe I am."
"This isn't about what you are, this is about you being too scared to—"
"I need to finish this repair," he cuts you off, turning back to the harness. "Was there something work-related that you needed?"
The dismissal is clear and absolute.
You leave before he can see you cry.
The Hillside County Livestock Show is your least favorite event of the year, and that's saying something considering you spend most of your life covered in dust and dealing with literal bullshit. But there's something about the forced socializing, the political maneuvering disguised as friendly conversation, the way everyone sizes up everyone else's cattle like they're comparing dick sizes—it grates.
Still, you go. Because your ranch has a reputation to maintain, and because your breeding program produces some of the best cattle in three counties, and because your father never missed a year and neither will you.
You're standing near the action ring, catalog in hand, watching a decent Angus heifer go for more than she's worth, when you feel someone approach from your left.
"Impressive animal," a voice says. Deep, smooth, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Though I'd say she's overvalued by at least fifteen percent, maybe is some sentimental bidding."
You glance over. The man beside you is older, mid forties probably, with silver threading through dark hair and a smile that has probably charmed plenty of people. Expensive boots, custom shirt, a watch that costs more than most people's trucks. Everything about him screams money.
"Sentimental bidding keeps the market interesting," you reply neutrally, turning back to the ring. "Besides, she's got excellent bloodlines, she'll be worth the premium to the right buyer."
"Spoken like someone who knows her stock," he extends a hand. "My name is Clayton Sheridan, I just purchased the Meadow brook Ranch, east of your property."
So this was your new neighbor. You'd heard someone bought old man Peterson's spread after he retired to Arizona, but you hadn't paid much attention to the details.
You shake his hand briefly. "Welcome to the area."
"Thank you, I've heard impressive things about your operation, fastest-growing herd in the county, certification for quality genetics…" His hand lingers a moment too long before you pull away. "It's rare to see a woman running a ranch this size… and running it so well."
There it is. There it's the compliment wrapped in condescension, the implication you're an exception rather than simply capable.
"My father raised me for it," you say, voice cool. "Gender doesn't have much to do with whether you can read a market or manage a land."
"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't falter. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, just… admiration. It must keep you very busy, handling everything by yourself."
"I have an excellent crew."
"Ah yes, your foreman Barnes, isn't it? Son of your father's foreman?" Something in his tone makes your jaw tighten. "Lucky to have someone who knows the place so well, family legacy and all that."
You're trying to formulate a response that's polite but firm when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky, standing near the equipment displays about thirty feet away, his attention locked on you and Clayton with an expression you can't quite read.
Even from there, you can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Excuse me," you say to Clayton, not waiting for a response before you start walking toward Bucky.
But by the time you navigate through the crowd, he's already gone.
You get home from the show late, exhausted and frustrated. The house is dark and empty, and you should go to bed, but instead you find yourself walking to the stables.
Copper's in his usual stall, the big bay gelding lifting his head when you approach. Twenty-two now, long retired, but still your father's horse.
"Hey, old man," you murmur, letting yourself in. He presses his nose into your palm, warm and familiar, and you lean your forehead against his neck. "Long day."
He huffs softly, patient like always.
You're running your hand down his shoulder when you hear footsteps.
"Thought I saw the lights on."
Bucky's in the stable entrance, hands in his pockets.
"Couldn't sleep," you say.
"Yeah, me neither." He shifts his weight. "How's old Copper doing?"
"Good, little stiff in the mornings." You stroke the horse's neck. "I should take him out to pasture more."
"I can do it tomorrow if you want," Bucky offers quietly. "Give him a good walk, let him stretch his legs."
Something in your chest aches at the offer. Even with all this distance between you, he's still thinking about what you need.
"You don't have to."
"I know," he takes a step closer. "But Copper's important to you."
"My dad's horse," you say quietly. "He was the first horse I rode."
"I know," his voice is gentle. "I remember."
For a moment, the walls between you feel thinner. Like maybe you could reach across this space, say what needs saying. Then Copper shifts, and Bucky clears his throat.
"I should let you finish up. Just wanted to check you were okay."
"I'm fine."
It's obviously a lie, but he doesn't call you on it.
"Goodnight, wildfire," he says softly, and then he's gone.
"He still cares," you tell the horse. "He wouldn't check on me if he didn't, right?"
Copper just snorts and goes back to his hay.
You stay a while longer, taking comfort in the familiar routine of checking water, running your hands over Copper's legs to make sure he's sound, whispering all the things you can't say to Buck into the horse's patient ear.
When you finally head back to the house, you see Bucky's cabin light is still on.
Neither of you is sleeping tonight.
Clayton Sheridan doesn't understand the concept of boundaries, as you discover the next two weeks.
The flowers arrive first, expensive arrangements delivered to your door with cards that are just on the edge of appropriate.
Looking forward to being neighbors.
Thinking of you.
You throw most of them away.
Then, he starts showing up: at the feed store when you're picking up supplies, at the diner where you grab Saturday breakfast, at the county planning meeting where you're discussing water management.
"What a coincidence," he says every time, with that practiced smile.
It's not a coincidence and you both know it, but he keeps playing his game.
The gifts escalate: wine, a leather portfolio with your ranch name embossed, an invitation to some charity gala in the city, hand-delivered.
"I think we'd make quite an impression together," Clayton says when he drops off the invitation. "Power couple of the ranching community."
You haven't even said yes to coffee.
"I'll think about it," you answer, because outright rejection seems to make him more persistent.
Through it all, Bucky gets quieter, more distant. Like he's disappearing piece by piece.
You catch him watching sometimes— watching Clayton talk to you, watching the gifts arrive, watching you navigate the attention with gritted-teeth politeness. And every time, his expression is the same: resigned, like he's watching something inevitable play out.
Like he's already decided how this story ends.
Three weeks into Clayton's courtship, you're in the barn doing evening checks when Bucky appears in the doorway. Your heart jumps at the sight of him. This is the first time he's sought you out in almost a month.
"Hey," you say carefully.
"Hey." He shifts his weight, not quite meeting your eyes. "Wanted to let you know… the mare's showing signs, probably foaling tonight or tomorrow."
"Okay, you need help monitoring?"
"No, I got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "Your neighbor came by today. Sheridan, he was looking for you."
Your stomach sinks. "What did he want?"
"Didn't say, just asked where you were, when you'd be back." Bucky's jaw tightens. "Seemed pretty comfortable helping himself to the property."
"I'll talk to him."
"Sure." Another pause. "He seems… interested."
"Bucky—"
"Just an observation." His voice is carefully neutral. "A guy like that— successful, established. Probably looking to settle down with the right person."
"I don't care what he's looking for."
"Maybe you should." Bucky finally looks at you and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "Opportunities like this don't come around often."
"Opportunity?" You stare at him. "He's a stranger who won't take a hint, that's not an opportunity, that's a problem."
"Is it?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost sad. "Or is it exactly what someone in your position should be looking for?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Means he can give you things, things I—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. "Just think about it."
He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in the barn with a sick feeling in your stomach.
Clayton makes his move the following week. You're at Miller's feed store, alone for once, when he corners near the grain.
"I was hoping to run into you," he says, blocking your path to the checkout. "Saved me a trip to your property."
"I'm kind of in a hurry—"
"It'll just take a moment." He steps closer, and you resist the urge to step back. "I've been patient, I think. Given you time to get to know me. And I'd like to think we've developed a… bond."
"Clayton—"
"Let me take you to dinner." It's phrased like a request, but it feels like a demand. "A real dinner, not as neighbors, not as business associates… a date."
"I appreciate the offer, but—"
"I know I can give you what you need," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "Partnership, stability. A merger of our operations could be incredibly beneficial for both of us. I know you're a smart woman, you have to see the potential."
There it is, the assumption that this is about business, about strategy, like you're an asset to be acquired.
"I'm not interested," you say clearly. "In dinner, in partnership, in any of it. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"
"The wrong impression?" He interrupts you again, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been accepting my gifts, letting me court you."
"I've been polite, there's a difference."
"Is there?" He is closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Or are you just playing hard to get? Because I have to tell you, it's getting old."
"I'm not playing anything," your voice goes cold. "I said no. That's final."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, then anger, quickly masked.
"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.
"That's my choice to make."
"Is it?" He glances toward the window, where your truck is parked. "Or does your foreman make your choices for you?"
Your blood runs cold. "That's none of your business."
"In a town this size, everything is everyone's business." His smile turns cruel. "You're fucking the help, everyone knows it. So stop acting high and mighty with me when you're spreading your legs for some ranch hand who'll never be able to give you what a real man could—"
"That's enough." The voice comes from behind you. Miller is standing at the end of the aisle with a bag of feed in his arms and steel in his eyes. "Mr. Sheridan, I think it's time for you to leave my store."
Clayton's expression smooths back into charm "We're just having a conversation—"
"I heard what kind of conversation you were having." Miller sets the feed down with a heavy thump. "And I won't have you speaking to a lady like that in my establishment. Time to go."
"This is ridiculous—"
"Now." Miller's voice is firm. "Before I call sheriff Morrison and have you removed for harassment."
Clayton looks between you and Miller, jaw tight with barely contained rage. Then, he smooths his expression into something coldly polite.
"Of course, my apologies if I caused any… discomfort." But his eyes hold a dark promise when they land on you. "We'll continue this conversation another time."
He's gone before you can tell him there won't be another time. Miller waits until the door closes before turning to you with concern.
"You alright, honey?"
You nod, but your hands are shaking. "Thank you for stepping in."
"That man's got a mean streak under all that polish," Miller says. "My wife had a cousin who dated a man like that once, all charm until you say no, then…" He shakes his head. "You be careful. Men like that don't handle rejection well."
"I will."
"And for what it's worth?" Miller's voice gentles. "Whatever that jackass said about you and Bucky? That's your business and nobody else's. Young Barnes is a good man, his father was good people and he is too. Don't let anyone tell you different."
The kindness breaks something in you and your eyes sting. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."
"Call me if you need anything. And tell Bucky to keep an eye on that one, Clayton Sheridan strikes me as the type to hold a grudge."
You pay for your supplies in a daze and load them into your truck with shaking hands. You should go home, go straight to your bed. Instead, you park near the stables.
Copper's in his stall, and he lifts his head when you approach, nickering softly.
"Hey, old man," you manage, voice cracking.
You let yourself into the stall and he immediately presses his nose to your chest, and that's when you break.
You cry into Copper's neck—from anger, from humiliation, from the way Clayton looked at you like you were something he could buy or break. From the fear that maybe he's right, that everyone is talking about you and Bucky, judging you, seeing something shameful in what feels sacred.
"He doesn't know anything," you whisper into Copper's mane. "He doesn't know us, doesn't know what we—"
But even as you say it, Clayton's words echo: Fucking the help.
Is that what people see? Not two people who care about each other, but something tawdry and wrong?
You're still crying when you hear footsteps.
"Wildfire?"
You straighten quickly, wiping at your eyes, but it's too late. Bucky's standing at the stall entrance, and even in the dim light, you notice he's been drinking. Not drunk yet, but there's a flush on his cheeks, a looseness to his shoulders that means he's had a few. And his eyes look sad, pained.
"You heard," you say flatly.
"Whole town's heard by now," his voice is rough. "Was at the diner grabbing lunch and Pete and Sanchez were with me. Table next to us was talking about how Sheridan got turned down by the ice queen rancher who's too busy fucking her foreman to see a real opportunity."
You flinch at his words.
"They didn't know we were there," Bucky continues, stepping into the stall. "Didn't know Pete and Sanchez were ready to flip the table. I had to practically drag them out before they started throwing punches."
"Bucky—"
"Then I heard the rest of it, how you rejected him at Miller's, how he got nasty about it, how old Miller had to throw him out." His jaw clenches. "And I wasn't there, I was checking fence posts while he cornered you and I wasn't fucking there."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should've been there!" The words burst out of him. "I should've been the one telling him to back off, to leave alone, to—" He stops, hands clenching into fists. "But I can't, can I? Can't defend you publicly without everyone knowing exactly what we are to each other. Can't step in without proving every goddamn thing they're saying about us. Can't stand next to you in town and tell assholes like Clayton Sheridan that you're mine."
"I don't need you to—"
"Well maybe you should." His voice drops. "Maybe you should have someone who can do all that, someone who can take you out without counting cents."
"Stop," you cut him off, voice shaking.
"Why? He's right about one thing, wildfire. I can't give you what someone like him could. Can't give you respectability, or stability, I can't give—"
You cross the stall in two strides and kiss him hard. He freezes for half a second, then he's kissing you back something that feels like desperation… and fear.
His hands fist in your hair and you grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase Clayton's words, the town's gossip, the shame trying to creep into something that's never felt shameful before.
"I don't want respectable," you gasp against his mouth. "I don't want public dinners, or whatever the hell you think I need. I want you."
"You're upset."
"I'm fucking furious," you correct. "At Clayton for being an entitled asshole, furious at this stupid town for their gossip, furious for you thinking any of it matters—"
He kisses you again, harder this time, walking you backward until your back hits the stall wall. His body presses against yours and you can feel how much he wants this despite all his protests about what you deserve.
"We shouldn't," he breathes against your neck. "You're upset, I've been drinking, this is—"
"I don't care," your hands work at his belt. "I need this, I need you, please Bucky—"
Something breaks in him. He lifts you and you wrap your legs around his waist, and then you're fumbling with clothes, desperate and graceless. When he pushes inside you, you both groan like it's a homecoming and a goodbye all at once.
The sex is different this time. Rougher, more desperate. Like you're both trying to prove or forget something. Or like you're trying to hold onto something that feels like it's slipping away.
When you come, it's with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows moments later, your name broken and his forehead against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay like that, connected, breathing hard, coexisting in the same space. Then he sets you down carefully and reality crashes back in.
You both fix your clothes in silence. The air feels heavy, charged with everything still unsaid.
"I'm sorry," Bucky says finally. "For drinking, for not being there when Clayton—"
"Stop apologizing." Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't I?" He won't look at you. "Miller threw him out, Miller defended you. And where was I?Where the fuck was I?"
"You were working, doing your job."
"My job." He laughs, but it's bitter. "Right, because that's what I am. The foreman, the employee, not the—"
"Not the what?" You push. "Say it."
"Not the boyfriend," he says quietly. "I heard what he said about you, about us. And I wanted to kill him, wanted to drive straight to his ranch and—"
"But you didn't."
"Because what would that accomplish? Everyone would know then, would see exactly what we are and—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe they're right to gossip, maybe we are—"
"Would you please stop?" You grab his arm, forcing him to look at you. "Don't let him do this, don't let their gossip make this into something shameful."
"It's not shameful," he says. "But it's not right either. You deserve better than barn hookups and secrets, you deserve someone who can stand next to you proudly, take you to dinner, court you the way you should be courted—"
"I don't wanna be courted by anyone else!"
"Well maybe you should! Maybe you should want someone who can give you a normal relationship, someone who's—" He swallows hard. "Someone who's your equal."
"You think you're not my equal," you say slowly.
"I know I'm not." His voice is flat. "I'm the foreman, you're the owner. And no matter what we feel, that's the reality, that's what everyone sees when they look at us."
"I don't care what they see—"
"Well, maybe I do." He's breathing hard. "Maybe I care that I can't defend you without it looking like the hired help overstepping. Maybe I care that men like Clayton can say whatever they want about you and I have to just— just take it because what am I? What right do I have?"
"The right of someone who loves me," you say, and watch his face go white.
"Don't," he whispers.
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" You step closer. "You love me, and I—"
"Don't say it," he backs away, hands up like he's warding off a blow. "Please don't say it."
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice breaks. "It doesn't change that I can't give you what you deserve. It doesn't change that I will never be enough. I'll never be enough for you, wildfire. And the sooner we both accept that, the—"
He doesn't finish, just turns and walks out of the stall, leaving you standing there with Copper and the ruins of your heart. You sink down onto the bench and Copper nuzzles your shoulder gently.
"He's wrong," you tell the horse. "He's so wrong."
But the words feel hollow even as you say them. Because how do you fight someone who's convinced themselves they're not worth fighting for?
You threw yourself into work because work didn't require you to think about the way Bucky's jaw had tightened when you'd said the word "love".
Work was spreadsheets and feed orders and the county extension agent calling about soil testing. Work was quantifiable, solvable, something you could actually control… unlike the man who was currently avoiding you like you carried some contagious disease.
It had been two weeks since the stable. Two weeks of Bucky sending Pete or Sanchez to deliver reports that he used to give himself, two weeks of catching glimpses of him across the property—always busy, always moving, always just out of reach. When you did cross paths, his eyes would slide past you like you were part of the landscape, something to navigate around rather than toward.
"Boss?" Pete stood in your office doorway, hat in hand. "Bucky wanted me to tell you the irrigation system's back online, no more issues in sector three."
Bucky wanted me to tell you. Not "Bucky said", or "Bucky asked", like even the mention of his name in connection with you required careful phrasing.
"Thanks, Pete." You kept your voice level. "Anything else?"
"No, ma'am, that's all." He hesitated. "Though uh… if you need anything else, I can—"
"I'm fine," the lie came easily now. "Tell the crew I'll do the evening walk-through myself tonight."
After Pete left, you sat back in your chair and let your eyes drift to the window. You could see the training pen from here, the fence where you and Bucky had worked with the colt just weeks ago, where his hands had been steady on the animal's neck, his voice low and soothing, and the three of you—you, him, the skittish colt— were the only things that mattered in the world.
Your mind drifted before you could stop it, reaching back to a different summer. You'd been sixteen, and Bucky had been nineteen, home from community college for the summer to help his dad with the heavy work.
Your father had sent you both to check the fence line at the north property border, and you'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare at the way Bucky's shirt stuck to his back in the heat, the flex of his forearms as he drove new posts into the hard ground. He'd caught you looking once and grinned—that easy, boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—and you'd turned away so fast you nearly tripped over the wire spool.
Later, sitting in the shade of the truck bed sharing a canteen of water, he'd looked at you differently. Not like his boss' daughter, not like the kid who used to chase him around the barn.
"You've got dirt on your face," he'd said.
"Where?"
Instead of answering, he'd reached out and brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, so gentle it barely counted as touch. Your breath had caught, and then… so quick you almost thought you'd imagined it, he'd leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
Just a peck, soft and sweet and over in a heartbeat.
He'd pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"
"It's okay," you'd whispered.
But he was already climbing out of the truck bed, putting distance between you, and the rest of the drive back had been silent. Neither of you mentioned it again, not that summer, not the next. By the time he came back to work full-time after his dad got sick, you'd both learned how to pretend it never happened.
Except you've never forgotten.
And now, seventeen years later, he was looking at you the same way: like you were something he wanted but couldn't let himself have. Only this time it wasn't because you were too young, or because he was overstepping with the boss' daughter. This time he'd convinced himself you were too good for him.
You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry in your office in the middle of the workday.
Your phone buzzed, another text from Clayton Sheridan that you immediately deleted without reading. He'd been trying to "apologize" for a week now, messages that sounded sincere until you read between the lines and saw the entitlement still lurking here.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden light, and you forced yourself back to the feed cost analysis spreadsheet on your screen. Work didn't ask questions you couldn't answer, work didn't look at you with resignation and longing tangled together… work was safe.
So you buried yourself in it and pretended you couldn't feel the Bucky-shaped hole in your chest getting wider every day.
Bucky sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open and a beer he hadn't touched going warm beside him. The numbers on the screen hadn't changed in the last hour, no matter how many times he refreshed the page or recalculated his math.
$58,000 in savings. Fifteen years of hard work, of living cheap and saving steady, and that's what he had to show for it.
He pulled up another tab showing land listings in the county. The cheapest viable spread was listed at $425,000. The nicer properties started at $650,000 and went up from there.
He took a long pull from the beer, grimacing at the taste. The smart move would be to look further out, maybe two counties over where land was cheaper, but that would mean leaving the ranch, leaving you, and what was fucking point of building something if you weren't part of it?
His phone sat face-down on the table. He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to decide if he should call his cousin Hugh. He had made something of himself, built a successful business in Denver, bought a house. Hugh would probably tell him to forget the ranch work, come to the city, learn a trade that paid better..
But Bucky wasn't Hugh. He didn't want an office or a crew of subcontractors or a house in the suburbs. He wanted land, cattle and horses and the kind of legacy his father had helped build for someone else's family. He wanted to be able to stand next to you and not feel like he was taking something he hadn't earned.
His father's voice echoed in his head, rough from years of cigarettes and dust: A man provides for his family, son. You work hard, build something and give your wife and kids a life worth living.
His old man worked himself into an early grave trying to live up to that standard, died at sixty-two with nothing but a paid off truck and a pension that barely covered his medical bills. Bucky's mother had held it together with grit and his father's life insurance, but she's had to move into town and had to make herself smaller to fit into what was left.
Bucky had sworn he'd never put a woman in that position, that he'd build something solid before thinking about settling down… and then you'd kissed him in the barn last summer with dirt on your jeans and challenge in your eyes, and every promise he'd made to himself had evaporated.
Ten months of telling himself it was just physical, just chemistry, just two people scratching an itch. Ten months of lying to himself and to you and pretending it wouldn't end in exactly this kind of pain,
He opened a new tab for job listings this time. Foreman positions at other ranches—most paid about what he was making now, maybe five thousand more if he was lucky. Manager positions required degrees he didn't have. The oil and gas jobs paid better but required months away at a time, and what good was money if he couldn't be near you?
He closed the laptop harder than necessary.
This was about building something with you, about not being that guy who moved into your house, worked your land, lived off your success. He'd seen it before: men who married into ranching families and became permanent accessories, useful but ultimately replaceable.
His pride wouldn't let him become that.
But how the hell was he supposed to close a $400,00 gap? Even if he worked himself into the ground, saved every penny, made all the right moves he'd still be forty before he had enough to buy anything worth having.
And you'd be what? Waiting around for him to get his shit together? Turning down men like Clayton Sheridan who could give you everything right now? The thought of you with Sheridan made him want to put his fist through the wall, made him want to drive to that bastard's ranch and make it crystal clear that he'd never speak to you like that again.
But he hadn't, because what right did he have? He wasn't your boyfriend or your husband. He was just an employee, the man who was too proud to be with you on your terms and too poor to offer his own.
His phone buzzed, it was a text from Pete:
Boss asked me to tell you she's doing the evening rounds herself tonight, thought you should know.
Bucky's chest tightened. You were avoiding the crew now, doing the work yourself rather than risk running into him. Or maybe you didn't trust him to do his job anymore.
He typed back: Thanks, I'll check the north pasture, make sure everything's locked down.
It was cowardice, making sure he'd be on the opposite end of the property when you made your rounds. But he wasn't strong enough yet to see you and not break, he wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see the hurt he'd put there.
Not until he had a plan and could offer you something more than apologies and empty promises.
Bucky drained the flat beer and got back to work on the numbers. Somewhere in these spreadsheets, in these listings, in the careful mathematics of sacrifice and saving, there had to be an answer, there had to be a way to become the man you deserved… he just had to find it.
You found him in the equipment barn three days later, and this time you didn't let him walk away. You were done avoiding him.
He was replacing the hydraulic line on one of the tractors, his shirt off in the afternoon heat, and for a moment you just watched him work, watched the flex of his shoulders, the concentration on his face, the competent sureness of his hands. This was the Bucky you'd grown up with, the one who could fix anything, who moved through the wold with quiet capability.
The one you'd loved since you were sixteen years old.
"We need to talk," you said.
His hands stilled on the wrench, but he didn't look up. "Kind of in the middle of something."
"I don't care." You stepped into the barn, letting the door swing shut behind you. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, I'm done pretending this isn't happening."
"Nothing's happening," his voice was carefully flat. "I'm working, you're working, that's all there is."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
He finally looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to stop running," you move closer. "I want you to stop deciding what's best for me without asking me what I actually want."
"I know what you want."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've built this whole story in your head about what I need and what you can't give me."
His jaw tightened. "You deserve someone who can give you a real future."
"I deserve someone who loves me," you countered. "Everything else is just details."
"They're not just details!" His voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "They're the difference between being your partner and your charity case. I don't want to just be the guy who lives in your mansion, works your land and gets to be with you because you're generous enough not to care that he's got nothing to offer."
"That's not—"
"It is, though." He set down the wrench, finally giving you his full attention. "You're telling me the money doesn't matter, that the land doesn't matter, that I don't need to be able to provide anything because you've already got it all covered. You're telling me to just… accept the fact that I'll never contribute equally to this relationship, that I'll always be the hired help who got lucky enough to fuck the boss."
The crudeness of it made you flinch. "Don't talk about us like that."
"Why not? That's what everyone else is saying." His laugh was bitter. "And maybe they're right. Maybe that's exactly what this is—you slumming it with the help because it's convenient and exciting, and me being too stupid to see that I'm just a phase before you settle down with someone appropriate."
The accusation stung like a slap. "You think you're just a phase to me?"
"I don't know what I am to you!" His voice cracked. "Because you keep saying it doesn't matter, that we'll figure it out,that love is enough, but it's not! Not when I lie awake every night doing math that doesn't add up, not when I have to watch men like Clayton Sheridan circle you like sharks because I can't protect you… not when I know that staying with me means you'll never have a man who can stand beside you on his own as an equal—"
"You're my equal—"
"I'm your foreman! I earn in one year what you make in one month! We're not equals, no matter how much you want to pretend we are."
"Money doesn't make someone more or less valuable, Bucky. We—"
"It's not about value!" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly like he wanted to tear something out. "It's about being able to build something together, about me being able to contribute more than just labor and good intentions… about not feeling like a kept man every time you solve a problem I can't afford to fix."
"So what do you want from me?" Your voice shook. "You want me to pretend I don't have money? Want me to apologize for inheriting this ranch? To make myself smaller so you can feel more like a man?"
"No! Christ, no, it's completely the opposite. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to be worthy of you, I want to look at you without feeling like I'm stealing something that should belong to someone better. But I can't do that with fifty-eight thousand dollars in savings and a truck I've had since college."
Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That number hit you like a gut punch. He'd been counting, calculating, measuring himself against some impossible standard and finding himself lacking.
"Bucky," you said softly, stepping toward him. "I don't care how much money you have, or if you own land or if you live in that cabin for the rest of your life. I care about you because I love—"
"Don't," he backed away, hands up. "Please don't say that again."
"Why not? It is the truth."
"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice was ragged. "You saying you love me doesn't change the fact that I can't give you what you deserve, doesn't change that I wake up every morning knowing I'm not enough or that I want to be the kind of man who can take care of you."
"I don't need you to take care of me, I can take care of myself, I just… I just need you to be here, to stop running from our love, to—"
"That's exactly the problem." His voice went quiet, deadly calm. "You don't need me, not really. You need a good foreman and a warm body in your bed, and I can be both of these things but that's not what I want to be. I want to be necessary, I want to provide for you. I want to build you a life instead of just existing in the one you already have. And you telling me none of that matters, that I should just be grateful that you want me anyway…"
He laughed, but it sounded like something breaking.
"I don't need your pity, ma'am."
The formality hit like a physical blow. Not wildfire, not your name, not even a cold distant boss. Just ma'am, with all the professional distance that implied, with all the class and power differential laid bare.
Your throat closed. "That's not— I'm not pitying you, Bucky, I'm trying to tell you that I love you—"
"And I'm trying to tell you that's not enough. Not when loving you means giving up every shred of pride and self-respect I have left."
"So what?" Your voice broke. "You'd rather have your pride than have me?"
"I'd rather become someone worthy of having you." He picked up his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements. "And I won't let you settle for less than you deserve just because you think you love me."
"I don't think I love you, I know I love you, I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old." He froze, shirt half buttoned. "That kiss by the north fence, you think I forgot about it? You think I didn't spend the last decade wondering what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away?"
"Stop," the world was barely a whisper. "Don't do this."
"Don't tell me what I feel, Bucky, don't tell me I'm wrong about loving you, and don't you dare walk away just because you've convinced yourself matters more than—"
"Don't you understand? It's not about the money!" He shouted, and you'd never heard him yell like that, not in twenty years. "It's about what the money represents, about being able to look my father's ghost and say I built something… it's about not being the guy who couldn't make it on his own, so he shacked up with the rich girl who felt sorry for him. It's about not being enough, and I'm not, not yet. I have to at least try to become someone who can stand next to you without shame."
You stared at him, this stubborn, proud, heartbroken man and realized you were fighting a ghost. Not just his father's expectations, but generations of them… every man in his family who'd worked someone else's land and dreamed of their own. Every lesson about what it meant to be a provider, the man of the house.
"And what if you never have enough?" You asked. "If the math never adds up and the land prices keep rising and you're still chasing this impossible standard in ten years? What then?"
His silence was answer enough.
"You're going to let this destroy us," you said. "You're going to choose pride over love, over happiness, over us, because you can't accept that maybe your father's way isn't the only way. That maybe I don't need you to own land to prove you're worthy of me."
"It's not about what you need," he said quietly. "It's about what I need. And I need to be able to respect myself when I look in the mirror, which I can't do right now."
He moved past you toward the door, and you didn't stop him this time. At the threshold, he paused, but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry, wildfire," he said and the nickname sounded like a goodbye. "I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am."
Then he was gone, and you were alone in the equipment barn with the smell of motor oil and the wreckage of your heart scattered across the concrete floor. You sank down onto the workbench, pressing your palms against your eyes and let yourself finally break.
Because he was right about one thing: love wasn't enough. Not when one person had already decided they weren't worthy of it.
You were in your office when you heard a truck. The engine was too loud, too aggressive, not the familiar sounds of Pete, Sanchez or Bucky's trucks. Something was wrong.
You looked up as footsteps approached, uneven and heavy on the gravel outside, and Clayton Sheridan appeared on your doorway. The smell of whiskey hit you before his expression did.
"There you are," his words spurred slightly at the edges. "Been looking for you."
Your hand moved toward your phone on the desk, but he saw the movement and stepped fully into the small office, blocking the only exit. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.
"Clayton, you need to leave." Your voice came out steady, but without its usual steel. You were so tired lately, tired of fighting, of hurting, tired of everything. "You're drunk, this isn't—“
"This isn't what?" He moved closer, and you stood up instinctively, chair scraping back. "Isn't appropriate? Since when do you care about appropriate? You've been fucking your foreman for months, don't talk to me about appropriate."
"Get out of my office."
"Or what?" He was close enough that you could see the anger in his bloodshot eyes, the mean set of his jaw. "You gonna call your cowboy to come save you? Oh, wait. I heard you two had a falling out, guess even he figured out you're not worth the trouble."
The words hit hard, landing right on the wound Bucky had left bleeding. Your breath caught, and Clayton saw the flinch, the way you'd gone still.
"That's it, isn't it?" His voice dropped, almost soothing, which made it worse. "He finally wised up, left you all alone in this big ranch, and now you're realizing what a mistake you made by turning down a real man for some hired hand who couldn't even stick around."
You should tell him to leave again, move past him, get out of this small room, get your phone, do something. But you felt frozen, hollowed out, like all the fight had been burned out of you in that equipment barn when Bucky had called you ma'am and walked away.
Clayton took another step, you backed up until your hip hit the desk.
"I'm trying to be reasonable here," he was so close, invading your space, using his size to intimidate. "Trying to give you another chance, because despite you embarrassing me, rejecting me and making me look like a fool, I'm still willing to overlook it. Still willing to offer you a real partnership."
"I don't want—" Your voice came smaller than intended, and you hated how weak you sounded. But you were so empty, so worn down by weeks of heartbreak and loneliness and loving someone who'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of being loved back.
"Don't want what?" Clayton's hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Don't want stability? Success? A man who can actually provide for you instead of living off your charity?"
You turned your head away, trying to duck under his arm, but he shifted and suddenly you were truly cornered, desk behind you, Clayton in front, his other hand coming up to block your escape route.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his voice had gone hard. "I've been patient, I've been courteous. I've given you space and time and you've thrown it back in my face over and over, and I'm done being nice.
"Let me go," you tried to put command in it, but it came out defeated.
"Not until you listen and understand what you're throwing away by being stubborn about some ridiculous idea of love with a man who has already given up on you. He doesn't want you enough to fight for you, but I do. So you're going to stop being difficult and—"
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The voice came from the doorway, low and lethal, and you'd never heard Bucky sound like that. Clayton turned, hands dropping, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to pull on charm or authority, but he didn't get the chance. Bucky had already crossed the small office and his fist connected with Clayton's jaw with a sickening crack.
Clayton staggered backward and hit the wall. "What the hell—"
"You don't fucking touch her." Bucky hit him again, this time in the ribs and Clayton doubled over with a wheeze. "You don't corner her, or come to her property drunk and put your hands near her talking like she's something you can intimidate into—"
He grabbed Clayton by the shirt and hauled him toward the door. Clayton tried to swing back, caught Bucky's cheek with a glancing blow, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. He shoved Clayton out into the barn aisle, following him out.
You stood frozen in the office, watching through the doorway as Bucky grabbed Clayton again and drove his fist into his stomach. Clayton crumpled, coughing and Bucky dragged him upright.
"You ever come near her again," Bucky's voice was shaking with barely controlled rage, "and I will fucking end you. I don't care about consequences, or going to jail, you don't get to scare her and make her feel small. Are we clear?"
"You're insane—" Clayton choked out.
Bucky shoved him toward the barn entrance. "Get the hell out."
He punctuated it with a kick to Clayton's ass that sent him stumbling forward. Clayton caught himself, turned back like he might try to fight, but whatever he saw in Bucky's face made him think better of it. He spat blood onto the barn floor and shot you a look full of venom before limping toward the exit.
"This isn't over," Clayton said.
"Yeah, it is." Bucky's voice was flat. "You're done. Now get the fuck off this property before I make you."
Clayton left, and you could hear his truck start up moments later, tires spitting gravel as he sped away.
Silence filled the barn. You were still standing in the office doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. Not from fear but from shock, from the crash of adrenaline, from everything finally being too much. Bucky turned to look at you, and his expression crumpled.
"Did he hurt you?" He stayed where he was, like he was afraid to get closer. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head, the words wouldn't come.
"Jesus Christ," he ran both hands through his hair, pulling hard. "I was just walking back from the equipment barn, heard his voice and— If I hadn't been walking by, if I hadn't heard him say that shit about you, if he'd—"
He couldn't finish, his hands were shaking, knuckles already swelling and split.
"Bucky—" You managed, but your voice sounded wrong and distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"Boss!" Pete appeared in the barn entrance, Sanchez right behind him. They must've seen or heard the commotion. Pete took in the scene: you trembling in the office doorway, Bucky with blood on his knuckles, the tension still cracking in the air. "What happened?"
"Sheridan," Bucky's jaw was tight. "Showed up drunk, cornered her in the office. I handled it."
"Handled it?" Sanchez was looking at Bucky's hands. "Jesus, man."
"Is he gone?" Pete asked.
"Yeah," Bucky's eyes hadn't left you. "He's gone."
Pete moved toward you carefully, like you might spook. "Boss? You okay?"
You nodded, but it was a lie and everyone knew it. You weren't okay, hadn't been for weeks, and this had just broken something that was already cracked.
"Why don't you come with me?" Peter said gently. "Maria's at home, she can make you some tea, you can get away from here for a bit."
"I'm fine," but your voice shook on the words. "I don't need—"
"I insist," Pete said. "Just for a few hours, let us make sure Sheridan doesn't try to come back, let yourself breathe."
You wanted to argue, stay here and deal with this yourself, prove you didn't need protecting, but you were so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong. And the thought of Pete's warm, comfortable house, of his wife Maria's kind presence, of being somewhere that felt safe for just a little while…
"Okay," you whispered.
Bucky's face did something complicated. "I can stay here, keep watch—"
"No." Pete's voice was firm. "You need to clean up and cool down. Sanchez and I will handle security, you go home."
For a moment you thought Bucky would argue, but then he just nodded. His eyes met yours one more time, and the guilt and longing and helplessness in them made your chest ache. But he didn't say anything, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the barn, and you felt the distance between you like a physical wound.
Pete's house was warm and lived-in, smelling like the chicken Maria had roasted for dinner and the vanilla candles she loved. She met you at the door with soft hands and softer eyes, asked no questions, just guided you to the kitchen table where a chamomile tea was already waiting for you.
"Pete called ahead," she said settling into the chair across from you. "Said you had a rough evening."
"You could say that," your hands wrapped around the mug, seeking warmth even though you weren't cold. You were shaking again, small tremors you couldn't control.
Maria reached across the table and covered your hand with hers. "You're safe here, mija. Whatever happened, you're safe now."
You nodded, throat tight. Through the window, you could see Pete outside, on the phone—probably coordinating with Sanchez, making sure your property was secure. Making sure Clayton wouldn't come back.
The simple care of it broke something loose in your chest.
"Pete's a good man."
"The best," Maria's smile was soft, full of easy affection. "Drives me crazy sometimes, leaves his boots in the middle of the floor and falls asleep during every movie, but he's good all the way through"
You watched Pete through the window, the way he moved with easy confidence, the way he glanced back at the house, checking on his wife to make sure she was okay. There was something so simple about it, so uncomplicated.
"How do you make it look so easy?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Being together."
Maria tilted her head, studying you. "It's not always easy. We've had our share of hard times—money troubles, my mother getting sick, that year Pete threw his back out and couldn't wait for three months. But we're partners, you know? We figure it out together."
Partners. That word sat heavily on your chest.
"What if one person thinks they're not good enough?" You stared into your tea. "What if two people love each other but one of them is convinced… they don't have enough to offer?"
Maria was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "This is about Bucky, isn't it?" You looked up, startled. She smiled sadly. "Honey, everyone knows you two have been circling each other for months, and everyone can see you're both miserable right now. Whatever he thinks he doesn't have… does it matter to you?"
"No," the answer came immediately. "It doesn't matter at all, I don't care about money or land or any of it. I just want him."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yes, multiple times, but he won't listen. He's convinced that loving me means being able to provide for me the way his father provided for his mother, the way—" Your voice broke. "The way Pete provides for you, and he can't. At least not in the way he thinks he should, so… he'd rather let me go than accept that maybe I don't need what he's supposed to give me."
Maria's eyes were sad. "Men and their pride, especially the good ones. They get these ideas in their heads about what it means to be a man, what they owe the women they love, and sometimes those ideas do more harm than good."
"So what do I do?" You hated how desperate you sounded. "How do I fight someone who's already decided he's not enough?"
"I don't know if you can, mija." She said it kindly, but it still hurt. "Sometimes people have to figure things out for themselves, have to learn that love isn't about what you can provide in dollars and cents.It's about showing up, being present, building a life together even when it's hard… But you can't force someone to believe they're worthy of love, that's something they have to find on their own."
You felt tears prick your eyes. "What if he never does?"
"Then that's his loss. Because from where I'm sitting, he's throwing away something real and good because he's too stubborn to see that you already chose him, that you'd choose him every day if he'd let you."
The tears spilled over then, you tried to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Maria just moved her chair closer and pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against her shoulder—for Bucky, for the relationship that was dying before it ever really lived, for the loneliness that had become your constant companion.
"I love him," you whispered into her shoulder. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old and I don't know how to stop."
"Oh, sweetheart." Maria rubbed your back. "Maybe you're not supposed to stop, maybe you just have to love him from a distance while he figures things out. And maybe he'll figure it out on time… but you can't sacrifice yourself while you wait. Can't make yourself smaller or quieter just to make him comfortable with loving you."
You pulled back, wiping your eyes. "I don't know how to do this."
"None of us do," she smiled sadly. "We're all just making it up as we go."
Pete came back inside then, took in your tear-stained face and his wife's protective posture, and his expression softened.
"Everything's secure, Sanchez is doing perimeter checks, but the property's locked down tight." He hesitated. "You're welcome to stay here tonight, the guest room is ready."
You shook your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I should go home. I can't let Clayton chase me out of my own house."
"You sure?" Maria asked.
"Yeah," you stood, steadier now. "I'm sure."
They walked you to your truck, Pete insisting on following you back to make sure you got inside safely. The drive was short, and when you pulled up to your dark house, Pete waited until you unlocked the door and turned on the lights before giving you a wave and heading back to his own home.
You stood in your empty living room and felt the silence press in. You've always loved this house and all the memories that it contained, but lately it felt too big and lonely. Tonight it was just you and the weight of everything that happened.
You should eat something, shower or try to sleep.
Instead, you sank onto the couch and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back—the fear from Clayton's visit, the heartbreak from Bucky's rejection, the bone-deep exhaustion of loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
Eventually you dragged yourself upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed. The house settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs, and slowly, finally, you drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The smell woke you first. Acrid, wrong, burning.
You sat up in bed, disoriented. The clock read 2:17 AM. For a moment you thought you were dreaming, but then you heard it— the panicked whinnying of horses, the sharp crack of wood giving way. Fire.
You were out of bed and running before conscious though kicked in, flying down the stairs in your sleep clothes, your slippers hitting the porch steps, and then you saw it: the stables lit up against the night sky, flames already consuming the east side of the building, spreading fast through the old dry wood.
The horses.
Copper.
You didn't think or stop to call for help or consider the danger. You just ran.
The heat hit you when you reached the stable doors, but you ripped your shirt up over your nose and mouth and plunged inside anyway. The smoke was thick, black, choking, but you knew this building like you knew your own heartbeat, knew exactly where each stall was, which horses were where.
"I'm coming!" You shouted, voice muffled through the fabric. "I'm coming, it's okay!"
The first stall was Daisy's, the chestnut mare. You fumbled with the latch, hands shaking,a nod shoved the door open. She reared back, eyes rolling white with terror, but you grabbed her halter and dragged her toward the entrance. "Go, go, go!"
She bolted past you into the night, and you were already moving to the next stall. Juniper, the bay mare heavy with foal. She was screaming, hooves striking the stall door, and you got it open just as part of the roof above groaned ominously.
"Out!" You slapped her hindquarters and she ran, coat slick with sweat and far.
The smoke was getting thicker. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you, couldn't breathe without coughing, but you kept moving. Duke and Ranger in the double stall, the two yearling colts next, skittish and terrified but moving when you shouted at them.
Your lungs were burning. Each breath felt like inhaling glass, and your eyes streamed tears from the smoke, but you pushed deeper into the stable. Eight horses out. Copper was the only one missing.
His stall was in the back, farthest from the entrance, and the fire was spreading fast. You could feel the heat on your skin, could hear the ceiling beams cracking and shifting. You should leave, get out while you still could, but Copper was your father's horse. Your first horse. The only living reminder of him, and you wouldn't leave him.
"I'm coming, old man!" You choked on smoke, stumbled, caught yourself against a stall door. "I'm coming!"
You found his stall by memory more than sight. The smoke was too thick now, the world reduced to burning shapes. Your fingers found the latch and you yanked it open. "Copper! Come on, baby, we gotta go—"
He was pressed into the back corner, wild-eyed, making sounds you'd never heard from him before. You grabbed his halter, pulled, but he wouldn't move.
"Please," you begged, coughing so hard you nearly doubled over. "Please, Copper, please—"
He finally moved, and you were leading him toward where you thought the entrance was, one hand on his hater and one hand trailing the wall, it the smoke was everywhere now. You couldn't see or breathe properly anymore.
Your foot caught on something and you went down hard, hand ripping free from Copper's halter. You heard him bolt, heard his hooves on the concrete floor, and you tried to get up and call after him, but your lungs wouldn't work. The smoke was too thick and the world was starting to gray at the edges.
Get up, you told yourself. Get up, you have to get out.
But your arms wouldn't hold you. You collapsed face-down on the concrete floor near what you thought was the entrance, and distantly you realized you were going to die here in the stable. On the land you loved.
You couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't move. The smoke filled your lungs and the world went soft and strange, and the last thought before everything went black was of Bucky's face when he told you he wasn't enough for you and walked away.
Then nothing.
Bucky had been awake when the fire started.
He'd been lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way you'd looked when Clayton had you cornered in that office. The fear in your eyes, the way you seemed so small, so defeated, like all the fight had been burned out of you.
It was all his fault. If he hadn't pushed you away, if he hadn't been so goddamn stubborn about his pride and his plans, maybe you wouldn't have been so vulnerable when that bastard showed up.
He was still stewing in guilt and self-loathing when he smelled the smoke.
For a second, he thought maybe someone was burning trash, but it was 2 AM and the smell was too strong. He got out of bed and looked out his window toward his property.
His heart stopped.
The stables were on fire, visible even from his cabin, and he was running before his brain fully processed what he was seeing. Running toward the fire in just his sleep pants and boots he grabbed by the door, no shirt, no phone, nothing but pure animal panic driving him forward.
The horses were scattered in the yard, wild-eyed and panicked, and his first thought was relief—someone got them out, they were safe—but then he got closer and saw the stables entrance and his world tilted sideways.
You were lying face-down just inside the doorway, smoke billowing around you, and you weren't moving.
"No!" The scream tore out of him, raw and animal. He was at the entrance in seconds, dropping to his knees, hands on your back. "No, no, no, please—"
You weren't breathing. Your skin was gray, lips tinged blue, and there was ash in your hair and you weren't fucking breathing.
"Help!' He screamed it into the night, voice breaking. "Help! Someone call 911! Please help!"
He got his arms under you and lifted, staggering away from the entrance as part of the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. You weren't breathing limp in his arms, a horrible dead weight, and he couldn't—
"Please, don't be dead, please wildfire, please—"
He laid you down on the grass far from the fire, hands shaking so hard he could barely function. Tilted your head back, checking for breathing… nothing. He pressed his fingers to your throat, searching desperately for a pulse.
There. Weak and thready, but there.
"Call 911!" He screamed it again, looking around wildly, but no one was there. Everyone was asleep or too far away to hear. "Somebody please help us!"
He started CPR, hands laced over your sternum, counting compressions like the training he'd taken years ago. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Your lips were so cold under his, and you still weren't breathing on your own, and he was going to lose you before he ever got the chance to tell you, that he'd been an idiot, that his pride meant nothing compared to you.
"Come on, baby, come on," he begged between breaths. "Breathe for me, please breathe. I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me, please—"
He continued, thirty compressions, two breaths. Your chest rose and fell when he breathed for you, but then nothing. No response.
"HELP!" His voice was wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, someone help!"
Lights flickered on in the distance. There was a truck approaching. Thank god.
Thirty compressions, two breaths.
"You don't get to do this," he told you, voice breaking. "You don't get to die because I was too fucking stupid to tell you I love you. Come on, wildfire, fight, I know you're strong."
Another thirty compressions, two more breaths.
Your body jerked and you coughed, harsh and wet and he rolled you onto your side as you vomited up smoke and ash. You gasped, a horrible wheezing sound, but you were breathing. Your eyes fluttered but didn't open, and your breathing was labored and wrong, but you were alive.
"That's it, that it baby, breathe." He was sobbing openly now, one hand on your back and one stroking your hair. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just keep breathing for me."
Pete's truck roared up, and he was out and running before it fully stopped. "Jesus Christ— what happened?"
"She went in," Bucky choked out. "She went into the fucking fire, got the horses out and she— call 911, she's not breathing right, she needs oxygen."
Pete already had his phone out and was shouting into it about the address and fire and person down.
Sanchez appeared from somewhere, still pulling on his shirt. "Holy shit— is she—"
"She's breathing, but barely." Bucky couldn't stop touching you, couldn't stop checking your pulse like it might disappear if he looked away. "She inhaled too much smoke, she was unconscious—"
You coughed again, weaker this time, and made a sound like you were trying to speak.
"Don't talk," Bucky said. "Don't try to talk, just breathe, help is coming, you're gonna be fine—"
But you weren't fine. Your breathing was getting worse, more labored, and your skin was still that terrible gray color. He gathered you against his chest and pressed his forehead to yours.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, I was just too stupid and proud and scared to—" His voice broke completely. "You have to be okay, because I can't do this without you, wildfire, I can't."
Sirens in the distance getting closer. The volunteer fire department, the ambulance. Pete was directing them, shouting coordinates.
You made another small sound, and your eyes opened just a crack. "Bucky," you breathed, barely audible.
"I'm here," he was crying so hard he could barely see. "I'm right here, I've got you, you're gonna be fine."
"Copper—"
"He's fine, all the horses are fine. You got them all out, you crazy, brave, stubborn—" He couldn't finish, just held you tight as the ambulance pulled up, as EMT's swarmed with oxygen and equipment.
They tried to take you from him but he couldn't let go, couldn't release you until one of them put a hand on his shoulder.
"We've got her," she said gently. "Let us help her."
He forced himself to release you, watched as they got an oxygen mask on your face, loaded you onto a gurney. Your eyes found his one more time before they put you in the ambulance, and he saw fear there.
"I'm coming with you," he told the EMTs.
They didn't argue. He climbed into the ambulance and took your hand, and as they pulled away, he pressed his lips to your knuckles and made you a promise.
"You're gonna be okay," he said. "And when you are, I'm gonna tell you every single day for the rest of my life that I love you. Gonna prove to you that I can be the man you deserve, that my pride was bullshit, that yore all that matters. Just— don't leave me before I get the chance. Please, wildfire, please don't leave."
Your fingers twitched in his, the barest squeeze and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
The first thing you became aware of was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, accompanied by a mechanical hiss that matched the uncomfortable pressure around your face. The second thing was the voice.
"—and I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but if you wake up, I swear to God, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Proving that I can be the man you think I am, even if I don't believe it yet."
That was Bucky's voice, coming from somewhere to your left.
"I'm sorry I pushed you away, I'm sorry I let my pride and my own stubbornness matter more than you, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when the fire started. I'm sorry for all of it."
You tried to open your eyes but they felt crusted shut, heavy. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed razor blades, and breathing hurt in a way that suggested your lungs had been through something awful. And then you remembered it all: the fire, the stables, Copper.
You tried to move or speak, but all that came out was a rough sound that might have been a cough.
There was movement immediately, a warm hand closing around yours. "Wildfire? Hey, hey, don't try to talk. You've got an oxygen mask on, your lungs need time to heal. Just— just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
You squeezed, or at least tried to. Your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Thank god," his voice broke on the words. "You scared the hell out of me, I've aged like ten years tonight."
You managed to get your eyes open finally, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. Everything was blurry at first, but slowly it resolved: white ceiling tiles, an IV stand, medical equipment beeping away. And Bucky, sitting in a chair pulled up close to your bed, still shirtless under the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders, covered in soot and ash, eyes red-rimmed.
He looked like he'd been crying. Bucky Barnes, who you'd never seen cry, not even when his father died, had been crying over you.
"Hey," he said softly, and his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Welcome back."
You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled everything, and your throat was too raw anyway. You lifted your other hand weakly, gesturing at the mask.
"No way," he caught your hand gently, brought it back down. "Doctor said you need to keep that on for at least another few hours, your oxygen levels were scary low when you came in, you inhaled a lot of smoke."
You made a frustrated sound, and he actually smiled. "I know, I know, wildfire. But just rest, okay? Everything else can wait."
But you didn't want to wait. You'd heard him confessing, apologizing, saying things you'd been desperate to hear for weeks. You needed him to know you'd heard and needed to respond, needed—
The door opened and a nurse came in, checked your vitals with practiced efficiency. "Good to see those eyes open. How's the pain level? Blink once for manageable, twice for severe."
You blinked once. Everything hurt, but it was distant, muted by whatever they had you on.
"Good, the doctor will be in soon to check on you." She adjusted something on your IV. "You're very lucky, young lady. Another minute or two in that smoke and we'd be having a very different conversation." Her eyes cut to Bucky. "And you should probably get checked out too. That cough doesn't sound good."
"I'm fine," Bucky said automatically.
"You performed CPR for several minutes and you've been breathing smoke residue all night, at least let me listen to yous lungs."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but the nurse had already pulled out her stethoscope with a look that said she wasn't asking. While she checked him over—pronounced him "borderline but not critical"— you watched him. Catalogued the soot in his hair, the redness along his eyes, the exhaustion in his body… He'd stayed all night.
After the nurse left, silence fell between you. Bucky was still holding your hand, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, but he was looking down at your joined hands like he was afraid to meet your eyes.
"The horses are all okay," he said finally. "Pete's got them in the training paddock and the north pasture. Copper's fine—spooked but fine. You got every single one out before you…" He swallowed hard. "Before you collapsed."
You squeezed his hand.
"The stable's gone, total loss. But Sanchez thinks the fire was deliberately set, he found evidence of accelerant near the east wall. The sheriff's already investigating, smart money's o Sheridan."
That should have made you angry, should've sparked fear or rage, but you just felt tired. You'd deal with Clayton later. Right now, all you cared about was the man sitting beside your bed, still covered in ash from pulling you out of the fire.
You tugged weakly at the oxygen mask, and this time Bucky didn't stop you, just helped you pull it down to rest under your chin.
"Wildfire—"
"Did you mean it?" Your voice came out as a rasp, barely audible, your throat shredded but you needed to know. "What you said earlier, did you mean it?"
His eyes finally met yours, and they were so raw it hurt to look at. "Every word, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you. And I'm sorry I let my pride and y stupid hang-ups about money and worth keep me from saying it. I'm sorry when I pushed you away when all you wanted was—"
"Bucky," you interrupted him, voice still rough. "I'm not gonna die."
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm not gonna die," you repeated. "So you can stop with the dramatic deathbed confessions."
For a second he just stared at you, then incredibly, he laughed. "You almost died and you're making jokes?"
"Someone has to lighten the mood." You tried to smile but your face felt stiff. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Yeah, well." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the soot. "Watching the woman you love nearly die in a fire will do that to you."
The woman you love. He'd said it again, and this time the words settled in your chest like something warm and permanent.
"I heard you," you said quietly. "In the ambulance, and when I first woke up, I heard you."
His hand tightened on yours. "Then you heard me say I'm sorry, that I was an idiot, and that I'm going to spend every day proving I can be man you—"
"You already are." You cut him off. "You've always been, that was never the problem."
"Then what was?"
"You not believing it." You coughed, wincing at the pain in your chest. "You letting your father's expectations and your own pride convince you that you weren't enough… but you were always enough, Bucky, you were always more than enough."
He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with those blue eyes full of things he'd never let himself say out loud.
"I thought I needed to build something first," he said finally. "Thought I needed to have land, money, something concrete to offer you, something that would make me your equal instead of just… the foreman who got lucky."
"I never wanted an equal. I don't want a business partner or a merger, or someone who can match my net worth. I just want you, the guy who checks on Copper because he knows the horse matters to me. The guy who fixes problems before I know they exist, the guy who punched Sheridan for cornering me and then ran into a burning building to save me even though—" Your voice cracked. "Even though I'd already gotten myself out."
"Barely," he said roughly. "You barely got yourself out, and when I found you lying there not breathing, I—" He stopped, jaw working. "I couldn't breathe either, felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. And all I could think was that I'd wasted so much time, weeks we could have had together because I was too proud to accept that maybe love doesn't care about bank balances and property."
You brought your other hand up to cup his face, felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his skin. "Life's too short."
"Yeah, it is." He said leaning into your touch.
"I was at Pete and Maria's house yesterday before the fire," you ran your thumb along his cheekbone. "Watched them together, the way they move around each other, the easy affection, how simply it all looked… and I just wanted that with you so badly it hurt. Just simple love, coming home to each other, building a life together without all the weight and the expectations and the fear."
"I want that too," he said quietly. "But I don't know if I know how to do simple. Don't know if I can turn off the voice in my head that says I should be providing more."
"Then we'll figure it out together." You held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm not asking you to suddenly be okay with everything you're not okay with, but I need you to try. Need you to let me in instead of pushing me away when it gets hard."
His eyes were bright again. "What if I fuck it up?"
"You will," you smiled slightly. "And I'll fuck it up too. We'll fight and disagree and drive each other crazy, but we'll do it together."
He was quiet, and you could see him wrestling with it—the pride and the fear, but also hope, all tangled together in a know he'd spent his whole life tying.
"I don't have much," he said finally. "Don't have some grand plan, damn, I don't even have a shirt on right now, but I love you, wildfire. I love you so much it terrifies me. And if you're willing to take a chance on a stubborn idiot who almost lost you because he couldn't get out of his own way—"
"I'd give it all up," you interrupted. "The ranch, the money, the legacy… all of it. If it meant I could have something like what Pete and Maria have, If it meant I could have you."
His breath caught. "You don't mean that."
"I do," you held his eyes, let him see the truth "I love the ranch, the work, the land… but I would walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant having a simple life with you. A small place, horses we actually have time to ride, mornings where we drink coffee together. I'd trade the empire for the everyday, Bucky, every single time."
"Don't say things like that, wildfire." He pressed is forehead to yours, careful with the oxygen tubes and the IV lines.
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me want to take you up on it, makes me want to say fuck the ranch and the town and everyone's expectations and let's just run away together."
"Maybe we should," you said.
He pulled back to look at you. "You're delirious from smoke inhalation."
"I'm serious," and you were. "Not today, or tomorrow, but maybe eventually."
"You'd really leave?" He searched your face. "You'd really walk away from everything you've built."
"For us?" You smiled. "In a heartbeat."
He kissed you then, gentle and careful with your injuries, tasting like smoke and salt and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet again.
"I don't deserve you."
"Probably not," you agreed and he huffed a laugh. "But you love me anyway."
"I do," he said it like a vow. "God help me, I do."
"Then that's enough," you laced your fingers through his. "We'll figure out the rest, but right now, can we just… be?"
"Be what?"
"Together." You squeezed his hand. "Just two people who love each other… just us."
He settled back into the chair, brought your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Yeah, wildfire. We can do that."
You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours and his voice soft in the darkness, telling you about how Copper had tried to break back into the paddock, about how Pete was already talking to contractors about rebuilding the stable, about how the sun was going to rise soon, and when it did, everything would look better.
One year later
You woke up to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, you just lay there, hand drifting to your still-flat stomach, the secret sitting warm in your chest.
You've known for three weeks, ever since you'd taken the test in the bathroom of the main house while Bucky was out checking the irrigation system. You'd been waiting for the right moment to tell him, something that matched the enormity of it.
You are going to be a father.
The other side of the bed was rumpled and empty, Bucky's watch still on the nightstand beside a book about investment strategies he's been reading. Your husband had surprised you over the past year while you've been scaling back the ranch operations, he'd been building something of his own. Nothing that took him away from you, nothing that required sacrifice or absence, but careful investments in stocks, a small stake in a friend's agricultural tech startup, some rental properties two counties over that he managed remotely.
"Not trying to match you," he said when he first told you about it, almost shy. "Just building something for us, for the future."
And now there was a very specific future growing inside you.
You pulled on one of Bucky's old flannel shirts, over your sleep clothes and padded downstairs barefoot. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in jeans and nothing else, two mugs of coffee already poured.
Well, one mug of coffee… the other was herbal tea.
Your heart stuttered. Had he noticed? You've been so careful, switching to decaf when he wasn't looking, making excuses about wanting to cut back on caffeine.
"Morning, wildfire." He turned and smiled, and you searched his face for signs that he knew. But he just looked like himself—happy, relaxed, the permanent tension he used to carry finally gone from his shoulders.
"Morning, husband." You crossed to him, let him pull you in for a kiss that tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. "You made me tea?"
"Figured you might want something different." He handed you the mug."You've been drinking less coffee lately, thought maybe you were getting tired of it."
Not suspicious, then. Just Bucky taking care of you the way he always did, paying attention to the small details.
"Thank you," you took a sip. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." His hands settled on your hips. "Kept thinking about that trail ride you promised me."
"Did I promise you a trail ride?"
"You definitely did," he kissed your temple. "Said something about finally having time to actually ride horses instead of just breeding and training them."
He wasn't wrong. In the year since the fire, things had changed. You hired two additional hands, promoted Pete to co-manager, and started actually delegating tasks. The ranch still ran beautifully, but you and Bucky had something you'd never had before: time.
And soon, you'd need that time for something else entirely.
Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it, and you caught yourself, turning the gesture into smoothing down the shirt. But your mind was already spinning—would you still be able to ride in a few months? Would Bucky insist you stop? Would he be overprotective, or excited or scared or—
"Wildfire?" Bucky's voice pulled you back. "You okay? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," you smiled, probably too brightly. "I'm just hungry, should eat something before we ride."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he just nodded. "I'll make breakfast, you sit."
You perched on one of the kitchen stools and watched him move around the kitchen with easy familiarity. This was your favorite part of the new life you'd built, mornings like this, just the two of you before the day really started.
Soon there would be three of you, and the thought made your chest tight with joy and terror in equal measure.
"Actually," you said as he cracked eggs into a pan, "what if we skip the trail ride this morning? We could go this afternoon instead, make a whole thing of it… pack a picnic, ride out to the creek, spend a few hours just existing."
He glanced over his shoulder a bit surprised. "Yeah? You want to play hooky from ranch work on a Tuesday?"
"We're the bosses, we're allowed." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "Besides, when was the last time we just took an afternoon for ourselves?"
"Good point," he played the eggs, added toast and brought it over to you. "We can do the morning checks, make sure everything's running smooth, then disappear for a few hours."
"Perfect."
The world came out soft, full of meaning he didn't quite catch yet, but he would. This afternoon, by the creek, you'd tell him about the baby, about your future, about how everything was about to change in the best possible way.
You just had to make it through the morning without giving it away.
By noon, you'd packed a basket with sandwiches, fruit, and the fancy cheese Bucky loved from the market in town. You'd also packed ginger cookies for the nausea that had been creeping in the past week, and a bottle of sparkling cider that you hoped would work for a toast.
Bucky was tacking up Duke and Ranger, and you were trying to calm your racing heart. You've told people difficult things before, you've fired employees, negotiated contracts, stood up to your father when he was being stubborn, but this felt bigger than all of that.
"Ready?" Bucky appeared in the tack room doorway, looking unfairly handsome in his worn jeans and work shirt, hair pushed back from his face.
"Ready," you grabbed the basket and let him help you mount Ranger.
You rode out in comfortable silence, taking the familiar trail north toward the creek. The autumn day was perfect—cool but not cold, the leaves just starting to turn gold and red. When you reached the creek, Bucky dismounted first and came to help you down, hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You've seemed… I don't know, different today. Nervous, maybe?"
Damn his observant nature. "I'm fine, just happy."
"Yeah?" He smiled, some of the concern easing. "Me too."
You spread out the blanket you'd fought while Bucky loosened the horses' girths and let them graze nearby. The creek burbled softly, and the sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, and everything felt almost too perfect.
"This was a good idea," Bucky said settling beside you on the blanket. "We should do this more often, just disappear for a few hours."
"We should," you busied yourself unpacking the basket, hands shaking slightly. "Especially now that you've got your investments working for you, Pete can handle more of the daily operations."
"Speaking of which," he took the sandwich you handed him. "I wanted to talk about that. Remember the tech startup I invested in? They're doing really well, better than projected. My stake has almost doubled in value, and—" He paused, looking almost shy. "I've been thinking about diversifying more, maybe some agriculture projects or another rental property, something that can generate passive income."
"That's amazing, Bucky." And it was. You'd watched him transform over the past year from someone who measured his worth in sweat equity to someone who understood there were other ways to build security.
"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I used to be weird about money, but this feels different. Feels like I'm building something that's ours without sacrificing time with you. Without having to choose between being present and being a provider."
"You've always been a provider." You set down your untouched sandwich. "But I'm proud of you for finding a way to do it that works for you."
"I had a good teacher," he kissed your temple. "You taught me that there's ore than one way to build a life together."
This was it. This was the moment. Your heart was pounding so hard you wee sure he could hear it.
"Speaking of building a life together," you started, voice shaking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."
He set down his sandwich, his attention immediately focused on you. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Is it the ranch? Is—"
"Nothing's wrong." You took his hand, pressed it against your still-flat stomach. "Everything's right, actually. Everything is… perfect."
He froze and you watched understanding dawn slowly: the tea instead of coffee, the fact that you'd been tired lately, the way you'd been careful about lifting heavy things. All the small signs he'd noticed but hadn't put together.
"Wildfire," he breathed. "Are you—"
"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a rush, nervous and excited all at once. "About six weeks. I found out three weeks ago and I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you and I thought here, by the creek, it felt—"
He cut you off with a kiss, so deep and full of joy so pure it made your chest ache. When he used back, his eyes were bright with tears.
"You're pregnant," he said, like he was testing the words. "We are having a baby."
"We're having a baby," you were crying now too, laughing through the tears. "I know we didn't plan this, we haven't even talked about kids yet, but I'm so happy, I'm so—"
"Happy," he finished for you, his hands coming up to frame your face. "God, I'm so happy I can't even— I don't have words, I don't know what else to say except I love you and this is everything."
He pulled you into his arms, held you tight against his chest, and you could feel him shaking.
"Holy shit, I'm going to be a dad" he whispered into your hair.
"You're gonna be a great dad," you pulled back to look at him.
"I know, thanks to you. And this baby is gonna have everything they need, not because of money or any of that shit I used to obsess over, but because we'll be their parents."
"Yeah," you covered his hand with yours. "Yeah, they will."
"How are you feeling? Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Should you even be riding? Jesus, should I have let you get on a horse—"
"Bucky," you laughed, cutting off his spiral. "I'm fine, I saw the doctor two weeks ago, everything looks good. I can ride for another few months as long as I'm careful. The morning sickness is mild, just some nausea, nothing terrible. I'm healthy, baby's healthy, everything's perfect."
"Everything's perfect," he repeated, and then his eyes went wide again. "Wait, does anyone else know? Pete? Maria? Have you been keeping this secret by yourself."
"Just me," you squeezed his hand. "I wanted you to be the first to know, wanted it to be just us, just this moment."
"Best moment of my life," he kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Well, second best, first was marrying you."
"Third best was punching Sheridan's face."
He laughed, loud and bright, and the sound of it made your heart soar. This was the man you'd fallen in love with, the one who could still laugh, who could let go of his pride and just be happy, just be present in the moment.
"We should celebrate." He reached for the basket, pulled out the sparkling cider you'd packed. "Did you plan this?"
"I hoped," you watched him pour two glasses. "Hoped you'd be happy, and this would be the right way to tell you."
"It's perfect." He handed you a glass, raised his own. "To our future."
You clinked glasses, sipped the sweet fizz, and then he was kissing you again, laying you back on the blanket with careful hands.
You laid there together as the afternoon sun shifted through the trees, talking about names and nursery colors and whether you'd find out the gender or be surprised. About how the ranch would need some adjustments, but nothing you couldn't handle. About how Pete and Maria would be thrilled, how the crew would rally around you, how this baby would grow up surrounded by love.
About the future you were building, not just the two of you anymore, but three.
He placed his hand over your stomach, and you covered it with yours, and for a long moment, you just sat there together, listening to the creek and the horses and the perfect silence of a life finally fully lived.
When you finally rode back, the ranch was settling into evening—crew heading home, lights coming on in the main house, the familiar rhythm of end of the day routines. But everything looked different now, felt different.
Because you weren't just coming home to the ranch you ran together. You were coming home to the place where you'd raise your child, whey you would see their first steps, teach how to ride their first horse, learn what it meant to work hard and love harder. Where they'd grow p knowing their parents chose each other every day and created a life worth living.
Bucky helped you dismount, hands lingering in your waist, his eyes soft with wonder and love and barely contained joy.
"Ready to tell everyone?" You asked.
"Ready," he laced his fingers through yours. "Let's go tell our family."
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, possessiveness, jealous!bucky, deep conversations, a touch of angst
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 4.3k
author's note: hii my dears! i am so so excited to post this chapter because i had a great time writing it! i love it so, so much and i hope you will too! love ya guys and stay safe out there!
series masterlist
The moonlight spilled through the glass panes in long, soft streaks, painting the suite in muted silver. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs in slow, rhythmic intervals–their roar softened by thick walls and heavier curtains. The night had finally gone still.
The comms had gone silent. One final crackle from Ava confirmed the team was calling it, settling down, resting.
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was peace.
You sat at the edge of the bed, your back to Bucky, one hand gripping the edge of a throw pillow as you carefully wedged it between you both—a makeshift border.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.
The room held its breath for a moment.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.
“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.
“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.
His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”
You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.
“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.
“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”
You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.
The words sank deeper than you expected.
And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.
“It’s not that I don’t care.”
You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.
“I care too much. That’s the problem.”
Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”
He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“I’m asking you not to die over it.”
That landed harder than anything else.
A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.
“You always know what to say to piss me off.”
Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.
“Unfortunately.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.
Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.
You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.
Another long pause.
Then—his voice, tired but teasing.
“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”
You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.
“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”
That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.
Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.
Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”
He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.
But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.
“’Night, doll.”
Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.
Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee.
The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer.
Familiar.
Something was different.
He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.
Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there.
The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.
Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.
His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin.
Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.
Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.
He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.
But he didn’t.
He just stared.
His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.
“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.
You hadn’t.
You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.
Trouble.
That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.
You were still trouble.
Just a different kind now.
His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.
Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.
By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.
Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.
He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.
You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”
He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.
Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.
“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”
You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”
Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.
And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.
Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.
Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.
Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.
None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.
You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.
The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.
The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.
It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.
Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.
Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.
He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”
You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.
“What do we do?” you asked quietly.
Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.
“Take it.”
Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.
But your pulse stuttered all the same.
Then you slid your hand into his.
His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.
Like you did this every day.
And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.
It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.
Technically.
But it lingered.
Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.
You didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.
“Good girl.”
You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.
The words hit low, sharp.
Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.
And of course he did.
You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.
“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.
He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”
You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.
“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”
You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall.
The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.
“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.
“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”
Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”
You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”
“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”
You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”
He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”
Everyone laughed.
You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.
Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.
“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.
“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”
You blinked.
Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.
He said it like he meant it.
Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”
You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”
Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.
You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.
“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.
Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”
The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.
But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.
The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.
From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.
Unfortunately.
His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.
Because there you were.
Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.
The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.
You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.
You had to know what you were doing.
You had to.
“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”
Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.
Because now some guy was approaching you.
Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.
Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.
Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations.
But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.
“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.
“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”
Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.
You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.
Flirted.
Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.
And that was it.
His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.
He didn’t think, didn’t pause.
The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.
You noticed him immediately.
Of course you did.
Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.
“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.
The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.
“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.
The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”
“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.
You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.
“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”
You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.
Then, slowly, you stood.
It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.
“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.
“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.
“You were feeling yourself.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.
Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.
Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.
“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.
Bucky stopped short.
His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”
You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”
“Because I care if you get killed”
The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.
You blinked. Once.
And then the space between you collapsed.
You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.
Your noses bumped.
His breath ghosted across your lips.
The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.
So close.
So fucking close.
You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.
“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.
“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.
You tilted your chin.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
And then—
A door slammed.
A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.
The spell shattered.
Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.
Then, finally, you stepped back.
One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.
Bucky didn’t follow.
Not yet.
He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Because he almost kissed you.
And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.
The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.
The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.
You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.
And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.
It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.
Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.
God.
You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.
But it didn’t go.
You could still feel it.
The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.
The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.
It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.
You hated it.
Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.
You were supposed to be in control.
You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.
But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.
You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.
You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.
It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.
But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.
From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.
Bucky.
You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.
The faucet turned off.
You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.
Not just at him.
At yourself.
At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.
The bathroom door opened.
You didn’t look.
You didn’t need to.
You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.
He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.
He didn’t say a word.
Neither did you.
He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.
You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.
He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.
You didn’t make it easier.
Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.
A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.
The tension hung between you anyway.
It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.
You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.
But not calm.
You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.
You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.
But you didn’t do any of that.
You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.
Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.
Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.
And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, possessiveness, jealous!bucky, deep conversations, a touch of angst
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 4.3k
author's note: hii my dears! i am so so excited to post this chapter because i had a great time writing it! i love it so, so much and i hope you will too! love ya guys and stay safe out there!
series masterlist
The moonlight spilled through the glass panes in long, soft streaks, painting the suite in muted silver. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs in slow, rhythmic intervals–their roar softened by thick walls and heavier curtains. The night had finally gone still.
The comms had gone silent. One final crackle from Ava confirmed the team was calling it, settling down, resting.
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was peace.
You sat at the edge of the bed, your back to Bucky, one hand gripping the edge of a throw pillow as you carefully wedged it between you both—a makeshift border.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.
The room held its breath for a moment.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.
“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.
“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.
His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”
You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.
“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.
“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”
You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.
The words sank deeper than you expected.
And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.
“It’s not that I don’t care.”
You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.
“I care too much. That’s the problem.”
Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”
He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“I’m asking you not to die over it.”
That landed harder than anything else.
A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.
“You always know what to say to piss me off.”
Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.
“Unfortunately.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.
Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.
You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.
Another long pause.
Then—his voice, tired but teasing.
“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”
You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.
“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”
That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.
Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.
Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”
He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.
But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.
“’Night, doll.”
Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.
Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee.
The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer.
Familiar.
Something was different.
He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.
Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there.
The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.
Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.
His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin.
Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.
Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.
He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.
But he didn’t.
He just stared.
His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.
“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.
You hadn’t.
You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.
Trouble.
That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.
You were still trouble.
Just a different kind now.
His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.
Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.
By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.
Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.
He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.
You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”
He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.
Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.
“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”
You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”
Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.
And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.
Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.
Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.
Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.
None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.
You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.
The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.
The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.
It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.
Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.
Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.
He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”
You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.
“What do we do?” you asked quietly.
Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.
“Take it.”
Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.
But your pulse stuttered all the same.
Then you slid your hand into his.
His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.
Like you did this every day.
And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.
It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.
Technically.
But it lingered.
Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.
You didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.
“Good girl.”
You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.
The words hit low, sharp.
Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.
And of course he did.
You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.
“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.
He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”
You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.
“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”
You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall.
The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.
“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.
“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”
Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”
You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”
“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”
You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”
He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”
Everyone laughed.
You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.
Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.
“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.
“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”
You blinked.
Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.
He said it like he meant it.
Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”
You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”
Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.
You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.
“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.
Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”
The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.
But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.
The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.
From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.
Unfortunately.
His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.
Because there you were.
Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.
The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.
You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.
You had to know what you were doing.
You had to.
“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”
Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.
Because now some guy was approaching you.
Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.
Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.
Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations.
But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.
“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.
“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”
Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.
You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.
Flirted.
Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.
And that was it.
His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.
He didn’t think, didn’t pause.
The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.
You noticed him immediately.
Of course you did.
Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.
“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.
The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.
“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.
The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”
“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.
You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.
“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”
You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.
Then, slowly, you stood.
It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.
“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.
“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.
“You were feeling yourself.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.
Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.
Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.
“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.
Bucky stopped short.
His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”
You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”
“Because I care if you get killed”
The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.
You blinked. Once.
And then the space between you collapsed.
You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.
Your noses bumped.
His breath ghosted across your lips.
The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.
So close.
So fucking close.
You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.
“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.
“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.
You tilted your chin.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
And then—
A door slammed.
A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.
The spell shattered.
Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.
Then, finally, you stepped back.
One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.
Bucky didn’t follow.
Not yet.
He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Because he almost kissed you.
And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.
The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.
The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.
You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.
And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.
It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.
Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.
God.
You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.
But it didn’t go.
You could still feel it.
The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.
The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.
It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.
You hated it.
Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.
You were supposed to be in control.
You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.
But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.
You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.
You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.
It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.
But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.
From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.
Bucky.
You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.
The faucet turned off.
You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.
Not just at him.
At yourself.
At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.
The bathroom door opened.
You didn’t look.
You didn’t need to.
You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.
He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.
He didn’t say a word.
Neither did you.
He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.
You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.
He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.
You didn’t make it easier.
Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.
A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.
The tension hung between you anyway.
It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.
You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.
But not calm.
You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.
You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.
But you didn’t do any of that.
You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.
Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.
Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.
And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
word count: 2.5k
author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333
series masterlist
“You can’t be serious.”
Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.
Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”
You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”
“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.
Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”
Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.
John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”
“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”
“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.
Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”
John scowled. “It had layers.”
She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.
“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."
You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”
“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.
You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”
Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”
“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.
Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."
You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”
She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.
“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”
You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.
“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.
Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”
With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”
You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.
Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”
“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer.
You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.
Six Hours Later
“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.
The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.
Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”
You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”
Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”
“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”
“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.
You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.
Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.
“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”
You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”
Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”
“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”
Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival
The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.
The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.
The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.
Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.
Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”
His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”
You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.
Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.
A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.
“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.
It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.
He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.
“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”
Your mouth went a little dry.
“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”
His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.
Play the part.
You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”
The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”
“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”
Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.
There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.
Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.
“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”
And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.
The suite was ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.
The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.
A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—
“Oh, hell no.”
You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.
Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.
The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.
The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.
Just one bed.
Of course.
You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.
“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.
You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”
“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.
It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.
You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”
His brow rose. “I just figured—”
“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”
He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.
But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.
“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”
You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.
And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.
Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.
One button. Then the next. Then the next.
You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.
There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.
He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.
His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
You tried not to stare.
You really tried.
And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.
“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.
Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”
He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”
You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”
“I do, actually.”
You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.
“Just say the word.”
Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.
You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.
This was going to be a problem.
Your earpiece crackled to life.
“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”
You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › you were never meant to survive. hidden for years in a quiet village at the edge of the northern woods, you grow up believing you are ordinary—until the queen who destroyed your kingdom learns the truth. your scent carries old magic. your blood can command loyalty. and there is a prophecy that says you will be the end of her reign.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › alpha!hunter!bucky x omega!princess!reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI, alternate universe - werewolf au, a/b/o dynamics, loosely inspired by 2012 film snow white and the huntsman, depictions of blood & violence, mentions of war/war trauma, lowk kidnapping at first, mind control, sorcery & blood magic, semi enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, forced proximity, beefy bucky, bucky is only referred to as james, true loves kiss, flirting & light banter, fated mates, eventual fluff, nesting, marking/biting, smut, p in v, virginity loss (not really mentioned tho), unprotected sex, pheromones/scent kink?, breeding, talk of pregnancy, happily ever after, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 22.4k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › junie of house jonesin actually posting a fic??? is this a prank cut the cameras... on some real shit this fic took a lot out of my but im glad i finished it, i think this is my new baby... ALSO i had to wiggle worm my way around the 1000 block limit so if some paragraphs seem super long thats why im sorry i hate it but im not breaking this up into two parts LOL id rather die. as always thank you for reading and bearing with me through all my bs <3
Once upon a time,
Beneath the boughs where shadows creep,
The lost-born heir in silence she sleeps.
An omega child with ancient breath,
Will rise again from hidden death.
Her scent will stir both fang and flame,
And every pack will know her name.
The wolves will bow, the ravens sing,
For blood remembers its true king.
The crown once stolen, stained in red,
Will crack beneath the sorceress queen’s dark tread.
Her gilded halls will turn to dust,
Her throne undone by greed and lust.
For when the moon burns silver bright,
The hidden rose will claim her right.
Old kingdoms broken, torn apart,
Will mend beneath her beating heart.
You'll always remember how much your mother loved the gardens most in winter.
She said it was the only season that told the truth, that spring was too eager, summer too full of itself. Autumn too beautiful in the way beautiful things often are right before they die. But winter was honest, winter stripped everything bare.
Winter in the northern kingdom settled so heavily that even the castle seemed quieter beneath it. Snow covered the gardens in soft white drifts as frost climbed the windows in delicate patterns. The world beyond the walls looked pale and sleeping, wrapped in cold and stillness.
She stood in the snow with a fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders and her gloved hands tucked beneath her sleeves, walking slowly through the sleeping garden while servants followed several steps behind.
Your father watched her from the stone archway always with that look in his eyes, their color bright despite the clouded dim sky, like the world had become something softer the moment she stepped into it. At the center of the garden, tangled among frost-bitten vines, a single rose had bloomed.
Bright red against the snow.
Your mother stopped. The petals looked impossibly alive beneath the gray winter sky, soft and crimson and stubborn. She reached for it without thinking an the thorn pricked her finger. A sharp little breath left her as she pulled her hand back leaving three drops of blood to fall onto the snow.
You would always be told that was the moment everything began.
By the next winter, you were born. You grew up in warmth, but not because the kingdom was gentle, it wasn't. Winters were harsh in the north and the people were proud and loud and quick to fight. But you were loved.
You knew that even before you knew the words for it.
You knew it in the way your mother tucked blankets around you herself instead of leaving it to servants. In the way your father carried you through the halls when you were too sleepy to walk. In the way the castle dogs followed you everywhere, tails wagging wildly whenever you laughed.
You knew it in the gardens.
You spent most of your early childhood there.
Among roses and ivy and lavender bushes, with dirt beneath your nails and flower petals tangled in your hair. The gardeners adored you because nothing ever died around you. Flowers bloomed brighter where you stepped, wilted things straightened when you touched them.
The older servants would exchange glances when they thought no one was looking.
Magic, they whispered. The prophecy fufilled in flesh.
Your mother only smiled when she heard them.
"You were born from winter and roses," she would tell you while brushing your hair before bed. "Of course the world listens when you speak to it."
You grew up with nine springs of love. Nine summers of warm woven winds that howled against your windows, nine autumns of falling leaves that crunched under your boots. The morning of the winter solstice, your birthday, was the last day of peace.
By the time the sun had crested over the horizon, the sky turned black.
You remember standing at the nursery window in your nightgown, one hand still clutching the red ribbon your mother had tied into your braid the night before, watching smoke rise in the distance beyond the mountains. At first, no one understood what they were seeing, then the bells began. Servants rushed through the halls. Guards flooded the courtyards below in steel and furs. Somewhere deep in the castle, someone shouted for the king.
Your mother swept into your room moments later, pale-faced and breathless. She pulled a heavy cloak around your shoulders with shaking hands.
"What's happening?" you asked.
She cupped your face.
"I need you to be very brave for me."
You still remembered the way her fingers trembled as she took you down to the tunnels for safety, and the sound of the army reaching the outer gates. Glass soldiers, they said. Black and gleaming and terrible, moving like shadows over the snow. They poured through the lower villages first, leaving smoke and blood behind them. By the time they reached the castle, the world outside the walls was burning.
Your father rode out to meet them. You remember the roar of the gates opening, the thunder of horses, the smell of smoke drifting through the windows. Hours later, he returned.
Victorious, they said.
But not alone. There was a woman with him. Beautiful in the sort of way storms were beautiful, dangerous and eerie. Dark hair spilling down her back, pale skin untouched by cold, a white gown that looked too clean amidst all the blood and ash. She stood beside your father like she had always belonged there and your father looked at her as if the entire world had narrowed to only her.
Your mother knew immediately, could see something that most could not, could feel the sorcery that lingered around her in the air. You remember the look on her face when she saw the woman step into the ashen dimmed light. The woman called herself a queen from the southern kingdoms. Claimed her lands had been destroyed by the same army that had attacked yours. Claimed she had nowhere left to go.
Your father believed her and by dusk she was sitting beside him at dinner.
By nightfall, he had agreed to help her retaliate against the army that had crushed her kingdom. There was something glassy in his eyes, something smooth and too sinister to name. Your mother tried to stop it, tried to snap him out of the dark green glow that glossed over his eyes.
Everything moved too fast after that.
You remember waking to shouting somewhere beyond your chambers, doors slamming, footsteps running down stone halls. Then silence, heavy and wrong, lingering in the halls. Your nurse came for you past midnight. She wrapped you in blankets and carried you through dark servant passages beneath the castle, one hand pressed over your mouth to keep you quiet.
"Where's my mother?" you kept asking.
She never answered, only held you tighter as you ran. The castle sounded different when the moon lit the night sky, stars shining down. You could hear screaming above you, the crash of glass, the sharp clang of steel against steel. Somewhere, a man was begging for mercy.
Then you reached the hidden passage behind the kitchens and saw blood smeared across the stone floor. Your nurse stopped so suddenly you nearly fell from her arms. There your mother lay, glass shatters of a sword scattered around her. Your mind, as young as it was could still fill in the blanks for you. She ran. She fought. She died. You remember the pale blue of her dress first, then the blood, so much blood. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair spread around her like spilled ink. One of her hands still stretched toward the doorway you stood in, as though she had been trying to reach you.
Your nurse pulled you against her chest before you could see more, but it was too late. You saw enough.
You do not remember much after that, only pieces. Running through smoke-filled hallways, the castle burning, a loyal guard shoving a sword into your nurse's hands. The sound of the new sorceress queen's voice echoed through the halls, calm and cold and terrible.
"Find the girl!"
You made it as far as the stables to people waiting for you there. Men and women loyal to your mother, already bloodied from fighting. One of them lifted you onto a horse while another tied a cloak around your shoulders. Your nurse climbed up behind you. She was crying. You had never seen her cry before, it pricked hot tears at your waterline. As the horse started forward, she pressed her lips to your temple.
"You must listen to me," she whispered. "You cannot go back. Do you understand? You cannot ever let her find you."
You were crying too hard to answer. Soon the forest blurred in front of you as the horse raced through the snow. Behind you, the castle disappeared beneath smoke.
"Your mother knew," your nurse said, voice shaking. "She knew what you were. What you would become. She thought you would have more time."
You turned around toward her.
"What am I?"
She looked at you with tears streaming down her face.
"There is a prophecy," she whispered. "About the daughter born from winter and roses. About the omega princess who will rise again and—"
An arrow cut through the air with a silent hiss, cutting through the tip of your ear and buried itself in her throat. You screamed, your throat catching on a sound you'd never heard yourself make before, a sound that felt farm from human. Pain bloomed at your ear as hot blood began to trickle down, though you couldn't feel it. You couldn't feel anything. Her body jerked backward, blood spilling down the front of her dress and the horse reared you both off.
You hit the ground hard and for a moment, the world became nothing but snow and pain and the taste of blood in your mouth. When your head cleared you looked up to see a figure stood at the edge of the trees, tall and dressed all in black and still as the wind. A boy, not much older than a teenager with dark hair and a bow still raised in his hands. There was blood splattered across his cheek. And around his neck, something black glinted beneath the collar of his coat. He stared at you for one long moment, then someone shouted his name from deeper in the trees. He looked away. Only for a second.
But when he looked back, you were already running.
You ran until your legs gave out. Then you walked. Then you hid. And after a while, you learned how to disappear.
At first, it was easy enough. You were small. Young. Easy to overlook in the chaos left behind by the evil queen's rise to power. Villages burned every week, families were scattered, children lost their parents and never found them again. You just became one more frightened face among hundreds.
You stopped telling people your real name. Stopped saying where you came from. When people asked, you lied, you said your parents had died in a fever, said you had come from some village too far south for anyone to question. You said you were looking for work, for family, for anything.
Sometimes people believed you. Sometimes they didn't. But no one looked too closely at a ragged little girl with dirty hands and hollow cheeks. You learned quickly which villages were safe, which roads to avoid. Which people might offer you soup and which might sell you for coin if you looked at them too long. You learned how to sleep in haylofts and abandoned sheds. How to wrap your feet in cloth when your shoes wore through. How to steal apples without being caught and how to keep walking even when your stomach hurt so badly it felt like something inside you was eating itself.
The years blurred together after that. Summer heat. Winter cold. Autumn breeze. Faces you forgot almost as soon as you left them behind. You grew taller, hair darkened, eyes wider and alert. Your scent changed with age, becoming softer and deeper all at once. Richer in a way you did not understand but knew enough to hide.
People noticed you more as you got older. Alphas especially. You learned to keep your head down, to avoid looking anyone in the eye for too long, to never stay anywhere longer than a few weeks. But loneliness has a way of making people reckless.
You were fifteen the first time you reached the village at the edge of the northern woods. It was small and quiet. Tucked so deeply between the trees and mountains that it almost felt hidden from the rest of the world. You told yourself you would only stay for the night. Maybe two. Long enough to rest your feet and warm your hands and steal enough food to survive the next stretch of road.
You had not eaten in almost two days when you saw the bread. Fresh from the oven, still steaming in a basket outside the bakery window. You remember standing there in the cold, staring at it, at the golden crust, at the curls of steam rising into the winter air. Your stomach hurt so badly you thought you might cry.
You looked around once, no one was there, so you reached for it. Your fingers had barely closed around the bread roll before a voice snapped behind you.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing?"
You jumped so badly you nearly dropped it. An older woman stood in the bakery doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was broad-shouldered and flour-dusted, with silver threaded through dark hair and the kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by everything around her.
You immediately shoved the bread back into the basket.
"I-I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" she repeated sharply. "You steal from me and your answer is sorry?"
Your face burned.
"I'm sorry," you said again, more quickly this time. "I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean to, but I wouldn't have if I had money and—"
"That is usually how stealing works."
You swallowed hard, your hands twisted together in front of you. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you dropped to your knees in the snow and bowed your head all the way to the ground. The movement was pure instinct, something buried so deep inside you that it happened before you could stop it. Your scent betrays you. It had been soft before, something steady and almost forgettable in its gentleness. But now it twists, curling into the air around you shifting into something like burnt sugar, bitter at the edges, like something left too long on the flame. Cinnamon, once warm, now biting—spiced too sharply, clinging instead of comforting.
It thickens with your fear, wraps around you, gives you away.
"I'm sorry." Your voice was muffled by the ground but it was shaking still. It was met with silence, only the brief wind through the bare trees could be heard. Slowly, you lifted your head. The woman's expression had changed, only slightly, but enough. Because now she was not looking at you like a thief. She was looking at you like she had just found something she was not supposed to.
You scrambled back to your feet immediately.
"I can go," you said too quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"How old are you?"
You blinked.
"What?"
"How old are you?" she repeated.
You hesitated.
"Fifteen."
She studied you for another long moment. Your torn cloak. Your worn shoes. The way you were trying not to shake in the cold. Then she sighed heavily through her nose.
"Get inside."
You froze.
"What?"
"You stole from me," she said, already turning back toward the bakery. "Which means you owe me. You're going to work it off."
You stared at her.
"You mean... work here?"
"If you want somewhere warm to sleep tonight."
You followed her inside before she could change her mind.
The bakery was small. Warm in the way only bakeries could be. Everything smelled like flour and cinnamon and rising dough. There was a fire crackling in the back room and blankets folded neatly in one corner beside an old rocking chair. You nearly cried from relief the moment the heat touched your skin.
The woman shoved an apron into your hands.
"You can start by cleaning."
You worked until your hands ached. Sweeping floors, washing trays, carrying sacks of flour twice your size from the storage room. By the end of the night, your hair was dusted white and your arms trembled from exhaustion. The woman handed you a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. You ate it so quickly you barely remembered to breathe. She watched you the entire time, not suspiciously just with a careful eye, like she was looking for something that was already there and had hidden itself beneath the surface.
Later, after the bakery had closed and you had nearly fallen asleep sitting upright in your chair, she brought you a blanket.
"You can sleep by the fire."
You looked up at her.
"Thank you."
She grunted and you stayed the night. Then another. Then another after that.
You learned how to knead dough and braid loaves and wake before sunrise to light the ovens. The woman—Helena, she eventually told you to call her—scolded you constantly and fed you even more constantly. The bakery became something steady, something safe. And for the first time in years, you stopped running. Helena knew who you were almost immediately, not because of your face. Faces changed, time changed people. But scents did not lie. You smelled like old magic and winter roses and royal blood.
She never said it out loud.
Not for a long time.
But sometimes you would catch her watching you when she thought you were not looking. Especially when flowers bloomed too early in the garden out back. Or when birds gathered along the bakery roof in impossible numbers. Or when the old pack markings near the woods warmed beneath your hands.
She knew.
And because she knew, she kept you hidden for as long as she could, but nothing good lasts forever.
The village sat at the edge of the northern woods like it had been forgotten there.
Small and crooked and quiet, with smoke curling from chimneys in soft gray ribbons and fences half-swallowed by ivy, it tucked itself beneath the mountains as though trying not to be noticed. In winter, snow gathered thick on the rooftops and the whole place looked like something painted onto old parchment. In spring, wildflowers pushed through the frost in stubborn little bursts of color, and the river thawed enough to carry birdsong through the trees.
You stayed there almost ten years. Long enough for the bakery to become home. Long enough to stop jumping every time someone knocked at the door. Long enough for the ache in your chest to soften into something you could live around.
Helena never asked too many questions after that first winter. Not about where you had come from. Not about the nightmares that woke you crying or the strange way you looked over your shoulder whenever horses rode through town.
She simply made room for you.
At first, you slept by the fire with old quilts tucked around your shoulders and flour still dusting your hands from the day's work. Later, when you were older and taller and no longer looked half-starved all the time, Helena cleared out the little storage room above the bakery and let you make it your own.
It was small. A narrow bed beneath the window, a wooden dresser with one crooked leg, shelves lined with dried flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. It was the first room that had ever really belonged to you. Still, there were things you could never fully forget. A heavy fur cloak wrapped around you while someone ran through the snow, the sound of horses, the glint of torchlight between the trees. A woman's voice telling you over and over not to cry. You remembered cold fingers around yours and a lullaby you had never heard sung anywhere in the village, soft and low and old enough to sound like it belonged to another world entirely.
Sometimes, in dreams, you could feel it. An arrow flying through the air, the wind being knocked from your lungs as you hit the ground, a pair of pale eyes watching you from a distance. Helena never liked when you spoke of those memories. She would go quiet after, her mouth pulled thin as thread while she kneaded bread too hard or mended shirts by the fire with shaking hands.
"You were sick as a child," she always said. "Dreams feel real when you're sick."
So eventually, you stopped asking and Helena filled your mind with other things instead.
Small things. Somewhat strange things.
She taught you which herbs to hang above your bed when your heats started getting stronger as you got older. Which roots to boil into tea when your scent felt too rich, too noticeable. She taught you how to braid rosemary and cedar into your hair before going into crowded markets so strangers would smell the herbs before they smelled you.
"Never let people know too much about you," she would say while crushing dried leaves between her fingers. "People fear what they don't understand."
She taught you how to listen to the earth. How the woods grew quieter before a storm. How the birds disappeared when strangers entered the forest. How the roots beneath your feet seemed to pull you away from danger before your mind even understood it was there.
"The land will warn you if you pay attention," Helena told you once while the two of you gathered herbs at the edge of the woods. "The earth remembers things people don't."
You thought she was only being strange but over time, you realized she was right.
Animals trusted you in ways they did not trust anyone else. Birds settled on your windowsill in winter and stayed long after the seed was gone. Stray cats followed you home through the market, deer wandered close enough in the woods for you to touch the velvet of their noses.
Even the wolves never frightened you.
You saw them sometimes between the trees at dusk. Great hulking things with silver eyes reflecting the last of the daylight. They watched you quietly, never crossing the line where the woods met the village, waiting as if they knew you.
Then there were the flowers. You tried not to think too hard about that part but it was difficult not to when half the village had seen it happen. You would wake sad and find the flowers outside your window bent low toward the earth, their petals browned at the edges as though touched by frost. Other days, when you laughed hard enough to make your stomach ache, little white blossoms pushed up through cracks in the ground by evening.
Once, after Helena surprised you with a cake on your seventeenth birthday, flowers bloomed all the way down the path behind you. Neither of you spoke about it, but later that night, you found Helena sitting alone at the kitchen table long after the bakery had closed, staring into the fire with tears in her eyes.
The village talked anyway. The older villagers made signs against bad luck when you passed. Mothers pulled their children a little closer, the pack alphas lowered their heads around you without seeming to realize they were doing it.
And every so often, when they thought you couldn't hear, someone would whisper. Royal blood. Forest-born. Cursed. Blessed.
Helena always pretended not to notice. But sometimes, late at night when the fire had burned low and rain tapped softly against the bakery windows, she would tell you stories. Stories about the old kingdoms, about the northern prince whose land had burned beneath black magic and snow. About the lost princess hidden somewhere beyond the mountains.
"The stories say they'll find each other one day," Helena said once while the two of you braided herbs together by candlelight. "The prince and princess of the north."
You smiled faintly.
"And then what?"
Her hands stilled for only a moment.
"Then the evil queen falls," she said quietly. "And the land remembers how to heal again."
You laughed softly, thinking it was only a story.
Helena did not laugh with you.
Far beyond the village, beyond the trees and snow and mountains, the evil queen listened.
Not with her ears.
With the kind of attention that had kept her alive when kingdoms burned and men twice her size tried to break her. With the kind of patience that let whispers travel for months, years, until they finally reached her. An omega in the north. A girl with a scent that lingered too long in the air. Flowers blooming out of season. Animals gathering where they should not. The queen sat very still on her throne as the reports were read aloud. She had spent years erasing the old world. Every banner burned, every bloodline hunted, every child who looked too much like someone important dragged from hiding before they could grow into something dangerous.
She knew what it meant when something survived anyway, when stories refused to die. And this one had followed her for years. Soft at first, easy to ignore and subdue with the promise of fire and ash. Then louder. Then impossible to silence.
For when the moon burns silver bright,
the hidden rose will claim her right.
Old kingdoms broken, torn apart,
will mend beneath her beating heart.
The queen had heard it whispered in ruined halls, in the mouths of dying women, in the quiet defiance of rebels who thought prophecy made them untouchable. She had killed every one of them and still, the words remained. She wanted to believe you were only useful once dead. A body buried beneath snow, a name erased cleanly enough that no one would dare speak it again. Another loose thread cut before it could unravel the careful order she had built.
But the north had always been stubborn, and so had its magic. The women in her court had warned her of that long ago. Ancient seers from kingdoms of old draped in silk and bone, their fingers heavy with rings, their eyes clouded but never blind. They had stood beside her throne since the beginning, whispering truths she did not always care to hear.
This time, they brought her proof.
A scrap of cloth, worn thin and stolen from a village no one had reason to watch. Still carrying the faintest trace of your scent. A broken necklace, dulled with age, its metal etched with a crest no one living dared claim. A dried flower that should not have existed at all—blooming in winter, found growing where nothing else would take root.
The oldest of them took it in her hands and held it over a bowl of dark water, then the petals bled. Red seeping into black. The room fell silent as the seer stepped back for the queen. The water rippled and warped, splashing up against the edges before falling still. The surface changed and went still as stone, morphing into the color of steel, like a mirror. Two guards dragged the cloth from it at her command, the fabric whispering against stone as it fell away.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the glass shivered. Not visibly, not quite, but something beneath it shifted, like breath beneath skin. The queen rose, each step echoed as she descended from her throne, the sound sharp against the quiet, until she stood before it—close enough that her reflection should have met her.
It didn’t.
Her voice cut through the room, cold and measured.
“Speak.”
The surface of the mirror rippled. Not outward, but inward, as though something behind it leaned closer to listen.
“An omega breathes beyond your reach.”
The queen’s jaw tightened.
“I know that much,” she said. “I asked for truth—not riddles.”
A pause.
“A line once buried has taken root again.”
The air shifted. Behind her, one of the seers made a broken sound in her throat, like she wished she hadn’t heard it. The queen’s eyes flickered just for a second, something older wrinkling across her face before smoothing into her young self again.
“Where?” she demanded.
The mirror did not answer her question.
“The north remembers her.”
The words sank into the stone like rot.
“The forests bend. The wild listens. What was scattered begins to gather.”
The queen’s hand lifted, pressing flat against the glass.
“And can she be killed?”
“Not yet.”
The queen’s eyes darkened, she then leaned closer to the mirror, her voice dropping, sharpening.
“What does she become?”
The glass rippled again, deeper this time. And when it answered, it did not sound like one voice—but many.
“A call.”
The torches flickered.
“A claim.”
The room felt smaller.
“The return of what you tried to end.”
The queen’s reflection fractured just slightly, her face splitting along faint, unseen lines before pulling itself back together. For a moment she said nothing, then her hand dropped from the glass. And when she turned, whatever uncertainty had dared to surface was already gone, buried beneath something colder. Harder.
“Then we do not wait,” she said. Her voice carried, sharp as steel. “We do not allow her heart to race. We make sure it stops before it ever learns how.”
Behind her, the mirror went still again, but the cold it left behind did not fade. The queen turned toward the shadows gathered at the edge of the throne room. Her lips curved slowly because at last, after all these years, the shadow at her back had stepped into the light.
"Bring me my huntsman."
He stepped into the room without a sound. Most people never noticed how large he was at first.
They noticed his eyes instead. Steel blue glinting beneath candlelight holding something close to a fury they've never known, silver scars flecked across his jaw and neck worn with years of violence. They noticed the coldness of him too. The way he stood too still. The way his face gave nothing away.
But the frightening thing about him had never been his size.
It was the emptiness. The sense that whatever part of him had once been human had long since been hollowed out. He wore black leathers darkened by snow and old blood, a fur mantle thrown over broad shoulders, his hair longer than most soldiers allowed, brushing against the edge of his jaw. A jagged scar cut across his face like a crack through stone.
Around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt, rested the talisman. A shard of obsidian wrapped in silver with talons stuck into his skin. The queen's leash.
Once, long ago, before the wars and blood and iron, he had been something else. A prince of the northern kingdom. An alpha born beneath snowfall and pine trees and towering white mountains. A boy with sisters who laughed too loud and a mother who braided charms into his hair before battle practice and a father who called him stubborn with too much pride in his voice.
But that kingdom had burned, his family had died screaming and the queen had found him in the ruins before the wolves could. Young enough to break, old enough to remember just enough for it to hurt. So she took his name first. Then his home. Then every soft thing left inside him until all that remained was the huntsman.
He remembered almost nothing now.
Only flashes of a woman's lullaby, snow crunching beneath boots, the smell of cedar smoke. Sometimes he woke with blood on his hands and grief clawing at the inside of his chest so violently he thought he might die from it. But he never knew why. The talisman made sure of that. When the queen spoke, he obeyed, when she ordered, he carried it out. He had hunted rebels through forests and dragged princes from hidden sanctuaries. He had slaughtered entire packs who refused to kneel. Mothers frightened their children with stories about him.
The queen's beast. The wolf with the fury of the old gods. The huntsman who never lost his prey.
He dropped to one knee before the throne. The queen descended the steps slowly, her dark gown whispering against stone.
"There is a girl in the northern woods."
The queen reached beneath his shirt and wrapped her fingers around the talisman resting against his chest and instantly, his jaw locked. Pain shot through him sharp and immediate, burning through bone and blood alike.
"You will find her," the queen said softly. "You will bring her back. Alive."
His breathing grew heavier. He could feel the magic taking hold already, sliding through his veins like chains.
The queen leaned closer. "Do not let her speak to you too long. Do not let her scent confuse you. Do not forget what you are. Who you belong to."
His eyes lowered. "Yes, my queen."
Far north, beyond the mountains, you sat beside the old stone at the edge of the woods with a basket in your lap and flower stems between your fingers. The wind shifted. The birds went quiet. The woods fall silent so quickly it feels wrong. Then the dogs in the village start barking, your hands still around the basket in your lap. Helena is hanging linens on the line when she looks up toward the trees and goes pale. You have never seen fear move across someone's face so quickly.
"Go," she says, and you just stare at her. "Go now."
The basket slips from your hands when you hear the tremble in her voice. Apples spill through the grass. "What is it?"
But she is already grabbing your shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.
"They found you. Go."
For one terrible second, everything inside you goes still, not because you understand what is happening. But because some deep, hidden part of you always knew this day would come.
You run before you can think about it. Through the back garden first. Past the rows of lavender and rosemary, past the fence your hands helped mend every spring. The hem of your dress catches on the gate latch hard enough to tear, but you keep going.
Behind you, voices rise through the village of men shouting, horses trampling against the cobbled stone. You hear your name once, then again echoing through the trees and you run faster until the woods swallow you whole.
Branches scrape your arms and face as you stumble deeper between the trees, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard you can taste blood at the back of your throat. Snow still lingers in patches beneath the pines, soaking through your shoes.
You don't know where you are going, only away. You make it farther than anyone expects. Farther than you expect. Miles, maybe. Long enough for the village to disappear behind you entirely. Long enough for your breathing to turn ragged and your legs to shake beneath you.
You think—stupidly, desperately—that maybe you've escaped.
Then you hear it.
A horse somewhere behind you. Steady hooves against the soft ground as though whoever rides it already knows you cannot get away. You break into another run yet your foot catches on a root. You hit the ground hard. Something like lightning strikes through your leg and you curl within yourself, biting into your lip to conceal an agonizing scream. Pain shoots through your bones, sharp enough to make hot tears spring to your eyes. Before you can scramble back up, a shadow falls across you.
You look up and there he is.
The huntsman.
He looks worse than the stories. Larger somehow. Broader. The fur over his shoulders is dusted with snow, his dark hair tangled from the wind, jaw shadowed from days without shaving. There is blood on one of his gloves you know is not his.
His face is hard in a way that makes him look carved from winter itself. There is no triumph in him, no cruelty. No satisfaction, only the emptiness that comes with having done this too many times to feel anything at all. That would almost be easier to bear. There is simply... nothing.
Your whole body goes cold because you know him. Not truly or personally, but everyone knows him. The queen's beast. The wolf with the dull eyes and deadly snare. The huntsman who drags people back to the capital in chains and leaves with less than he arrived with.
You push yourself backward through the dirt, leg limp below you.
"Please," you whisper.
He steps closer. You can see the scar across his face now. The line of exhaustion beneath his eyes. The way he moves like something permanently braced for violence.
"Please don't." Panic claws up your throat so fast it makes you dizzy.
He says nothing. His gaze drifts over you once. Torn dress. Mud-stained hands. Your bruised and already swelling leg. The scrape bleeding along your cheek. Then he reaches down, grabs your wrist, and hauls you to your feet.
You cry out at the roughness of it. "Wait—please, please, I didn't do anything—"
A rope appears in his hand, you try to scramble away but your leg can't bear any more weight than a feather and the moment you move his hands dig into your wrists so hard you fear he may snap them.
"Please." He binds your wrists without a word. "No, please—"
Your breath catches when he knots the other end to his belt. Like an animal. You hate yourself for the tears that rise so quickly.
"Please," you say again, voice shaking now. "I can pay you. I can—I don't have much but there are coins hidden beneath the floorboards in the cottage and my necklace and—"
Nothing, he just turns and starts walking. You nearly stumble because of how suddenly the rope jerks taut and cry at the pain that spreads up your leg with every step. He leads you back through the woods to where a small group of soldiers waits with horses.
They stare when they see you, you lower your head instantly. The huntsman unties the rope from his hand and secures it instead to the saddle of his horse. Then he climbs up and you stare at him in disbelief.
"You can't expect me to walk."
He looks down at you. Eyes cold and blank.
"You can walk."
Then he clicks his tongue to the horse and starts forward and you nearly fall over, forcing yourself upright and walking as to not be subjected to the beratment of being dragged behind the horse.
For three days, you limp after him through the woods and over frozen roads, your wrists tied, your ankle growing worse with every mile. You try not to cry though it spills its way over the surface, once or twice, when no one is looking. At night, after the soldiers sleep, you curl on your side and hold your breath against the pain throbbing all the way up your leg. Your ankle swells so badly you can barely fit your shoe back on by morning.
The huntsman never comments on it. He never slows. Never looks back. Only keeps moving, horse plodding steadily onward while you stumble after him through snow and mud and stone.
By the end of third day, your body gives out. You barely make it over a rocky incline before your injured ankle buckles completely beneath you and you hit the ground hard. The rope jerks taut and you can't stop the cry that tears from your throat this time.
One of the soldiers groans. "For fuck's sake."
You stay where you fell, hands pressed into the dirt, chest heaving with tears burning hot behind your eyes. You are so tired. So tired of hurting.
The huntsman's horse stops and for a moment, you think he will force you back to your feet. You anticipate it and slowly push up and your palms.
Instead, there is his voice.
"Make camp."
A few of the soldiers complain, but none of them argue. You don't look at him while they set up camp around you. You don't trust yourself to. As soon as the rope around your wrists is loosened enough to give you a little room, you limp away from the others toward the base of a tree.
You sink down into the roots with shaking hands and pull up the torn hem of your dress. Your ankle is awful, swollen and angry and purple around the edges, even the lightest of touches make you wince under your breath. You know you can't go on like this. You stare at it for a long moment before grabbing two fallen branches from the ground beside you.
You remember seeing the healer in the village do this once so you try to copy her. You break one stick trying to make it fit but the other slips from your hands. You hiss through your teeth and blink hard against the tears suddenly threatening again.
Then a shadow falls over you.
You look up to see the huntsman stands there holding a strip of cloth in one hand and you freeze. Without a word, he crouches in front of you. His hands are rough when he takes your ankle, but not careless.
You suck in a breath at the pain.
"I know," he says flatly.
It is the first thing you hear from him besides curt commands to stop crying or keep up. His voice is low. Rusted from disuse. You hate how relieved you are just to hear it.
You watch his hands as he works.
Large hands. Blood-stained and earth crusted hands. Steady hands.
He places the branches carefully along either side of your ankle before tying them in place with the cloth. Firm enough to keep it from moving, gentle enough that the pressure starts easing the pain almost immediately.
You blink down at it, the relief is so sudden it almost makes you dizzy.
"There," he says.
You look up at him.
"Thank you."
His expression hardens immediately.
"I only did it because you were slowing us down."
Still, you smile faintly.
"Thank you anyway."
Something strange crosses his face then, not quite softness, just a flicker of something unsettled. The slate grey of his eyes lightens into something almost blue. Like he does not know what to do with kindness when it is aimed at him. Instead he reaches for the water skin at his belt and holds it out to you.
You stare at it for a second before taking it carefully from his hand.
"Thank you," you say again, quieter this time.
He looks away before you can see whatever is in his eyes this time, then he stands and walks back toward the fire without another word.
Your fear is not yet washed away, despite his moment of brief kindess. You can walk much better, faster and for longer but every step that doesn't ache in your body aches in your heart. Wondering what lies in store for you at the end of this road. You don't admit it outloud, but deep down you know if the huntsman were here, for you, there's a finality to this that cannot be outrun.
It would see pointless to expect anything more, but you beg anyway. You tell him you will disappear if he lets you go. That you will run so far no one will ever find you again. You promise him money you don't have, horses you don't own, land you can't give, anything he wants. Anything any normal hunter would want.
"I don't want anything," he says once.
It hurts more than the rope burning at your wrists. At night, when he ties the rope around his own wrist before sleeping, you lie awake staring at the fire between you as your captor lays on the other side. You've been traveling with him for near a week now and don't know anything past his blank stare and occasional grunt.
He never sleeps deeply, you've notice that quickly. Every snapped branch, every gust of wind through the trees, every distant howl makes his eyes open instantly. Always alert, always waiting. He doesn't touch you more than he has to, doesn't look at you much either. Sometimes you think you see something in those slate grey eyes, something more. Something…
Maybe you're a fool. Maybe marching your way towards death has made you unreasonably optimistic. Maybe hope is just another thing that refuses to die in you, no matter how many times the world tries to beat it out.
Because something is there.
You see it in the way his gaze lingers a second too long before snapping away. In the way his hand tightens on the rope some nights like he’s reminding himself what you are to him. The way every now and then, you'll feel his gaze on you. But the moment you go to look he's turned away, hand brushing at his chest. There is something about him, and whatever it is, its begun to change.
Days into the journey, the herbs in your hair are begin to fail, they begin to wither.
Helena had always braided them carefully. Rosemary, cedar, crushed petals that dulled the sweetness of your scent, kept it quiet, kept it yours. You’d redone them yourself before you the night of your capture, hands shaking but practiced.
At first, you think it’s just the cold crisping their edges. Then you catch the smell. Faint rushes of a flowing river, warm bursts of lavender, and lingering drying linen. It's been so long since you'd known your natural unmasked scent, it almost felt right but you knew it was wrong the second it floated into the air.
You freeze mid-step. The huntsman doesn’t, making the rope jerk and forces you forward again. But it’s there now. You can’t ignore it, your scent bleeding through stronger than it should be, stronger than it’s ever been. You try to fix the braids that night, fingers clumsy as you twist dried stems back into your hair only for them to crumble in your hands. Dead and useless.
You don’t say anything but it's only a matter of time before someone notices.
Of course they do. The soldiers had been distant before. Rough, but uninterested, you were just cargo. Something to deliver, something to avoid, even. Now, their eyes linger. Too long. You feel it before you understand it. The way conversations quiet when you pass. The way their heads tilt slightly, like something instinctive is pulling at them. The way one of them steps just a little too close when handing you food, you shrink back and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
By the next day, it’s worse.
You keep your head down and thread your fingers over the rope to keep close. To him. But even that doesn’t stop it. Their voices change around you, dropping into something lower.
"Didn’t think she’d smell like that."
"Queen didn’t say she was that kind of omega."
"Bet she’d be real sweet if she just—"
You don’t hear the rest, you don’t need to.
That night, you try to stay closer to the fire. Closer to him. Your skin shudders at the thought of finding comfort in the huntsman. But when presented with the alternative, being at the subjection to the soldiers… your mind makes the choice for you.
But he moves away from the group again like he always does, setting camp just far enough to be separate, not far enough to raise suspicion. You still follow because you have no choice, because the rope says you do. But most of all, because part of you is starting to understand he is the only thing standing between you and something worse.
You wake sometime in the dark, not because of a sound, the forest is eeriely quiet around you. Your heart jolts you awake because something feels wrong. The rope is slack, cut at the far end [and your stomach drops. You push yourself up, panic already clawing its way into your throat and that’s when you hear it.
Voices echoing too close. You turn to see two of the soldiers stand just beyond the trees, watching you. Your breath catches when they crush a twig in their stride.
"Easy," one of them says, stepping forward. "We just wanna talk."
You scramble backward on instinct, your injured ankle screaming in protest.
"I don’t want to talk."
They don’t stop.
"You smell good," the other one says, voice low, almost dazed. "Didn’t notice it before. Guess you were hiding it."
Your back hits the trunk of a tree, nowhere left to go. "Please," you whisper.
They step closer, hushing you softly and sickly. "Just let us—"
The cut end of the rope snaps taut, both men freeze and so do you. There’s a shift in the air. Heavy. It's not like the first time you saw the huntsman arrive, this time is sharper, dangerous in a way you haven't seen before. Coiled tight on the verge of snapping. You don’t see him through the tress but you can feel him. The huntsman steps between you and them like something pulled from shadow, silent and still.
His eyes flick between them once. "Back away."
One of the soldiers scoffs, trying to shake off whatever hold your scent has over him.
"She’s just an omega—"
He doesn’t get to finish. The huntsman moves. It’s fast and violent yet controlled. The soldier stumbles back, breath knocked from his lungs, a knife suddenly pressed just beneath his jaw before he can react.
The other one goes completely still.
"You forget your place," the huntsman says.
His voice is quiet, it's almost worse than shouting. The blade presses just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"She’s the queen’s." A beat. "Not yours."
The words feel like a brand, ownership over you from a woman you've never met. It beads up nervous sweat at the base of your spine.
But the men understand. You can see it in their faces, fear replaces whatever had been there before and they slowly back off with their hands raised.
The moment stretches until they disappear into the trees back to their side of camp.
Only then does the huntsman move. He steps away from you like nothing happened. Like you weren’t just cornered, like he didn’t just almost kill someone for touching what belongs to the queen. Your hands are shaking, still bound together with the loose end of rope brushing your thighs.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He doesn’t look at you.
"Sleep."
You try. Laying your shaking frame against the moss covered ground, and shutting your eyes but you don’t sleep. Not really. And neither does he.
The next morning, everything changes.
There are no arguments, no explanations. He cuts the rope from your wrists, freeing them from their binds, mounts his horse then grabs your arm and pulls you up behind him before you can protest.
The soldiers shout.
"What are you doing?"
He doesn’t answer. Just turns the horse toward the mountains.
"We’ll lose time if you—"
"Find another way on your own," he says flatly.
Then he’s gone and he's taking you with him. Away from them, away from the road and into the cold, winding paths of the mountains where fewer people travel and fewer eyes can follow. You don’t understand it. The path narrows quickly, the ground uneven and steep, branches clawing at your sleeves as the horse pushes forward into terrain no caravan would willingly take. You almost slip but instinct takes over before thought and your arms come up around his waist.
You freeze the moment you realize what you’ve done.
Your hands press against his chest where his coat parts slightly, fingers curling into rough fabric and worn leather. You expect him to jerk away. To snap at you. To shove you back or tell you to keep your distance like he always does.
He doesn’t. He says nothing, he doesn’t even look back. But you feel it, the way his body goes still beneath your touch. Not tense, just aware, like the stillness you hold in your breath when waiting for a moment to pass. You should pull away but you don’t. Because something strange happens when you hold onto him. Something you can’t explain, you can feel his heartbeat steady and strong right beneath your palm. And it does something to him. Or maybe to you. The huntsman, the thing people whisper about in dark corners, the queen’s weapon, the man who dragged you from the woods without a second thought, feels… different like this.
Less distant. Less carved from something cold and unreachable. More… human. The rhythm of his heart grounds him into something that exists beyond fear, something warm beneath all the sharp edges, something that breathes and bleeds. Your grip tightens without meaning to. The horse shifts beneath you as it climbs higher into the mountains, the air growing thinner, colder and you don’t let go. Behind you, the world you knew disappears, ahead of you, only snow and stone and silence and between it all the steady beat beneath your hands.
The huntsman doesn’t speak. But something inside him twists. He can feel it where your hands press against him. Where your warmth seeps through layers he had long stopped noticing. It crawls beneath his skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome and… warm. He hasn’t felt that in a long time, not like this, not without pain tied to it. His jaw tightens with his eyes fixed forward. He says nothing. But he doesn’t make you let go either.
The mountains do not forgive weakness.
You learn that quickly.
The paths are narrower than anything you’ve ever walked. Jagged stone beneath the horse’s hooves, steep drops that vanish into white fog if you look too long. The air is thinner here, colder in a way that settles into your bones and refuses to leave.
He does not slow, of course he doesn’t, but he adjusts.
You notice that too. He chooses paths with more cover. Keeps to ridgelines where fewer of the already few travelers pass. Stops before nightfall instead of pushing through it like he did with the others.
You don’t comment on it. You’ve learned not to. Still, by the second night in the mountains, the cold becomes something else entirely. It doesn't just blow, it bites. Sharp and relentless, slipping through the seams of your clothes, curling into your lungs with every breath. The fire he builds is small, controlled, barely enough to push back the dark.
You sit close anyway. You watch him from across the flames, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to ignore the way your fingers have started to go numb.
“You should drink,” you say quietly, holding out the water skin.
He doesn’t respond, just stares into the fire like he didn’t hear you. You hesitate, then shift closer, the movement slow enough not to startle him, and press it into his hand.
“For your throat,” you add softly. “The air’s dry up here.”
His fingers close around it after a moment reluctantly, like taking something from you costs him more than it should. He drinks from it only once then hands it back without looking at you.
“Thank you,” you say anyway.
Something flickers in his expression and is gone before you can name it.
You lower your gaze—and that’s when you see it. A button from his shirt has come loose. You hadn’t noticed before, not with the layers of fur and leather, but now the fabric has shifted just enough to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat, the line of his sternum disappearing beneath worn cloth.
And there something lies. Something dark. Something wrong. A faint glow pulses beneath his the fabric and against his skin. It's near sublte and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but once you've seen it there's no ignoring it. You don’t day anything, you just watch as it flickers once, then fades again like it was never there at all. You tuck the observation away quietly like everything else. Later, when the fire burns lower and the cold deepens into something unbearable, you move without thinking. You sit beside him instead of across from him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.
He goes still instantly and you feel it. That same awareness from before. That same coiled, uncertain tension.
“You’re going to freeze,” you murmur, voice softer now. “I’m already halfway there.”
No answer, so you shift again, closer still. Until the warmth between you becomes shared instead of separate. It’s a risk, you know it is, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell you to move. Doesn’t even look at you. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the space between you stops feeling like a boundary. The warmth feeling less like a need for survival, and more of… just warmth.
The glow returns on the third night of traveling through the mountains. It was stronger this time, you wake to it. A faint, sickly light cutting through the dark. For a moment, you think it’s the fire, then you realize it’s him. He’s on his knees, breath uneven, one hand braced hard against the ground like he’s holding himself upright through sheer force alone.
The glow pulses beneath his shirt, that same place along his chest.
Your chest tightens.
“Hey—”
He jerks violently at the sound of your voice, like it hurt him, like it burned. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild in a way you’ve never seen before. Not the empty slate grey from the first day you met, something else, something fighting against itself.
“Stay back,” he grits out, but his voice isn’t steady.
You push yourself up anyway, slowly, stepping over to him.
“Is there something wrong,” you whisper.
“No—” His breath shudders. “Go back to sleep.”
The glow pulses again, brighter in the night sky. You see it clearly now, some sort of talisman. Not worn, not held, but bound. Woven into him in a way that makes your stomach twist, six legs of iron dug into his skin making it irremovable. And then you hear it, it wasn't words, none that you could understand at least. But something in the air shifts, like pressure building before a storm. Something unseen pulling at him, tightening, demanding.
His body responds instantly, spine straightening, shoulders locking. His expression empties into that cold, hollow stillness returning all at once like a mask snapping back into place. You start to understand, not fully, but enough. Whatever the huntsman has towards the sorceress queen isn't loyalty. It's control.
“Are you okay?”
The words slip out before you can stop them. You watch as he flinches, as the mask cracks just a little. Your heart stutters with fear and something else, but you move closer. Ignoring the warning in his posture. Ignoring the way his hands clench like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“There must be something I can do,” you say softly. “Just—tell me what you need.”
“Nothing,” he snaps, too sharp. Not out of anger, but of something close to panic, like he’s afraid.
The glow pulses again, stronger and he nearly doubles over, faint whispers and hushed lilts float through the air and you watch him coil against it. Without thinking you reach for him, settling your hand lightly against his arm.
And everything… stops, not completely but enough that the tension in him falters. The invisible pressure loosens just slightly, like whatever holds him didn’t expect resistance and his breath shudders. Eyes flickering back to you aren't empty anymore, the slate grey blurring into a pale blue.
You don’t move your hand. “Just breathe,” you whisper.
He does, slowly, his chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, each one deeper and smoother than the last. And the glowing begins to dim. Not fully gone, but weaker. Like something inside him is slowly rising back to the surface.
After that, things change.
Not all at once, not in ways anyone else would notice but they do, and you notice. You notice the way he finds you without looking. Even when you wander a few steps too far gathering wood or water, his gaze always lands on you first. Like he can track you without trying. Like your presence is something he can feel.
You notice how he positions himself on the road. He lets you have the horse the majority of the time, only riding two up with you to find camp when the sun starts to set and the path loses its visibilty. Even then he's always in front, always between you and what lies ahead. Like a barrier.
The first time wolves appear at the edge of the trees, their eyes catching the firelight, he’s on his feet before you even realize what you’re looking at. They don’t come closer, not with him there, not with the low, warning sound in his chest that doesn’t quite sound human.
You notice the way his scent changes too.
You hadn’t paid attention to it before. Not really. It had just been something sharp. Cold rye bread and dried blood. Now it’s different. Still strong with an air of danger to it, but there's something warmer to it. Cedarwood and rusted iron with the barest hint of something soft. Familiar in a way that settles something restless inside you.
You find yourself leaning toward it without thinking, trusting it, and the strangest part—he lets you. Even when he doesn’t understand why, even when it unsettles him, even when something deep inside him keeps pulling him closer without permission, without reason. Like something has already decided that you belong near him.
The trip back to the northern capitol typically takes a full span, but through the mountain pass adds on another halfweeks worth, amounting out to a full fortnight worth of traveling. And the mountains don’t stay empty forever.
You know it before he does. Or maybe you feel it before he lets himself admit it. The way the air shifts, it's subtle, but wrong. The birds go quiet first. Then the wind seems to pull back, like the world itself is holding its breath. Even the horse grows restless beneath you, ears flicking, muscles tightening with unease.
Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric at his chest.
“Someone’s here,” you whisper.
He’s already slowing the horse, already listening. Then—movement, too fast to track. Figures break from the trees on either side of the path, boots crushing snow, weapons drawn. Not soldiers. Not the queen’s men, something rougher and hungerier. Bounty hunters.
You don’t even have time to think before he's moving. He shoves you down from the horse just as an arrow slices through the air where your head had been. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs, snow burning cold against your skin.
“Stay down,” he snaps and you do, not by choice as your lungs are still trying to reinflate themselves.
Steel sings and you scramble backward, heart pounding, as the world explodes into motion around you. Blades clash. Boots slide across ice. Someone shouts. Someone else laughs. There are too many, you know it immediately. Three. No—four, all alphas. You feel it in the air, in the way their presence presses too close, too sharp, too overwhelming without the herbs to dull it.
One of them looks at you, really looks and smiles.
“There she is.”
Your stomach drops. The huntsman steps between you and him instantly and the fight turns brutal. There is no control in his movements, he fights like a man who has survived too much to hesitate. Fast and efficient, ruthless in a way that makes your chest tighten because you realize, this is what he was made into.
This is what the queen kept him for.
One goes down quickly. Another staggers back with blood spilling down his side, but they don’t retreat, they press harder, desperate and greedy.
You try to stay out of the way, you really do. But one of them breaks past him, too fast for him to catch. A hand grabs your arm, yanks you forward and you scream.
“Got you—”
You flail and try to flee but another hand slams into your chest and shoves you backward. You hit the ground hard, the air punched from your lungs before you can even scream. Snow seeps instantly through your clothes, freezing and suffocating all at once. He’s on you before you can recover. Weight, too much to fight. Your wrists are pinned above your head, his grip iron-tight as he forces you flat into the ground. His knee presses into your thigh, trapping you completely.
“Hold still,” he snarls, breath hot and wrong against your skin.
Panic detonates in your chest.You thrash beneath him, twisting, kicking, anything, but it’s useless. He’s stronger. Bigger. Every movement only seems to tighten his hold.
“Get off—” Your voice breaks. “Get off me!”
He laughs.
“You don’t smell like you want me to—”
Something inside you snaps. Your blood is racing through your veins like fire and ice all at once. Something washes over you, not quite fear, not quite anger. Something mystic that calms you despite the thrashing of your limbs. Your mind goes quiet, only feeling the thud of your heart in your chest as your hand scrambles blindly against the ground, fingers clawing through snow and dirt and frozen leaves, when your nails brush against a stone. You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You just swing. It connects with a dull crack against the side of his head. He jerks, grip loosening just enough and you don’t wait, you wrench one arm free and shove him hard. He stumbles off you, disoriented, and suddenly you’re the one moving.
You scramble on top of him before he can recover, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you raise the rock again and bring it down. Again. And again. You don’t feel it. Don’t hear anything except the rush of blood in your ears and the echo of his voice and the thrum still clawing its way out of your chest.
You just keep going. Until hands grab you, strong and unyielding.
“Enough.”
The huntsman.
He pulls you back hard, dragging you off the man as your arm fights against him on instinct, still trying to swing, still trying to finish it—
“Enough,” he says again, sharper this time.
Your body locks and the world crashes back in all at once. The cold air, your shaking breath, the blood on your hands. The man beneath you isn’t moving and your hands start to shake violently, the rock slips from your fingers. You don’t recognize yourself for a second. Don’t recognize the feeling still burning in your chest—hot and terrifying and alive.
He doesn’t let go of you right away, his grip stays firm, grounding. And you’re left standing there, frozen, staring at what you’ve done.
You killed him.
You—
“Move!”
The huntsman's voice rips through the moment. You barely have time to react before he’s in front of you again, dragging you back as another attacker lunges forward. It all happens too fast, you don't see it happen until it's too late. A blade. A misstep as he pushes you back. The third hunter drives his sword forward and he takes it. For you.
The sound that leaves you doesn’t feel human.
He doesn’t go down immediately, of course he doesn’t. He rips the blade free with a snarl and finishes it anyway, driving his own knife deep into the man’s chest before he can pull back, then, silence. The last of them collapses into the snow.
And the huntsman drops to one knee, shaking to hold himself up. Your ears are ringing, your hands are shaking yet you still rush towards him.
“Hey—hey—” you stumble toward him, dropping beside him in the snow. “Are you okay—”
There’s blood, too much of it. Soaking through his clothes and staining the snow a murky red that makes your stomach twist.
“We have to move,” he says, voice rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
You shake your head, panic clawing up your throat.
“No—no, you can't, you're hurt—”
“I can. We have to go,” his eyes lift to yours. Still steady. Still him, somehow. “More will come.”
That’s what gets you moving, not fear for yourself. For him.
You don’t remember how you find the cabin.
Only that the forest closes in around you again, thick and quiet and endless, and somehow your feet keep moving even when they shouldn’t. You half-carry him, half-drag, holding his arm over your shoulders as you trudge through the snow with the horse trailing behind, his injury too sensitive for him to ride. His weight is heavy against you, steps uneven, scarlet blood staining the snow behind you in a trail that makes your chest tighten with every glance.
“Stay with me,” you whisper.
“I am.”
“Don’t lie.”
A faint huff of breath… almost a laugh.
“Not lying.”
The cabin appears like something out of a dream. Small and abandoned and barely standing, but enough. It has a door, a roof, four walls to keep the wind out. You get him inside.
The world narrows after that. To fire, blood and him. You don’t think about what you did, you don’t think about the man you killed, you can’t. Not yet. You tear open his shirt with shaking hands, breath catching when you see the wound clearly, deep and ugly and pooling crimson.
Your hands hover for a second, then move. You clean it, stitch it with the minimal catgut he had in his napsack on the horse and wrap it. Everything Helena ever taught you comes back in fragments. Herbs. Pressure. Heat. Don’t let him sleep too long. Don’t let him bleed out. Your hands stop shaking eventually, you don’t notice when, only that they do. By the time the fire burns low, he’s lying on the narrow couch in front of the fire, breathing shallow but steady.
You sit beside him, watching, waiting as hours pass, maybe longer. When he finally wakes, it’s slow and disoriented, staggered breaths as his eyes find you almost immediately.
“You’re still here,” he murmurs.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Of course I am.”
Something shifts in his expression, small, but real. You hesitate, then reach for him, gently resting your hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn't pull away or tell you stop. The warmth of his skin under you palm ease a shakeness in you that you hadn't known was stirring. He was still alive, still here with you.
“You took that blade for me,” you say quietly.
His gaze drifts to the ceiling.
“Part of the job.”
“No,” you shake your head. “Not like that. You don't almost bleed out to death for cargo. The evil queens huntsman doesn't purposely risk his life for the job. You saved me. Why?”
Silence stretches between you, his eyes flick between you and the fire. He slowly sits up, your hand right at his back to catch him if he were to slump.
“I wasn’t always… this.” he says after a moment. His face glows in the firelight, showing more of him than you'd ever seen, right down to the slight cleft in his chin.
“James,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and hesitant. “James Barnes.”
The name settles into the space between you like something important, something remembered.
“I was—” He exhales slowly. “I was more than what she made me.”
“I know.”
His eyes flick back to yours, you don’t look away.
“I remember pieces now,” he says, voice quieter. “Not all of it. Just… fragments.”
He closes his eyes briefly.
“Snow. Always snow.” A faint crease forms between his brows. “Wolves. Not like the ones here. Bigger. Smarter.” A pause. “A crest. White… and blue. I can’t—” His jaw tightens. “I can’t see it clearly. She doesn't let me remember.”
Your heart pounds. “Your home,” you whisper.
His eyes open again and something sharper there now.
“Gone.”
“So is mine.”
The words leave you before you can stop them. Silence fills the air as understanding settles in slowly behind it.
“You were there,” he says suddenly. “That day. In the forest.”
His expression shifts, not denial but recognition.
“I was supposed to kill you,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
A beat.
“I could have.”
The memory clicks into place, the angle, the arrow cresting your ear instead.
Your chest tightens. “But you let me go.”
“I disobeyed,” he corrects quietly.
Something in your throat closes. You look at him, really look at him and for the first time, you don’t see the queen’s huntsman. You see what’s left of a man who lost everything. Just like you.
“The queen ruined both of our lives,” you whisper.
His gaze softens, barely but enough.
“Seems like it.”
The fire crackles softly ahead you. The world outside is still cold, still dangerous. But something shifts between you, in the walls of this small broken cabin. He—James, lets you sit closer, lets your hand stay on his arm. Seeing him in this new light changes something in you, he doesn't feel like your captor, and you don't feel like something being taken. For noe, you're just two people left behind by the same ruin, trying to remember how to be something more than what it made you.
The quiet after that night lingers longer than it should. It follows you into the next days as you stay at the cabin to let him heal. Into the way your hands still shake sometimes when you're out collecting firewood. Into the way James watches you now, not like before, not like a task.
Like something he’s trying to understand.
The mountains stretch on around you, cold and endless, but the distance between you begins to shrink in ways neither of you name.
It starts with the cold.
It always does.
Nights are worse at higher elevations. The wind cuts sharper through the thin wood walls, the fire never quite enough. You try to sleep curled in on yourself, arms tight around your body, but it doesn’t stop the shivering. The first time he shifts closer, you think it’s accidental, the second time, you don’t move away. By the third, it becomes something unspoken.
Shared warmth. One blanket instead of two.
You lie on opposite sides at first, careful, deliberate distance between you. But sometime in the night, that space disappears. You wake with your shoulder pressed against his chest, your breath fogging faintly against the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn’t move you, doesn’t say anything, just stays. And you let yourself stay too.
But one night, when sleep won’t come, you sit up and find him already looking at you.
“You should rest,” he says.
“So should you.”
Silence, then, his voice just above a whisper. “I will.”
He doesn’t, you know he won’t. So you shift closer instead, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you, and lean lightly against his side, carefully of his wounded side.
His body goes still for a moment.
Then slowly he relaxes into it. Your head dips forward before you can stop it, resting briefly against his shoulder, you don’t pull away this time.
And after a long moment—you feel it. His hand, lifting, hovering, then brushing a loose strand of your hair back from your face. The touch is hesitant, like he’s relearning something he forgot how to do. You lean into the touch, pressing your face into his shoulder. You sleep with something close to a smile that night.
The closer you get, the more something else begins to change.
You notice it in the quiet moments.
In the way his jaw tightens less when you speak. In the way his shoulders don’t lock every time you step near him. In the way that strange, unseen pressure, the one that pulls at him, bends him, owns him doesn’t feel quite as strong as it did before.
It’s still there. You see it sometimes in the flicker of that faint glow beneath his shirt, in the moments his expression goes distant, like something is trying to pull him away from himself. But it doesn’t last as long anymore. Not when you’re close, not when your hand finds his arm, not when your voice pulls him back. And he feels it too. Even if he doesn’t say it. Because the closer you are the quieter the commands become, the less they hold, the more he remembers.
And the more he wants.
Not in a way he understands, but it’s there, growing and unavoidable. Like something waking up inside him after a very long sleep.
One night, something almost happens.
You’re sitting across from each other in the cabin, the fire low, the world quiet around you. No danger or urgency. Just stillness. You've checked and rebanaged his wound twice already, the list of things to do dwindling by the second. You say something, a soft half joke, something small, and he actually huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
It surprises both of you.
You smile and he stares at you like he’s never seen that before, like he’s trying to memorize it. The firelight catches in his eyes. Your breath slows and so does his. The space between you feels different. Closer, too close. You don’t realize you’ve leaned in until it’s already happening and he doesn’t stop you.
For just a second it feels like everything else disappears. The queen, the road, the past. All of it, gone. Just this, just him and you and the warmth from each other.
Then something in him snaps back to reality. That same invisible force, that same pull. His body tenses sharply, like something inside him yanked him back all at once. His expression shutters, breath hitching as the moment fractures between you and he pulls away. You feel the absence immediately, like something warm just vanished and silence settles in its place. He turns away from you, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake something loose. You don’t reach for him this time, but you feel it. That shift, that crack in whatever holds him.
Because it didn’t stop on its own. It fought. And for the first time it almost lost.
Morning comes too quiet, something wrong lingering in the air. The snow is untouched, no wind, no birds just a stillness that presses too close against your skin. James is already awake when you stir. Sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense beneath his shirt, gaze fixed on nothing. The bandages at his side are cleaner now, the worst of the damage healed, but you can tell—he’s listening.
“We should go,” he says.
You push yourself up slowly, blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Already?”
He nods once.
“Too exposed here.”
Something in his tone settles it so you don’t argue. You pack quickly. What little you have is easy enough to gather—herbs, cloth, the last of the dried food. Your fingers brush his once when you pass him the water skin, he doesn’t pull away, just looks at you for a second longer than necessary.
Then stands.
Outside, the cold hits hard. The world is blindingly white, the path nearly erased beneath fresh snow. For a moment, it almost feels peaceful. Like nothing has found you yet. Like maybe—
James goes still beside you and your stomach drops.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Then you hear it, the sound of boots, crunching through the snow, erupting the white powder all around you. They come from all sides, the trees, the ridge, the path behind you. Completely surrounded. Not the worn leather boots of bounty hunters. Steel rings and echoes from chain covered horses. Soldiers from the capital. From the queen.
Your breath catches.
“No—”
James moves instantly, pulling you behind him, body shielding yours in a motion that’s become instinct now. But this isn’t like before, there are too many. James stiffens and you see it before he does, that faint glow beneath his shirt. Bright, violent and wrong. You feel the shift in him, watch as his shoulder baldes fight and pull back together, his entire body at war with itself..
“No,” he echoes.
His hand tightens around yours. Then it stops. Not the glow, but him. His body locks, shoulds straightening, spine rigid. That emptiness returns to his eyes all at once, like something has reached inside him and pulled him back into place.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
“James,” you whisper, stepping in front of him, grabbing his arm. “James, look at me—”
His gaze flicks to you for a second, just a second he’s there, fighting it. Then the glow pulses again harder and stronger than ever before and he’s gone. The soldiers don’t even need to move.
“On your knees,” one of them says.
You don’t listen. You reach for him instead, both hands gripping his shirt, your voice breaking.
“James, please—”
His hand comes up and grabs your wrist, not rough but not gentle either, just final.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice is empty, not his.
Your chest caves in.
They take you easily after that. There is no fight, no struggle. Because the one person who would have fought for you is the one holding you still.
The northern capital feels colder than you remember, not in temperature but in something deeper. The walls rise high and black against the sky, sharp and unforgiving, like they were carved to keep hope out rather than enemies. It's hard to believe you once called this place home.
You’re dragged through the gates, through the courtyard, through halls you barely remember but somehow still know. It feels like stepping into a nightmare you once escaped. Only this time there is no one coming to get you out.
They separate you immediately. You fight then, you don’t mean to it just happens.
“No—!” you twist, reaching for him, panic surging all at once. “James—!”
He doesn’t look at you even once. That hurts more than anything and they drag you away, your voice still echoes through the halls long after you can’t see him anymore.
The tower they put you in hasn’t changed, not really. The same narrow windows, the same stone walls. The same silence that presses in until it feels like it’s sitting on your chest. They lock you inside without a word, the door slams and just lke that you're trapped again.
You don’t know how long it takes before she comes, hours, maybe less.
The door opens slowly as she steps inside like she owns the air itself. The queen is just as you remember. Beautiful and terrible, untouched by time in all the ways that matter. Her gaze finds you and she smiles.
“So,” she says softly, voice smooth as silk. “The little ghost finally comes home.”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You don’t bow, you don’t speak. You don't give her anything. Her eyes flick over you slowly, taking in every detail, assessing.
“Where is he?” you ask.
You hate how your voice sounds, not strong enough, not steady enough.
Her smile deepens.
“Ah,” she murmurs. “Straight to him.”
You don’t respond, you can only fight the tremble of your lip as she steps closer.
“He’s exactly where he belongs,” she says. “Back at my side.”
Your chest tightens. “That’s not true.”
“No?” Her head tilts. “You think you changed him?”
You swallow hard yet keep quiet, this doesn't go past her.
“Ah, I see now. You thought love would be enough.”
For a moment something sharp flashes in her eyes, then it’s gone, replaced by amusement.
“Sweet girl,” she says softly. “Alphas like him don’t choose love.”
She reaches out and tilts your chin up with cold fingers.
“They choose survival.”
Your stomach twists.
“He remembers me,” she continues. “Remembers what I made him. What he is.”
Your heart pounds relentlessly and you feel warmth spread across your fingertips.
“He’s already obeying me again.”
The words hit harder than anything, your heartbeat falters and you shake your head.
“No.”
But doubt slips in anyway, quiet and poisonous. She sees it and her smile turns sharper.
“You’ll see,” she whispers. “Soon enough.”
Then she steps back, turns and leaves you alone with the echo of her words.
Below the castle, far beneath the stone and silence, James kneels in chains. His head bowed, his hands bound, the glow at his chest burns brighter than it ever has. And somewhere deep inside him, something is still fighting to remember your name.
The first day, you don’t believe her.
The second, you tell yourself you won’t.
By the third, the silence starts to press in.
There are no windows wide enough to see the sky properly, only narrow slits that let in thin, colorless light. No voices beyond the guards who never speak to you. No footsteps except the ones that come and go without pause, without pattern.
No him.
That is the part that unravels you. At first, you hold onto it stubbornly. The way he looked at you in the cabin. The way he said your name. The way his hand had brushed your hair away like it meant something. Like you meant something. You replay it over and over until it starts to feel distant and unreal.
Because the longer you sit in that tower, the quieter everything becomes. Including him. Whatever it is you felt between you doesn’t vanish, but it dims. Like something struggling through layers of stone and distance and magic. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the thin blanket, eyes fixed on the door.
Waiting.
For footsteps, for him, for anything. Nothing comes. By the time the queen returns, you are already tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. The door opens slowly, like she has all the time in the world, and she steps inside with that same measured grace.
“You look smaller,” she observes lightly.
You don’t respond. You’ve learned that much, but your silence doesn’t bother her, it never has. She walks the room like she owns it, because she does, fingers brushing along the stone, the furniture, the edges of your cage.
“I gave you time,” she says. “I thought perhaps you would come to your senses on your own.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I don’t need time.”
Her lips curve faintly.
“No,” she agrees. “You need truth.”
You look at her then, because something in her tone has shifted into somethign sharper, more certain.
“What have you done to him?” you ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she moves toward the small table near the window. There is something resting on it, you hadn’t noticed it before. A single apple, red and perfect. Too perfect.
Your stomach twists. The queen picks it up delicately, turning it in her fingers as if admiring her own reflection in its skin.
“Do you know,” she says softly, “how old magic binds itself to blood?”
You don’t answer but she continues anyway.
“It doesn’t need force,” she murmurs. “Not always. Sometimes it only needs… the right vessel.”
She holds the fruit out slightly.
“Someone beautiful. Someone pure. The fairest in all the land.”
Your pulse quickens. “What is it”
Her smile deepens.
“A gift.”
“No.”
The word comes out sharper than you intend and she tilts her head sickly.
“You’re not curious?”
“I’m not stupid.”
A flicker of amusement crosses her face.
“No,” she agrees. “You’re not.”
She steps closer.
“There was a time,” she continues, “when your kind ruled through bonds like yours. Through scent. Through devotion. Through love.” Her voice softens on the last word, like she’s tasting something bitter. “It made you powerful.”
You don’t move.
“But power like that…” Her gaze sharpens. “Was made for so much more, and you squandered on it. But it doesn’t disappear. It only waits for someone smarter to come along and take control of it.”
The apple gleams in her hand.
Your chest tightens. “What does it do?”
Her eyes meet yours and for the first time, there's no pretense in them.
“It ends you,” she says simply.
Your breath stutters.
“No—”
“And when it does,” she finishes, “he will return to me completely.”
The room tilts and you shake your head.
“He won’t.”
“He already is.”
Your throat closes.
“You’re lying.”
She steps closer, close enough that you can’t look anywhere but at her.
“Am I?”
Her voice drops.
“He hasn’t come for you.”
The words make your chest ache.
“He hasn’t broken free.”
Harder.
“He hasn’t chosen you.”
Your hands shake.
“Stop.”
But she doesn’t.
“Alphas like him don’t defy control for long,” she murmurs. “Not when survival is on the line.”
You close your eyes, try to block it out, but the silence of the tower wraps around her words and makes them echo. Louder. And louder.
Until—
“Eat.”
Your eyes snap open and the apple is in front of you. Closer now, too close and your stomach churns.
“No.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“Eat.”
“I won’t.”
Something shifts then, subtle, but deadly.
“Do you think you have a choice?” she asks softly.
The air tightens and your chest constricts. You try to step back you can’t, your body refuses. Your breath comes faster.
“What—”
“Old blood magic,” she says. “Yours is not the only blood that remembers.”
Your hand lifts but not by your will and your fingers close around the apple. Terror floods your chest.
“No—no, please—”
Your arm moves slow and unstoppable.
“Stop—!”
You try fight it. Every muscle straining, every thought screaming—but it doesn’t matter. The apple touches your lips and the queen watches, smiling.
You bite, it tastes sweet, too sweet. The world tilts immediately and your knees give out. The apple slips from your hand as you collapse, the floor rushing up too fast, you barely feel it before everything goes distant.
Your breath slows and your heartbeat follows. The last thing you see is her standing over you.
Victorious.
Then, nothing.
The palace whispers by nightfall. The lost omega princess is dead. Gone.
Far below, something breaks. James jerks against the chains with a violent force that rattles the stone around him. His breath comes sharp.
“No.”
The word tears out of him, because something is missing. Not fading. Gone.
Your scent is gone. The thread that had been there, quiet but constant, woven into him whether he understood it or not, severed.
His chest heaves.
“No,” he says again, louder this time.
The glow at his sternum flares violently and commands flood in. Obedience and stillness overcome him. He fights it, ignore it, to silence the submission in his head.
“Where is she?” he demands, voice breaking into something wild, something unrecognizable even to himself. No one answers, not even the wind. The chains hold, the walls don’t move but he doesn’t stop, he pulls and strains. Fights like a man trying to claw his way back to something already lost. Your name sits on his tongue but he can’t say it, not fully not through the magic choking it down.
Stil he tries.
Again. And again. And again.
Because even without whatever bond you two had, without your scent, without anything left to guide him something in him knows something is wrong.
And he is too late.
War comes easily to her.
By the time the sun dips behind the black stone towers, the queen has already begun carving the world into something new. Maps stretch across her war table, inked borders slashed through with impatient hands, territories reduced to nothing more than places to be taken.
“There is no one left to oppose me,” she says, calm and certain.
Messengers bow, generals listen. Your name is not spoken.
“Bring me my huntsman.”
The command echoes down into the dark where he is kept. James doesn’t feel the pull the way he used to. It’s there—but distant. Frayed. Like something reaching for him through water instead of iron. Still, it tries. He sits in the dim of the dungeon, head bowed, breath slow, when the door creaks open.
Bootsteps, not from the same guard. Slower steps, familiar in a way he can’t place.
“You hear her, don’t you?” the voice says quietly.
James lifts his head. An older man stands in the doorway, lamplight flickering across a face lined with years and something heavier than age.
“I hear enough,” James mutters.
The man studies him carefully, then steps inside, closing the door behind him.
“They told you she was dead,” he says.
James goes still. The words land like a blade.
“She—”
“She isn’t gone,” the man interrupts gently. “Not in the way they want you to believe.”
Something cracks open in James’s chest.
“What did she do?” he demands.
The man exhales slowly.
“Old blood magic.” His voice lowers. “The kind meant to preserve… or to pause.”
James’s hands curl into fists.
“Where is she?”
“The tower.”
A beat, then the man steps closer.
“There are stories,” he continues, quieter now. “Older than this kingdom. Older than her.”
James doesn’t move.
But he listens.
“Of a northern prince,” the man says, “and an omega princess hidden away by war. Bound not by crown—but by choice.” His gaze sharpens. “Destined to find each other, bound together by the moon goddess herself. Their bond was said to outlast everything. Curses. Kingdoms. Even death.”
James swallows and something deep inside him stirs.
“And you think… that’s us,” he says.
“I think,” the man replies, “this is your chance to prove it is.”
Silence stretches. Then the man reaches for the chains, the metal clicks and falls away.
James stares when the man doesn't make any moves towards him.
“You’re supposed to take me to her.”
The man just shakes his head.
“Go.”
James doesn’t hesitate.
The castle feels different when you’re not being dragged through it. He moves fast, faster than thought. Up corridors. Through shadowed halls. Past guards who don’t see him in time—or don’t see him at all. The tower door stands open as candles flicker inside, the flames still in the air.
His chest tightens before he even crosses the threshold and then he sees you, laid out in white like something already mourned. Flowers surround you, soft and pale, arranged with careful hands. Your hair is spread gently around your shoulders. Your hands folded over your chest as you lay still as stone.
“No…”
The word leaves him broken. He crosses the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid touching you will make it real.
“Hey,” he says, voice unsteady. “Hey—no, this isn’t—”
His throat closes as his hand finally settles over yours, cold and still. It hits him then all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. The words spill out before he can stop them.
“I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve— I should’ve found a way—”
His forehead presses against your hand.
“I remember now,” he whispers. “Everything.”
Snow-covered courtyards. Wolves in the distance. A crest stitched into winter cloaks. A name spoken with pride.
“And you—you gave that back to me.” His voice shakes. “You made me remember what it felt like to be… human. You saved me even when I was… when I wasn't worth saving.”
Silence answers him, but he keeps going.
“I didn’t say it,” he admits. “I should have. Back in the mountains. Before she took you.”
His thumb brushes your knuckles.
“I love you.”
The words settle into the room like something sacred.
“I love you,” he repeats, quieter now. “You gave me something worth choosing. Something worth fighting for.” His breath falters. “And I would rather die than go back to what I was… than live in a world where you’re not in it.”
He looks at you, still silent, eyes unmoving thinking about what he would give to see the firelight reflect in them one last time.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
And then he leans in and presses his lips to yours, soft and careful, sealing his apology in something stronger than words, holding onto the last fragile piece of something he refuses to lose. For a moment, nothing happens, the candles still flicker gently and the tower bricks groan in the wind. Then—you gasp. Air rushes into your lungs all at once, your body jolting as your eyes snap open, hands clutching at his shirt.
“James—”
Your voice is raw and ragged and alive. He freezes as his mind tries to wrap around the miracle in front on him, then you grab his hand and he exhales like the world has been given back to him.
“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m right here.”
At the same moment, a crack splits the air, sharp and violent that makes him go stiff. The glow at his chest flares once, then shatters. The talisman fractures apart, pieces falling from beneath his shirt and striking the stone floor with a hollow sound that silence follows.
You and James both goes still. Waiting. For her voice, for the pull, for the command that has lived in his bones for years, yet nothing comes. Not even an echo.
His breath catches. The absence is so complete it almost feels loud.
“James?” you whisper, still disoriented, your hand tightening in his. He looks at you and there is nothing in his eyes now but himself, gone is the slate grey that you came to know, in their place is a crystal clear steel blue reflecting the setting sun.
“I can’t hear her,” he says, voice quiet with disbelief.
Your lips part. “Good.”
A breath breaks from him, half laugh, half something else entirely. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, the silence in his head beautifully disorienting with the quiet truth that he is finally, undeniably free.
"We have to go," you whisper, longing to stay in this moment with him but knowing it must end. That all of this must end. You can't wait any longer. There is no time for it, no space left for hesitation or fear or the quiet, careful steps you learned to take just to survive.
This time, you choose to be seen.
The halls blur as you move, hand locked in his, your steps matching his without needing to think about it. The castle feels different now. Not endless or suffocating, but something breakable. Doors slam open as you pass. Servants freeze and guards turn when they see you. Alive. Whispers follow in your wake like sparks catching fire. By the time you reach the throne chamber, the air is already shifting, the doors are thrown open and there she is. Seated on her throne like nothing in the world has changed, like she has already won. Her gaze lifts lazily and then she sees you and she falters for half a second.
“…no,” she breathes, the word is quiet and uncertain. "Impossible."
You step forward, unbroken and her composure snaps back into place like glass reforming.
“Kill her.”
The command is immediate, sharp and absolute. It echoes through the chamber as every guard stills, every breath holds. But James doesn’t move and the silence stretches.
“Kill her,” she repeats, rising from the throne now, something desperate creeping beneath the surface. “That is an order.”
Nothing happens, he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he steps in front of you and the room shifts. You feel it, the barricade he's made, the choice he shows. Everyone does and the queen’s eyes widen, not in rage this time but in fear.
“No,” she says, quieter now. “No, that’s not—”
Her gaze drops to his chest to where the talisman used to be and her breath catches seeing it gone.
“You—” Her voice sharpens, cracking at the edges. “What did you do?”
James finally looks at her and there is nothing obedient in his expression. “You don’t get to command me anymore.”
The words land like a blade, sending something fractured across her face. You step forward then past him and into the center of the room, into the light.
“Look at her,” you say. Your voice carries, it cuts through the tension like something older than the walls around you. “Look at what she’s done.”
The room is full now. Servants, guards and nobles lingering at the edges, all watching and listening.
“She took this kingdom,” you continue, your gaze fixed on hers. “Not by right. Not by loyalty. By lies. She destroyed entire kingdoms to sit on that throne, she had my mother murdered and poisoned my father,” you say, louder now. “Burned cities to the ground. Took their heirs. Their people. Their lives.”
The queen’s expression twists. “Silence her—” No one moves and you don’t stop.
“She bound men to her will,” you go on, your voice rising. “Turned them into weapons. Into things they were never meant to be.”
Your hand finds his and pulls him slightly forward.
“Ask him.”
All eyes turn. James stands there, no longer the queen’s shadow, not just the northern prince, something else entirely.
“She didn’t rule you,” you say, sweeping your gaze across the room. “She controlled you.”
Soon a guard shifts, another lowers his weapon slightly.
“She made you afraid,” you press. “Afraid to remember who you were before her. Afraid to stand against her.”
Your chest rises and falls with each breath.
“But you remember.” The words soften. “You remember your homes. Your families. The lives you had before this place became something else.”
Silence drapes over the room.
“We can rebuild,” you say. “The kingdoms she broke—we can bring them back. Together. You don’t have to serve her anymore. Stand with me.”
James laces his fingers through yours, holding you tight.
"With us.”
The first weapon drops. It hits the stone with a sharp clang, then another, and another. The sound spreads through the chamber like thunder. The queen steps back.
“No,” she snaps, voice rising, cracking. “No, you will obey me—”
Her hand lifts and black magic surges, wild and in its own air. It lashes out, striking one of the nearest guards and throwing him back. Screams break the silence.
“Kill them!” she shrieks. “All of them—kill her—kill—”
The last of her loyal guards surge forward and James moves. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He meets them head-on, fast, brutal and precise. But different, no longer is he an empty fighting machine, every movement is chosen, every strike grounded in something real.
You don’t stay back, you just can’t.
You grab the nearest fallen blade and step in beside him. The first guard lunges and you move instinctively, flashes of the fight in the mountains cross through your mind but it's different now, with James by your side. The fight spills out of the throne room, down the halls, through corridors that echo with shouts and crashing steel. The queen retreats desperately. Her magic lashes out wildly, cracking stone, shattering glass, forcing people back as she stumbles toward the courtyard.
“This is mine!” she screams. “This kingdom is mine—I built this—I took this—”
“No,” you say, breathless but unyielding as you follow. “You stole it.”
James takes down the last guard in your path turns and finds you instantly. Together, you push forward, step by step driving her back out into the open into the courtyard where the entire palace can see, where there is nowhere left for her to hide.
Her magic flickers, unstable now.
The courtyard holds its breath. Snow drifts softly from the gray sky, settling over stone still cracked from her magic, over fallen weapons, over the remnants of something that is already ending. She stumbles back as her power flickers violently around her hands, wild and unfocused, striking the ground instead of you, splintering stone instead of bending it.
“This is mine!” she screams again, voice unraveling. “I took this kingdom—I earned it—”
“No,” you say, stepping forward despite the chaos, despite the way the air still hums with danger. “You destroyed it.”
Her gaze snaps to you and several emotions cross her eyes, rage and fear, something desperate and cornered. Behind her, the high window stands open, shattered glass scattered across the floor, the drop beyond it steep and endless, cliffs swallowed by snow and fog. James moves first, he closes the distance between them in seconds, forcing her back another step, his presence unyielding, solid, final. There is nowhere left for her to go as her back nearly touches the broken edge.
“Stay back!” she hisses, power flaring again in her hands but it doesn’t land, doesn’t hold. Whatever she built is failing her now.
You step up beside him and for a moment it's quiet, just the three of you and the gentle winter wind carrying the end of something long and terrible.
“You can stop,” you tell her. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”
Her lips curl.
“Spare me,” she spits.
“I’m offering you a choice,” you say. “Surrender and stand down. Let this end without more blood.”
The courtyard around you listens, every person gathered there, every life she touched. Her eyes flick between you and James and something shifts in her expression.
“You think you’ve won?” she laughs, sharp and broken. “You think this ends with me?”
Her power lashes out again, wild, uncontrolled—and she steps back, just slightly and her heel catches. For a single, fragile second she falters when she realizes there is no one behind her to steady her, no magic left to hold her in place.
She falls.
The drop swallows her instantly, her scream cut short by the wind and the distance below, and then silence. It settles over the courtyard like snowfall. No one moves, no one speaks, wondering if it's finally over. Truly over. You stand there, staring at the empty space she left behind, your breath slow, uneven, your heart still catching up to what just happened. James steps closer, his hand brushing the back of your arm, just letting his presence solidify behind you.
The first person to move is a servant, then another, then a guard, then more. They gather slowly, cautiously, like they’re afraid this might disappear if they move too fast, but it doesn’t. You’re still standing, both of you, not as what she made you, not as what the world feared. But as what you chose to become. Someone kneels. Then another. And another. It spreads through the courtyard, through the people, through the space she once ruled with fear but this is not forced, not commanded. It's given freely. James’s hand finds yours and you hold on tight, knowing that whatever lies ahead of this, you'll do it together.
The days that follow feel unreal.
The castle changes quietly. Windows are opened. Doors unbarred. The heavy, suffocating presence that once clung to every wall begins to lift, replaced by something lighter. Something uncertain, but hopeful. People speak more, laugh, sometimes but mourn, too. Because there is still loss, there always will be but it no longer feels like the end.
The ceremony is held beneath an open sky. Snow still blankets the ground, but the sun breaks through for the first time in what feels like years, light spilling across the courtyard where everything changed. You stand beside him as the crown is placed on your head first.
Light, but heavy with meaning.
“By blood and by right,” the elder declares, voice carrying across the gathered crowd, “we name you, the lost princess of the north, returned and restored.”
Then James steps forward. There's a moment, just a moment where the past flickers across his face. Everything he was, everything he lost, everything he found again. The crown settles onto his head.
“By blood stolen and returned,” the elder continues, “we name you, the true prince of the north, returned and restored.”
A pause.
“Together, you stand as the rightful rulers of the north. Long may you reign!”
The words echo across the crowd, applause deafens any thoughts of doubt and suddenly it all becomes real. Then the crowd bows and James’s hand slips into yours again, the familiar warmth spreading through you. When you glance at him he’s already looking at you, he looks different than the first time you saw him. There's something fuller about him, a pink dusting to his cheeks, the smoothed skin of his used to be chapped lips, his hair swept back into a tight little knot at the nape of his neck.
He looks… handsome, you've never really noticed how much until now.
The palace feels too big now. Not in the way it used to, all looming and suffocating and cold, but in the quiet spaces between things. Rooms that echo a little too much. Hallways that stretch a little too far. You’re still getting used to it, both of you are.
“You’re walking like you’re being hunted,” James mutters from behind you.
You glance back, half-offended, half-amused. “I am not.”
“You are,” he insists, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway, watching you navigate the room like the floor might give out beneath you. “You keep checking the corners.”
You pause because… you had been.
“Well I was kidnapped for a time, tends to put people on edge afterwards,” you shoot back.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. Well now you don’t have to be anymore.”
You huff softly and move to the table, eyeing the carefully arranged plates waiting for you both. Everything too neat, too polished.
“This doesn’t even look edible,” you mutter, poking at something that has been sliced into impossibly perfect pieces.
“It’s fruit,” he says.
“It’s ruined fruit.”
He laughs under his breath, pushing off the wall and coming to stand beside you.
“Give it a chance.”
“I miss stealing bread,” you say flatly.
“That’s not something you’re supposed to admit as queen.”
“Well, I preferred it,” you reply, picking up a piece and inspecting it suspiciously. “At least it didn’t look like it had opinions about me.”
James snorts.
“I miss not having to wear this,” he adds, tugging lightly at the collar of his formal shirt like it’s personally offended him.
You glance at him. “Liar.”
His brow lifts.
“You like looking like a prince.”
“I liked not freezing in the mountains with you more.”
“That’s fair.” A beat, then your voice slips into something softer. “I liked that too.”
He looks at you as something quieter settles between the humor and the silence lingers, not uncomfortable, but telling. You turn away first, reaching for the water, trying to ignore the way something in your chest tightens without warning.
“So,” you say, a little too casually. “They said the first group to go back to the sister kingdom leaves in a few days.”
“A week,” he corrects.
You nod too quickly. “A week.”
He watches you, you can feel it. “Yeah.”
You busy your hands with nothing, rearranging the fruit by biggest to smallest.
“They said they'll send someone to oversee things,” you continue. “Organize supplies. Make sure it’s… done properly.”
“They will.”
You swallow. “You don’t have to go.”
It slips out before you can stop it.
“I know,” he says carefully.
“You could send someone else. There are plenty of people—more qualified people—”
“Hey.”
His voice cuts through it gently and you stop to look at him. He’s leaned in closer now, you hadn’t noticed him move.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
You open your mouth, close it, and try again.
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t buy it for a second.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he says.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are,” he counters quietly. “You’re just… not saying it out loud.”
Your chest tightens and you look away, those near cerulean blue eyes impossible to face with the truth.
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” he says. “But it’s true.”
Silence stretches between you, but he doesn’t push, just waits. And that somehow makes it worse because now you have to say it. You stand from your seat and take a few steps from the table, needing some sort of seperation to manage your dignity should you lose it.
“I don’t want you to go,” you admit finally, the words quieter than you meant them to be. There it is, out in the open. You brace yourself for denial, amusement, rejection. But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off.
“Okay,” he says instead.
You blink. “That’s it?”
He shrugs slightly, standing from his seat to walk over. “That’s what you said.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
You hesitate, because now it’s harder, now it’s real.
“It just…” you exhale shakily. “After everything, after the road and the mountains and all of it, it doesn’t feel right… when you’re not there.”
Your voice softens.
“Like something’s missing.” You finally look at him fully again. “And I don’t like it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “There was something the old servant told me,” he says slowly.
You frown slightly. “What?”
“About the north,” he continues. “Before all this. About… a prince and an omega princess.”
Something flickers in your memory.
“They were meant to find each other,” he says. “No matter what happened. No matter what tried to keep them apart.”
“I’ve heard something like that,” you admit. “Stories. Helena used to tell them sometimes.”
He nods.
“People think that’s us.”
You let out a small, uncertain laugh. “That’s a lot to put on two people.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”
He pauses, like the next words are lingering in the air just waiting to be said.
“Some of them say… a true mate bond can break anything.”
Your heart stutters as your feet draw you closer.
“Even magic,” he adds, watching you like he’s still trying to piece it together himself. “Some people say that’s what happened,” he continues. “That a—”
“James.”
He stops as you step even closer, close enough that there’s no space left between you.
“Stop talking,” you murmur.
His brow lifts slightly.
“Oh, I—”
You don’t let him finish, your hands grab at the linen of hist shirt and pull him down and you kiss him. It’s not hesitant or careful, but certain. Like something you’ve been holding back for far too long finally finding its way out. He stills for half a second, then he’s there meeting you, returning it. His hand finds your face, steady and warm, like he’s anchoring himself just as much as you are. When you pull back, your breath is uneven.
Your forehead rests against his.
“I heard you,” you whisper.
His brows knit slightly.
“When?” he asks.
“In the tower,” you say. “Before I woke up.”
“I didn’t know if—”
“I did,” you interrupt softly. “I just didn’t get to answer.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I love you too.” The words settle between you.
“And I don’t want you to leave,” you add, quieter now. “Not yet. Stay with me.”
Something shifts in his expression and he leans in again, pressing another kiss to your lips—slower this time, grounding. When he pulls back, he presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”
He finds you some days later. Not in the throne room, not in the halls where people now bow and watch and whisper. Somewhere quieter, a side corridor that opens out toward the gardens, where the light is softer and the air doesn’t feel so heavy with expectation.
You hear him before you see him. That steady, familiar rhythm of his steps. You turn and when you catch his eye he stops like he hadn’t entirely decided what he was going to say until this exact moment. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s… different now, not distant but just new.
“Hey,” he says finally.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him.
“Hey.”
He shifts his weight, subtle, but you notice.
“I was thinking,” he starts, then pauses like the words don’t quite line up the way he wants them to. “We’ll probably be… doing a lot of this.” He gestures vaguely—toward the castle, the responsibilities, the everything. “And not a lot of anything else.”
You smile faintly.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Yeah,” he huffs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So I thought—maybe—”
He stops again and you just watch him through it.
“Would you—” He exhales, then tries again, more straightforward this time. “Would you have dinner with me?”
You blink.
“Dinner?”
“Not—” he shakes his head quickly. “Not like that. Not formal. Not… any of this.” His hand gestures again at the castle around you, like it personally offends him. “Just us.”
Something soft settles in your chest.
“Okay,” you say.
He looks almost surprised you didn’t make it harder.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, smiling a little more now.
A breath leaves him—relief, maybe.
“Good,” he says. “Good. Then… meet me in the gardens. At dusk.”
You nod.
“I’ll be there.”
Dusk paints the gardens in gold and blue.
The last of the sunlight stretches long across the grass, catching on the edges of the stone paths and the early bloom of flowers that have started to return. You follow the sound of quiet movement. And then you see it. He’s already there kneeling in the grass, adjusting something with a focus that feels almost out of place for him. It takes you a second to take it all in, it’s not elaborate or overly polished but it's intentional. A blanket spread across the ground—no, several blankets, layered unevenly, some folded over each other, others half-bunched like he couldn’t decide where they were supposed to go. Candles scattered around in small clusters, their light flickering softly against the growing dark.
And food, simple food.
Bread, still slightly warm. Fruit—unsliced this time. Something wrapped in cloth that smells faintly savory. It's not royal and draped in gold, but it's him and it's utterly perfect. He looks up when he hears you and for a second, there’s something almost unsure in his expression, like he’s waiting for you to decide what this is worth.
Your gaze drifts over the blankets again then back to him.
“…you made all this?” you ask.
He shrugs, a little too casual.
“Yeah. Well—some of it. I didn’t exactly bake the bread.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth as you step closer, eyes catching on the pile of blankets again. There are a lot of them, more than necessary. Some mismatched. One folded into itself like it gave up halfway through.
You glance at him.
“James.”
“Yeah?”
“…what is all this?”
He follows your gaze and hesitates.
“I—” He exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I tried to make a nest.”
You blink.
“A nest?”
“Yeah.” He gives a half-shrug, like he’s trying to play it off before it can matter too much. “I don’t know. I don't remember much from how courting works… only bits of it. Not really. Just—” He gestures vaguely at the blankets. “This is probably wrong.”
You don’t say anything right away.
“I know I’m just an alpha,” he adds, quieter now, almost under his breath. “I don’t know how this is supposed to look I just know that in my offering needs my scent and I—.”
“It’s perfect,” you say softly stopping him as you step closer, close enough that the space between you disappears again, like it always seems to now.
He huffs lightly.
“It’s really not—”
“It is,” you interrupt gently.
“Not because of how it looks,” you continue, softer now. “Because you made it.”
You can see the tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly.
“Besides,” you add, glancing back at the blankets with a small smile, “I think you overdid it.”
He lets out a quiet laugh.
“Yeah. I got that feeling halfway through.”
You step onto the blankets, sinking into them a little as you settle down. It’s warm and soft, his scent crowding you in the best way possible, teakwood and ocean salt, comforting in a way that feels familiar. He watches you for a second like he’s making sure you actually like it, then joins you.
You reach for a piece of bread and break it in half to hand him the other. He takes it without hesitationn and you eat, quietly. No ceremony or royal flare, just this. The candles flicker around you, the sky deepening into night overhead, at some point, your shoulder brushes his. Neither of you moves away.
“You know,” you murmur after a while, “this is better than the dining hall.”
“Yeah?”
“Much.”
He nods.
“Good," he pauses, brushing crumbs from his palm. “I wanted something that felt like before.”
You glance at him.
“It does.”
Another pause, quieter this time, full in a different way. You shift slightly, settling more comfortably into the blankets, into him. The candles flicker lower, their light softer now near fading, shadows stretching across the blankets. Somewhere beyond the gardens, the palace continues on in the distance, voices, footsteps, life, but it feels far away from here.
From this.
You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until you notice he has too. The conversation fades naturally, like it’s run its course without either of you needing to force it and in its place something else lingers. You glance at him and he’s already looking at you. It’s not sudden, not sharp, just a moment that stretches a little longer than it should. Your breath catches slightly, not from nerves, not really but from the weight of everything that led here. The road. The mountains. The fear. The choosing. All of it sitting quietly between you now, and neither of you looks away. He shifts first slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him if you want to. You don’t so you meet him halfway. It’s small, the way it happens, subtle and gentle. The space between you closing inch by inch until it isn’t there anymore. His hand finds yours again and your fingers curl into his without thinking.
Then he leans in when your lips meet, it’s soft at first, testing, like both of you are still learning what this is allowed to be now that nothing is forcing it apart. But it doesn’t stay uncertain for long, because you already know each other, know the way the other breathes, the way the other moves, the way everything settles into place when you’re close. It deepens like embers glow hot in a flame, like something finally clicking into alignment. You shift closer without thinking, your shoulder pressing into his, your hand tightening slightly in his as if grounding yourself in the moment. He leans into you in return, steady and warm, like he’s anchoring himself there too. When you finally pull back, it’s only barely. Your foreheads rest together, your breathing a little uneven, your eyes still half-focused on each other.
There’s a quiet there again, but it’s different now like something you didn’t fully realize you were holding onto has finally been set down.
His thumb brushes lightly against your hand.
“You okay?” he murmurs and you nod, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“Yeah," you hum through a smile. “Better than okay.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, the tension in him easing in a way you can feel.
“Good,” he says.
The moment lingers, your forehead still rests against his, your breath slowly evening out, the quiet between you no longer uncertain but settled, warm, steady, and real.
And then the light changes, it’s subtle at first. A shift in the shadows. A softening of the dark. You feel it before you see it, both of you do. James’s hand tightens slightly around yours as his gaze lifts, something instinctive pulling his attention upward.
You follow it to see the clouds part without warning. And the moon—full, bright, impossibly clear breaks through the sky. Its light spills over the garden in a way that feels… different. Not just illumination, but presence. It washes over the blankets, the candles, your hands still tangled together, over both of you and everything stills. The air goes quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty but feels held. Like the world has paused just for this. The garden fades at the edges, not disappearing, just softening, like it’s no longer the center of what matters.
And something else settles in. You can't see it, but you feel it in your bones. Something ancient watching. Your fingers tighten in his without thinking and the connection between you shifts, deepening, opening into something wider than just the moment. You feel it in your chest, in your quickening pulse. In the quiet place inside you that has always known there was something more, even before you understood what it was. Images flicker through your mind, not quite memories, not quite dreams.
A home you’ve never stood in, but somehow recognize, stone walls that feel safe instead of cold. Snow falling outside a window that doesn’t feel like something to survive but something to watch, together.
Laughter, yours and his. Your hand in his, the feeling of belonging, not to a place, not to a crown, but to each other. It moves through you like a quiet truth unfolding. You glance at him and he’s already looking at you and you know he sees it too, feels it, understands it in the same wordless way.
Not just what you are, but what you’ve chosen to be. Something ancient threads through it all, the echo of stories whispered long before either of you were born. The northern prince. The lost omega princess. Fate bonded through destiny.
The presence lingers just long enough for it to settle fully into you with a quiet certainty, a promise without words. Then just as gently as it came it fades, the garden returns, the candles flicker back into focus and the night breathes again as the moon passes over the garden walls. Sound trickles back in—the distant rustle of leaves, the faint crackle of flame.
Nothing looks different but everything feels it, there’s no question left now. James exhales slowly, like he’s just come back from somewhere far away. This time you don’t hesitate, you lean in first and he meets you immediately. The kiss is deeper this time, grounded in something deeper than love, every bit of it anchored in what you just felt, what you now understand. His hand comes up to your jaw, steady and sure, holding you there like something he has no intention of ever losing. You shift closer again, the last of the space between you disappearing completely.
Then, something shifts.
His exhale shudders against your mouth, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump. The kiss deepens, slow but inevitable as his tongue traces your lower lip, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to claim more, his other hand sliding around to cradle the back of your neck. The sweetness melts away, replaced by something darker, hungrier. The air between you grows thick, charged with the scent of Alpha and Omega, of need and promise. You can feel the moment his instincts surge forward, his growl vibrates through your chest as his teeth graze your lip, not quite biting, not yet. But the threat of it, the promise of his control slipping, makes your body arch against his without thought as he pulls you into his lap.
His fingers flex against your skin, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no distinction between where he ends and you begin. The kiss turns messy, consuming, tongues tangling in a rhythm that mimics something far more carnal. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down the fabric of his shirt, needing more. And James answers without hesitation. His palm slides down to your waist, gripping hard enough to near bruise as he tugs you flush against him, letting you feel the hard length of him pressing insistently between your thighs. A whimper escapes you, high and needy, and he swallows it greedily, his free hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back.
There’s no more gentleness. Only heat. Only want. Only the two of you, lost in the pull of the moon and something deeper, something inevitable.
He groans into your lips as he kisses you harder and deeper like he's trying to devour you whole. The slick heat between your thighs is impossible to ignore, your scent saturating the air, and James growls against your lips, low and possessive.
"You smell so fucking good," he rasps, his voice rough with want. "Like mine."
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling the tie loose until his dark strands spill free, silken and soft under your touch. You tug, just enough to make him groan against your mouth, his hips bucking up instinctively beneath you.
His hands are everywhere, rough palms skimming your waist, gripping your hips before sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples through the thin fabric of your dress. The growl that tears from his chest is pure Alpha, possessive and starving. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “Knew you’d feel like this—soft, warm n' mine.”
You rock against him, the hard line of his cock pressing into your core through his pants, and the friction is almost too much. A whimper slips from your lips as you grind down, chasing the delicious pressure, but James' hands tighten on your hips, halting you just as pleasure starts to crest. “Not yet,” he growls, though his own breath comes ragged. “Gonna make sure you’re ready for me.”
His free hand slips under your skirt, calloused fingers dragging up the inside of your thigh, his touch is firm but unhurried as his fingers slide beneath the soaked fabric of your panties, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet rasp that makes your thighs tremble. You nod ferevently, as his fingers glide through your slickness with agonizing slowness, circling your entrance before slipping just the tip inside teasing you, maddeningly.
You whine, arching into his touch, but he hushes you with a kiss, deep and slow. “Easy, omega. I’ve got you.”
When he finally sinks a finger into you, it’s with deliberate tenderness, curling just right to make your breath hitch. His thumb swipes over your clit in gentle circles, coaxing pleasure from you in waves rather than sharp bursts. His lips trail down your jaw to your throat, sucking lightly at the tender skin there, still marking you without claiming yet. “That’s it,” he praises softly. “Let go for me.”
You shatter under his touch with a cry with hardly more effort, your orgasm washing over you like warm honey, slow and syrupy sweet. But before the aftershocks even fade, you’re writhing against him again, hands clutching at his shoulders. “James—please.”
He smiles against your skin, fond but predatory before easing you back onto the soft grass beneath you. His body covers yours completely as he lines himself up at your entrance, his gaze dark but warm. “Gonna be good for me?” he asks softly, brushing a kiss over your forehead. “Gonna let me take care of my queen?”
You nod frantically again, legs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer still. The first push is slow, agonizingly so, his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he groans, voice rough. “You feel like heaven.”
Then he moves, a deep, rolling thrust that punches a gasp from your lungs. His hips snap forward again, harder this time, and your nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure coils tight in your belly. “More,” you beg, “harder—”
He obliges with a growl, fingers tangling in your hair as he drives into you, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside until you’re sobbing his name. “That’s it,” he rasps against your neck, sucking bruises into your skin, everywhere but where you need it most. “Gonna fill you up every damn day, keep you round with my pups. My perfect queen.”
You’re close again, so close and then his teeth finally sink into your scent gland. The world explodes. Pleasure rips through you like lightning, your body clamping down around him as he spills deep inside, his knot locking you together as he murmurs sweet nothings against your skin, “Mine. Always mine.”
The bond settles between you like a promise, eternal and unbreakable as he licks the mark clean and pulls you tight against his chest. The night hums with satisfaction around you both... but it’s far from over.
Winter comes again, but it no longer feels like something to survive. Snow settles softly over the rebuilt northern kingdom, over stone set back into place by steady hands and quiet hope. The palace breathes differently now—windows open to light, laughter where silence once lived. You find him not in the grand halls but in the nursery, standing by the window with the mountains stretching beyond him, hanging up an hand carve mobile. You pause in the doorway, watching the way he has become both stronger and gentler all at once, how the past is no longer something that owns him.
When he looks up and finds you, something in his expression settles like this, here, is where he was always meant to be.
ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › god BLESS the pea in my pod miss aluri buchanan barnes for dealing with me and my crashouts during this and making me laugh regardless. i love guys
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