Winter's Girl

21+/She/I'm just here to get lost.

[curoopeez]

I don't want my cellphone to have AI I want it to have 3 days of battery time. I don't want my computer to have AI preinstalled I want it to have seven usb ports and high ram at affordable price. I don't want my games to have AI built levels I want them to be so optimized I could run them on a nokia.

[holylulusworld]

Walkered (4): Salvation

Summary: You’re getting on his nerves. Right?

Pairing: August Walker x fem!Reader

Warnings: sub/dom, mentions of subspace, pet names, sir kink, tension, teasing, thigh riding

Catch up here: Walkered (3): Liberation

Walkered masterlist

“Go ahead, princess. I want to watch you make yourself cum. If I like what I see, you’ll be mine forever.” August leaves no room for discussion. He looks at you, his eyes darker than usual.

August doesn’t tell you that he’d never let you slip through his fingers, but he loves the power play too much.

Your heart races looking at August. He’s still the man ordering you around and yelling at you, but now, you feel grounded and safe with him.

“Don’t leave me waiting,” he warns. His hands grip your hips a little tighter to press your bare sex against the rough fabric of his slacks. A reminder that he’s in charge.

“Yes, Sir,” you shakily reply.

“Start slow,” his voice is so low and commanding that you are about to cum right there and then. “I want to see every spark I ignite. If you want to stop, say red. That should do for now.”

“Red,” you reply, earning a low growl from August. “Understood, Sir.”

You bite your lip, hesitating for another heartbeat before you begin to move. You’re grinding against the solid muscle beneath you, moaning loudly as you feel your clit start to thrum.

Your orgasm builds quickly, and you can already feel the familiar warmth spread through your abdomen. August watches your every move, eyes locked on your face.  

Right when you pick up the pace to chase your orgasm, he tightens his hold on your hips again, holding you still. “You won’t get to cum so fast. Do it slower.”

You whine but obediently nod. August is in charge, and if you want this relationship to work out, you must show him how good you can be for him.

August loosens his hold on your hips, allowing you to ride his thigh harder. The pressure is just right. Your breath is coming in short bursts. You close your eyes, whimpering as the high you were chasing was taken away from you again.

His hand comes up to your face to cup your cheek. He only looks at you, smirking as you slow down again.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice softening for only a moment. You fall against his chest, frustrated and aching for release, but the praise makes you feel warm.

He doesn’t stop, though. August gave you a moment to calm, only for him to tell you to keep grinding. Again. And again. And again.

He wants you to break; you don’t cum without permission. August just stares at you, calculating, waiting for you to break. But you don’t.

“That’s a good girl for me,” he murmurs, gently stroking your sides as you are so close to your orgasm it almost hurts.

“Please, August... I need it.”

You are about to say red when he looks you in the eyes and tells you, “Come for me.”

You surge forward, riding with abandon, until your orgasm finally shatters you. Weak and exhausted, you fall against his chest again, crying silently.

August held you close, his hands gently stroking your back and hair. “You did so well,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. He waits for you to come down and listens to your breathing.

You sigh against him, allowing yourself to bask in his warmth and care. “I did well?” You murmur, wondering if he tries to tease you again. “Really?”

“Very well, Y/N. No other woman was so good for me. Ever,” he says, reassuringly. “Now, let’s get you to bed. It was a long and exhausting day for you.”

August ran a warm bath for you. He helped you eat and rehydrate before carrying you inside his bedroom. You’re the first sub allowed to stay with him. August usually brings them home after a session.

“You’ll stay with me,” he simply states. There’s no room for arguments. August found his perfect submissive and won’t give up on you. “Tomorrow, we will get more of your things. I’ll handle your lease and everything.”

“You want me to move in here…permanently. I thought this was just…” You don’t know what to think. August is the dominant you were looking for, but he’s still the man who hated you the most not so long ago.

“I need to know you’re safe all the time. At work, I can keep an eye on you. After work, it’d be difficult if you are not near me. I can’t have anything happen to you,” he says, joining you on the bed. August possessively wraps himself around your body. He buries his face in your neck, teasing your soft spot with his lips. “No man can even lay his eyes on you…”

[aquaticmercy]

Grace Under Pressure

Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 13.7k

Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!

You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.

“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.

Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.

“They are primitive.”

“Cars are cool.”

“Cars are slow.”

“They have music.”

That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.

Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”

Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.

From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”

You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.

Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.

You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).

Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true. 

Why would you even think that? You looked so different.

By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.

Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.

You and Peter were… batteries.

And then Yondu died.

What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?

That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.

For a while, neither of you joked about anything. 

Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,

But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.

The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter. 

And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.

Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.

The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals. 

You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.

For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.

Then came Thanos, and Titan.

Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.

The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.

You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.

But it was not enough.

The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning. 

Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.

You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would. 

Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together. 

But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless. 

Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.

Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.

At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it. 

You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.

Peter saw it happen.

One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you. 

“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”

You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there. 

That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.

You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.

Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too. 

Then you were both dust.

—

And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.

One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you. 

There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.

So you fought him again, and this time, you won.

Earth, as it turned out, was not boring. 

Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.

Earth also had Bucky Barnes.

Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.

Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories. 

“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.

“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.

Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.

“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”

You looked up.

And fuck.

Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.

He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh. 

Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”

The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”

You blinked. “Bucky?”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”

From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”

You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.

“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.

You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”

Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”

“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.

Bucky actually smiled then.

And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.

—

You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.

It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.

Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.

Your fingers moved absently over your arm.

The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home. 

Behind you, the roof access door creaked.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”

You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”

Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.

He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.

“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.

You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”

You blinked. “About what?”

“That was pretty much my response.”

You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.

“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”

“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”

“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”

You stared at him. “Do you?”

“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.

He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”

You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”

“Not sure that means much.”

“No?”

“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.

So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing. 

You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.

Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.

You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”

“What is it?”

You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”

Bucky turned his head toward you.

You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”

Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”

His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”

You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”

“Usually no.”

“Usually?”

“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”

While I was gone. 

Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had

So you pushed your door open first.

You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.

You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.

You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.

Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.

Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.

You looked down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.

People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.

You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”

Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”

And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.

Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.

He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold. 

You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing. 

You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”

Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.

“Are they dead?” you asked.

That made him look at you.

You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”

Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”

“Most is not all.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“Do you want help?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.

Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.

Bucky seemed aware of it too.

“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”

You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”

“One-night stands.”

You stared.

He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”

“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”

“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”

“No.”

“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”

His smile lingered, and so did yours.

The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.

Maybe it did.

Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.

“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”

His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”

“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”

That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.

“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”

You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.

You leaned closer anyway.

“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”

“No?”

“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”

Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”

“Yes.”

You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and  the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.

“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.

Instead, it was recognition.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.

His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt.  His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.

It was infuriatingly sweet.

So you fixed it.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.

Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.

You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.

This did not feel like that.

Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.

He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.

Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”

You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.

“You don’t have rust.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”

You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”

His eyes dropped to your hand.

It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.

By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you. 

It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.

You were.

So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon. 

You just made each other feel good.

—

In the morning, someone knocked on your door.

It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.

You opened your eyes slowly.

For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.

Oh.

Right.

The knocking came again.

Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before. 

“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”

“He okay?”

“He’s asking about breakfast.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.

You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”

Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.

It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.

“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.

You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.

Oh, shit.

Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.

You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.

Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”

Your entire body went hot.

“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.

Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”

From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”

You dropped your face into your hands.

Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.

“I am Groot,” Groot said again.

“I know,” Rocket said. “We’re going to IHOP. Quill’s handling it.”

“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.

“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.

Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”

“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.

Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.

Peter.

“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .

Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”

You froze. Bucky froze.

You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”

Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”

Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”

Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”

“Oh my god,” you said.

“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.

Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”

You turned to him in alarm. “No.”

Bucky looked between you and the doorway.

“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”

“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.

Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.

Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.

“I’ll see you around?” you said.

“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.

“Big fan,” Peter said.

“Pete!” you groaned.

Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”

Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.

Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.

Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.

By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.

It had one number saved: Bucky. 

—

You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.

It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra  week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.

Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.

Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.

So one week became five months.

And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.

Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.

The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.

It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual. 

It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted. 

Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.

Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.

There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.

But there he was.

Things happened.

There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive. 

There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”

You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.

It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.

That was what you kept saying, anyway.

Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.

Casual meant you could leave when you had to.

Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.

“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.

Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.

“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”

Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”

“Pete loves that song.”

“Of course he does.”

You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”

He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”

“No. Music.”

He looked so offended you had to kiss him.

That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.

The Benatar was fixed eventually.

Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly. 

Bucky didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.

—

The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.

It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.

His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode  him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”

You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.

When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.

His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.

You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.

You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.

Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”

It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.

You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”

You had kicked Drax under the table.

Bucky had not laughed much after that.

Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.

After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.

“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out

“Bucky...”

“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”

You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”

His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.

“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”

“You don’t blend in anywhere.”

“That’s fair.”

You tried to smile. 

Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.

“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”

You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.

You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.

How could you ask him to leave that?

And how could he ask you to stay?

Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians. 

Earth had Bucky.

Space had everyone else.

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.

His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”

He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.

He kissed them off your cheeks.

You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.

Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.

For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.

His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.

You blinked up at him.

Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.

Your lips parted.

He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”

You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”

He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made  your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.

Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.

But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.

He laughed too, quieter.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”

You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.

It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.

You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Bucky opened his eyes.

You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”

He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.

He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at.  It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.

This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.

Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.

“Don’t,” you gasped.

He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hold back.”

His eyes darkened.

Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”

Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.

You let yourself have it.

For once, you didn’t try to make it funny. 

You just let him have you.

And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

Good.

You wanted it to fucking ache. 

For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.

The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.

Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”

His hand stilled in your hair.

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.

You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.

You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”

You placed it in Bucky’s hand.

He looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“A communicator.”

His brows lifted. “This works in space?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”

Bucky stared at you.

You sniffed. “But it works.”

His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”

“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”

Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.

“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”

“From time to time,” he repeated.

You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”

Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.

He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.

You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.

“What is this?”

“My dog tags.”

You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”

He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”

“Then why are they called that?”

“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”

You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up. 

His smiled.

Oh.

“They’re important,” you realised.

Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”

And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”

You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”

“You gave me a space phone that might explode."

You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.

You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.

Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.

You went very still.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you said.

He looked at you.

You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.

“Good,” you whispered.

Then you kissed him again.

By morning, your body ached everywhere.

When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.

Stay.

Come with me.

Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.

You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.

—

You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.

Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between. 

Still, you messaged him when you could.

Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.

Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.

Still alive?

That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.

You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?

Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.

Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.

Then he looked out of his window.

Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.

He wondered where you were.

He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.

—

The first time you came back, it was only for two days.

You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once. 

He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.

You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.

“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”

He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket. 

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”

“I know.”

“It’s not enough time.”

“I know,” he said again.

His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.

You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.

“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.

He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”

“Terrans love boxes.”

He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood. 

That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.

Bucky stayed awake.

He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.

“You still wear them,” he murmured.

You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”

“To me.”

“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”

He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”

“Yes.”

“Where would you misplace me?”

“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”

A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.

After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”

You turned your head slightly. “What does?”

“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”

You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”

“Yeah.”

“And what are you?”

You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”

You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”

“Every few months, apparently.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.

—

The second time you came back, it was for five days.

Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.

Also because Bucky was there.

Not that you said that.

You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”

You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.

This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.

Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.

Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.

“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.

He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”

He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.

Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”

He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.

You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”

“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.

You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”

“Nice is good.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty?”

He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”

Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.

You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”

“I know.”

“You can date.”

“I know.”

“Then how was it?”

“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”

Oh.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him. 

Instead, you reached for his hand.

He let you take it.

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked at him. “But?”

Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”

—

The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week

That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.

Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”

You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”

“Yes.”

“What do they know?”

He looked uncomfortable.

You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Oh, now it’s the full name?”

“What do they know?”

“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”

So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.

The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air. 

You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.

Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.

“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”

Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.

You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.

“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”

Sam choked.

One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”

“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.

Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”

You wanted to take it back.

You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him. 

But you didn’t say any of that.

Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.

You mouthed, stop.

He smiled faintly.

Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.

Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.

“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.

“That makes it worse.”

“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”

Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Your face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. But I want something.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”

Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”

Oh.

He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.

Soon.

As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.

“Bucky…”

“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”

You swallowed.

“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”

You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…

You reached across the table and took his hand.

“I’ll try,” you said.

—

The fourth time, you came back two months later.

He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here. 

You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”

His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.

You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”

He let you in.

The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.

You told him about Mantis on the second night.

You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.

So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.

“Mantis is my sister,” you said.

Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”

You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”

“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.

“Yes.”

He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”

You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”

Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”

You believed him.

And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.

But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.

Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.

And what did Earth have?

One soldier in Brooklyn. 

And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window. 

He wondered where you would be in a month.

He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.

He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.

Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.

—

Months later…

Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either. 

Rocket actually almost died.

You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon. 

For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow. 

Then he came back.

Against all odds, Rocket lived.

The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces. 

Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights. 

And now, your family was changing.

Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck. 

Which was fair 

But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.

Then Peter said he was leaving, too.

He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.

Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.

He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.

And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too. 

“I could come with you,” you said.

Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”

You smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”

Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.

His eyes changed.

“Ohhh,” he said.

You looked away at once. “Don’t.”

Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”

“Peter.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”

Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”

Your face went hot.

Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”

“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”

The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it. 

Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.

You turned. “What?”

He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.

Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”

You looked at Groot in betrayal.

Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.

Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”

“I don’t.”

“You are touching them now.”

You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.

“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”

“He’s not old.”

Nebula finally looked up.

Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It means old.”

“He looks fine.”

Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything”

Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”

“They are called dog tags.”

“You are not a dog.”

“That is what I said!”

Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”

Well, when she said it like that…

Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”

Finally, everybody shut the hell up. 

Because yes. He did.

Right. 

Rocket looked away first.

He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.

Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.

Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”

Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”

“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”

Rocket didn’t look at you.

He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.

“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”

You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.

The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay. 

“I am groot,” Groot said, finally. 

I love you guys. 

—

Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.

He should have been, probably. 

That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM. 

He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.

So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.

He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up. 

He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.

Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.

You were standing in his hallway.

You.

You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.

Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet. 

Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.

You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.

“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.

“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”

For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or  space. Just you.

Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.

You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.

Bucky closed his eyes.

His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.

“How long?” he asked.

Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”

Oh.

Oh, stars.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.

“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”

Bucky kissed you.

He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.

Yes.

Yes, stay.

Yes, here.

Yes, with me.

You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.

When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”

Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”

You sighed then. 

Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.

—

And then life kept going.

You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.

Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.

He won anyway.

By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.

The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines: 

Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.

James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.

Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.

That one was your favourite.

You framed it.

Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.

You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.

He stared at the headline.

“You framed it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”

“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”

Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.

The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.

You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and  monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.

Bucky said the place made sense for security.

When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”

“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use. 

“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.

“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”

Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.

And slowly, it became yours.

You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair. 

When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.

He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”

Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.

“Your sister likes windows,” he said.

He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.

Mantis smiled.

Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.

Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”

You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.

And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.

Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.

“I like Earth,” she said.

You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.

“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”

—end. 

Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Definitely Bucky and John Walker, they'd be so competitive! Imagine both of them fighting over reader and since both of them tend to be violent they wouldn't even notice if they accidentally use more strength on her than they wanted to.

Yeah. They're so focused on one upping the other they don't realise they're not really winning us over.

[queen-of-the-avengers]

Play Pretend

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fae!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.3k

Warnings: fluff and angst (about the same level as the first and second part)

Summary: The bubble around you and Bucky seems too good to be true, but you’re going to live in it as much as you can before reality crashes down around you. King Elric and  Queen Erissa have arrived on Earth to search for you themselves, and they won’t stop until they either find you or Bucky. When you realize that Bucky’s life is in danger, you have a choice to make: either continue to run with him, in debt to a goblin, or return to the one place that was slowly killing you to spare Bucky’s life.

Part One: To Be or Not To Be Part Two: The Hunt is On

Square Filled: Galaxy for 2020 @buckybarnesbingo

Author’s Note: yes, there will be a fourth part. not sure if there will be a fifth. any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

Bucky stares at the ceiling in thought. He’s alone in your bed because he doesn’t want to get up just yet. The light shines in through the sheer curtains, casting an almost iridescent glow on the walls.

For weeks, you two have been stuck inside of this bubble you’ve created. You don’t leave your property unless it’s to go to town to grab things Bucky might need. Everything you need is inside your little greenhouse that is beautifully thriving. You don’t have to hide your true self because Bucky loves seeing you in it. He loves the way your fae form looks.

Bucky gets out of bed and walks to the window, pushing aside the sheer curtains. He can see you move about in the greenhouse, and he smiles.

You walk around the greenhouse, picking things you want for dinner tonight. You and Bucky have very different tastes, but you make it work. You’ve been teaching him how to cook your meals just as he’s been teaching you how to cook his.

For the plants that need a little extra love, you use your magic to bring life back into them. You haven’t needed Shadowbane’s help in getting more seeds for you since you asked for so much last time, but you know you’ll need to restock soon. It sickens you to keep asking for his help, but it’s the small price to pay to stay hidden from your family.

The door to the greenhouse opens, and your wings flutter happily at his presence. He walks over to you and pulls you into his arms. It’s been a few weeks, but your wings and body already know Bucky’s touch.

“How are the plants?” he mumbles against your hair.

“Lively. I’m just gathering ingredients for dinner tonight.”

“Am I able to eat any of this stuff?”

“No. It’s poison to you, just like your food is poison for me. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” he chuckles.

With the ingredients in your basket, you and Bucky return to the cottage. It’s morning, so you put the ingredients in the fridge for later. Fae food only has a viable window of about ten hours to be considered fresh. It’s why most Fae have gardens. If not picked, food can last months attached to the stem.

As soon as you close the fridge, Bucky pushes you against it and kisses you. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. He slides his hands down your curves, and he grips your thighs. You jump into his arms without breaking the kiss, and he walks back to the bedroom, eager for his breakfast.

You’re truly happy here, and you hope nothing ruins this.

King Elric and Queen Erissa have traveled across the galaxy and arrive on Earth, in Sokovia, with half a dozen trusted guards. King Elric knows he has to handle this himself instead of having to rely on others. If you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself. That’s what he always told you, his beautiful daughter.

Not only is he pissed that you ran, but he’s pissed that you faked your death to stay gone. Why would you do that? He has given you everything you need in order to succeed, and he has shown you nothing but love and respect.

If what Thor told him is true, then you’re somewhere in Sokovia, and he’s not going to stop until he finds you.

King Elric knew Earth was messy, but he never realized just how so. He walks through the broken streets and dilapidated buildings, looking at everything with disdain.

“How do humans do this? This place is disgusting,” King Elric says with a shudder.

“Not everywhere on Earth is like this, darling,” Queen Erissa says. “Though I’m not sure why Y/N decided to choose this place to live in.”

“I bet that Bucky forced her to.” Elric, once he heard about Bucky through Thor, hated him. “I bet he’s the reason she’s gone.”

“How would he have come to Álfheimr? Humans aren’t advanced enough to leave this planet, much less come to ours.”

“I don’t know, but I bet he did. Rizlar.” A guard steps forward, and the king looks at him. “Survey the area. Find any trace of my daughter. Report back in one hour with your findings.”

“Yes, My King.”

Since two guards need to stay with the king and queen, the rest of them leave to do what he says. The King and Queen will do their own hunt, but at least the guards can get more done with the locals. Knowing this planet is aware of the existence of alien life, King Elric knows he can go to Sokovia leaders and ask for their help.

The only way he’s leaving Earth is with you in tow.

Kig Elric and Queen Erissa, after having spoken to the Sokovian government, wait for Rizlar and the other guards to come back. Exactly one hour later, they do.

“My King, we found something. Most of the locals did not recognize Princess Y/N, but one of them did. There is a cottage on the outskirts of this town that most of the locals tend to stay away from. Princess Y/N must have been using glamour whenever she comes to town, but she doesn’t when she’s home. We tested the area and found traces of her magic there.”

“Let’s go,” King Elric declares.

The King and Queen, with guards flanking either side of them, storm over to the cottage. True to Rizlar’s word, the cottage is there, and a greenhouse stands proudly behind it. A few horses graze the area, but King Elric pays them no mind.

King Elric doesn’t knock on the door; he fucking kicks it in. The cottage is small, and even King Elric can see that no one is here. That doesn’t mean anyone hasn’t been here. There is a pot of food on the stove that is still warm, and half-eaten plates of food on the table.

“Elric, look.” Queen Erissa points to the food on the table. “Fae food. Our baby was just here.”

“Rizlar, spread out. Find Y/N.”

“Yes, My King.” He looks at the other guards. “Let’s go!”

They do a sweep of the entire place, but there are no signs of you or Bucky. Even the greenhouse is empty. You were here, but you’re not anymore.

“I don’t understand. Why would she run from us?” Queen Erissa sighs.

King Elric knows Bucky had something to do with this. He feels it in his bones. “Don’t worry, my love. She’ll be back.”

“How do you know?”

“She left everything behind, including her food. You know she can’t survive without it, so she’ll have no choice but to come back.”

“I do hope you’re right.”

“Rizlar, we will be staying here in case she comes back, but take your men and scour the town. She was just here. She could not have gone far, even with magic.”

“Yes, My King.”

King Elric sits down at the table and looks at the food in disdain. The longer you are gone, the angrier he gets. Not angry at you, of course, but at Bucky. To King Elric, Bucky is the bad guy. To King Elric, Bucky will pay for his crimes against Álfheimr.

The second you got wind of your parents being in Sokovia, you and Bucky didn’t waste any time. You two fled without anything but the clothes on your backs. The food was still cooking on the stove when you had to run.

You don’t know what to do now. You can’t go back to Álfheimr. You can’t go back to Sokovia. You don’t know where you can go that your father won’t find you. Right now, you’ve found a motel in a seedy part of town. This place screams danger, so you’re hoping your father won't think to look here for you.

“It’s going to be okay,” Bucky says. “He won’t find you.”

You’re using a large amount of magic to hide yourself from their scanners, and it’s taking a lot out of you. Not to mention the glamour you’re using to conceal your true form.

“I hope he doesn’t,” you whisper.

You grip the curtain and pull it shut, only keeping it open enough to peer out of it. You hate this. You are used to running. It’s not fair to you to ask Bucky to put his life on hold to run with you. You close the curtain with a sigh, unsure of what to do now.

Rizlar and the other guards haven’t found you, probably because of the magic you’re using to hide yourself. King Elric doesn’t want to sit around and wait for you to come back to the cottage, but he also doesn’t want to leave Sokovia because he knows you’re still here.

You don’t have magic to teleport, and you can’t fly fast enough, so you have to be close if he saw that meal on the stove.

King Elric knows he can’t do this alone, so he decides to recruit the very people who failed at finding you the first time.

The Avengers.

It’s not very hard to get in touch with the Avengers since the whole world knows how to do it. Natasha is in the room when Tony gets the call. She pretends not to be involved when she’s listening to every single word King Elric is saying.

“You found her once, you can do it again, can you not?”

“Your Majesty, it’s a lot harder than you would think to find someone like Y/N.”

“Do what you did last time.”

“Sir, it’s not that easy. If she’s not using magic, then we can’t track her,” Steve says.

King Elric looks down in thought, then he nods. “Then track that man. Bucky.” Natasha’s head snaps up when she hears his name. “He stole my daughter, and if you can’t track her, then you can track him.”

“Bucky isn’t a bad person.”

King Elric’s features harden over video chat. “He stole my daughter and refuses to give her up. I’ll decide if he’s good or not. Find him, and you’ll find my daughter.”

“Okay, we’ll be in contact,” Steve says.

King Elric signs off, and the Avengers immediately start debating on what to do. Natasha stands and slips from the room unnoticed with her phone in her hand. She hurriedly dials Bucky’s number, and he answers on the second ring.

“I know, Nat,” he sighs.

“No, you don’t.”

“I know he’s looking for her. We ran before he could find her. They found her cottage.”

“Listen, I think you should bring her back to her parents.”

“What?” Bucky is shocked she would even suggest that. “Weren't you the one who helped me find her? Why would I do that?”

“He told us to track you since they can’t track her. He thinks you stole her. He’s painting you as the enemy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“This is different, Buck, and you know it. You need to bring her back to her parents before they find you and kill you.”

“No, I’m not going to do that. Thanks for the warning. I gotta go.” Bucky hangs up before Nat can say anything else. You walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet. “We gotta go.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Your dad wants to track me since he can’t track you. I’m very good at hiding, but I’m not that good. Come on.”

As you get dressed, you think of what you can do to stay hidden. There is only one guy who can make you truly disappear, even though you hate the idea of getting his help. This is going to be different than smuggling in some food from Álfheimr.

Bucky is less than thrilled to involve someone he doesn’t know, but he trusts you wholeheartedly. If you say this man is the only way to stay hidden, then he’s the only way.

You wait until long after the sun has gone down before seeking Shadowbane. You’re in an alley with Bucky, pacing nervously.

“If this guy makes you so nervous, why are we seeking his help?”

“Because he’s just that good.”

“I don’t like this.”

“What other choice do we have, Bucky? He’s the only one shady enough to help. We’ll be fine.”

“Princess Y/N.” You and Bucky turn to the deep drawl in the shadows. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He steps out from the shadows, and your breath hitches. He’s just as handsome as before. He keeps his jawline free of any hair, and his green eyes are so bright that they’re mesmerizing. His teeth are so white, they’re striking. It’s all part of his charm. He chose this human form because it reflects the monster inside of him.

He smooths the jacket of his three-piece suit and stands tall, even taller than Bucky.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You know what I want. You know my parents are here.”

“Of course,” he shrugs. “I felt them the second they set foot on Earth.”

“I need your help, Shadowbane. You know they’re after me, but now they’re after Bucky.”

“Can you do it?” Bucky asks.

Shadowbane laughs. “Don’t insult me, boy.”

“Shadowbane, stop,” you sigh. “Can you help us?”

“Of course, I can.”

“Good, I have a vial—”

“Your blood won’t be enough for payment this time.”

This is what you were afraid of. You were hoping he’d take your blood, but he wants something more, and you’re scared to ask what.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks for you.

Shadowbane doesn’t take his eyes off you when he says, “A wish.”

All the blood drains from your face, and if your wings were showing, the tips would turn stormy black. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Shadowbane smirks at seeing the fear on your face. This is what he feeds off of. He might help you smuggle in supplies, but he is in no way a good guy.

“No,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean, a wish?” Bucky asks.

“I can’t do that, Shadowbane. You know I can’t.”

“You very well can, Princess. It’s only a matter of whether you want to, that’s the issue.”

“What does a wish mean?” Bucky asks you.

“No,” you say to Shadowbane. “I won’t do it.”

“Then this conversation is done.” He steps away once and looks at you. “Should you change your mind, you know how to find me.”

In the next second, he is gone, and you nearly crumble to the ground. Bucky catches you and pulls you into the shadows to stay hidden from view.

“Y/N, talk to me. What does a wish mean?”

“It’s Fae law that if we promise a wish, we have to grant it. No matter what.”

“It’s just a wish. I think it’s worth it to stay hidden, don’t you?”

“You don’t understand, Bucky. You don’t know how vile Shadowbane is. If I promise him a wish, I have to grant it. You might see him as this man, but back home, he is a goblin who is sneaky and manipulative. I have no one else to turn to, so I have to use him to get my supplies, but a wish is too much to ask for.” You look down with tears in your eyes. “Maybe I should just go back home. It’ll be easier for everyone.”

“No. Not happening.” You should have known Bucky wouldn’t go for that. He cups your jaw and lifts your face so you have no choice but to stare at him. “We have other options, okay? You’re not the only one who knows people in high places. Let me make some calls, okay? I’ll figure it out.”

You and Bucky head back to the motel so he can figure out the next steps, but your head is still stuck on the heaviness of the situation. Your father will stop at nothing to find you now that he’s on Earth. You have no means of leaving this planet without the help of Shadowbane. You have no means of using your magic because then you’ll be caught. You can’t grant Shadowbane a wish because he truly is wicked.

If your father finds Bucky, he will surely kill him. From what you gather, your father thinks Bucky is the one who kidnapped you. That means Bucky’s life is in danger. You’re not sure if this is love, but you care for him too much to let him die for you.

You’re the Princess of Álfheimr, and your time to play pretend is long over. It’s time to face reality and step out of the bubble you’ve crafted so expertly.

That night, once Bucky has fallen asleep, you pack what little things you were able to take. You write a pathetic note on the motel pad before slipping from the room. You hate doing this to him, but you’d never forgive yourself if he died because of you.

You head back to your little cottage in Sokovia. Your parents are in deep conversation with Rizlar and the other guards about what to do when you walk inside.

“I don’t trust that these humans will do what they say they’re going to do, and I don’t trust that my daughter is just going to come willingly. Bucky must have his claws in deep, and I want him brought to me alive. He will face punishment of the highest order.”

“Don’t hurt him, Daddy.”

Everyone turns toward you, and your father storms over to you. “Where is he? Where is Bucky?”

“No, please, Daddy. Don’t hurt him. He isn’t to blame for this,” you beg.

“Why shouldn’t I blame him? Not only did you flee from Álfheimr, but Bucky kidnapped you and fled here. Of all places, why here?”

“Daddy, it wasn’t him. It was all me. Please don’t hurt him. I’m here. I’ll go back home. Just please leave him alone.”

“Elric,” your mom says as she walks up to you. “Leave the boy alone.”

“Erissa—”

“All we wanted was our daughter home, yes? She’s coming home now, and she looks unharmed. We have no business here anymore.”

“Please, Daddy. Leave him alone. I’ll go back home.”

Your father clenches his jaw, but he relents. He can’t ever say no to his Queen. “As you wish. Rizlar, prepare the journey back home.”

“Yes, My King.”

You hate to leave Bucky behind, but you’re doing this to save his life.

Bucky knows something is wrong the second he wakes up. You’re not next to him, all your things are gone, and there is a little white note on the pillow of the unmade bed.

My darling, I am so sorry that this is the first thing you’re waking up to. I really did try to figure out a way out of this. I’ve neglected my responsibilities for too long, and I realize there is only one thing to do here. I have to go home. You’ll be safe. No one will be coming after you anymore. Please know that I will always care about you, and I’m doing this for you. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. I will never forget you. Y/N

Bucky has to read the note three times before his brain processes the words. He grabs the lamp with his metal arm and throws it against the wall in anger. Fuck! This shouldn’t have happened. He was going to get you two out of this with or without Shadowbane’s help.

He understands why you did this, but this isn’t the end of you and him.

He once promised you that if he found you once, he could do it again, and he’s going to keep doing it until you’re his for good.

He will find his way back to you, no matter what.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[azriona]

Fic: Muscle Memory, Chapter 1

Bucky/Reader, Gen Audiences, 15k in 4 chapters. Post-CA:CW, canon divergence where Bucky is an Avenger in the Tower, amnesia!fic. Please see AO3 for full tags.

Summary: The last thing you remember is going down to the Triskelion's sublevels, hoping you're in time to stop the helicarriers from launching. Next thing you know, you wake up in a hospital bed, with a mysterious man in the corner, and your best friend can't quite meet your eyes. When you learn why, your world will change forever.

Read it on AO3

(Or read a sneak peek under the cut)

When you wake up, everything aches.

You aren't in pain. Nothing hurts, exactly. But it feels like you've been wrapped in a compression sleeve, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, muzzled and taut, and you think, when the pressure is lessened, there will be pain. Your muscles are wound tight; your lungs push up against the inside of your ribcage, and when you roll your head to the side, it almost feels… sloshy, like there’s too much liquid surrounding it.

The bed under you crinkles like plastic; the pillow feels like paper.

You wince.

“Oh, you’re waking up,” says an unfamiliar voice just to your left. You try to open your eyes—but the light is blinding at first, painful immediately after, and you wince and squeeze them shut again. “Let me turn those down for you.”

The light dims; you cautiously open your eyes again. “Where am I?”

“Well, they just moved you from the ICU, that’s the good news. You’ll be able to rest much better here, and as soon as we’ve got you settled, you can have your visitors back.”

“Visitors?” ICU—that’s a hospital. You look around—and yes, it’s true. You’re in a hospital bed, and a hospital gown, with all the monitors and devices around what is very clearly a hospital room. There’s a bandage wrapped around your left wrist, and you reach up with your right to touch the bandage on your forehead. Your shoulder aches, as does your chest. “What happened?”

“Three cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and a rather nasty cut on your head,” reports the nurse, focused on the machine tracking your heart rate. “But otherwise you’re fine.”

You nod, your head waking up faster now. “And everyone else?”

The nurse glances at you. “Everyone—”

The door flies open. “Ha! I knew you were awake,” says Sharon Carter smugly as the door closes behind her again, leaving her mostly in silhouette. She strides closer to the bed.

“Sharon!”

“How are you feeling?” she asks, taking your hand and squeezing it.

“Like double-O’s martini,” you say, and Sharon laughs at the old joke.

“Well, that’s fair,” says Sharon. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“Three days?!?”

Yep, three days! Read the rest of Sharon's visit (and what else you slept through) on AO3.

[actiiasluna-deactivated20250103]

[batbetbitbotbut]

When I fail to respond it's an homage to letters getting lost at sea

[nerdintheforest]

Mine carrier pigeon doth wander

[foxes-in-love]

[skaye44]

Swim Little Fishy

Summary: Bucky teaches you how to swim in his backyard pool after seeing you freak out at his pool party. 

Content Warning: Language, fear of swimming from reader, patient/hot as hell/life-saving co-worker Bucky who has a pool, Bucky wears slutty little swim shorts to make you feel at ease when you're in the water, he falls first vibes, innuendos to 'adult time' but no smut, FLUFF.

Type of Bucky: Flirty co-worker Bucky

"Hey." 

"Hi Nat." 

You held your phone and flopped down on your couch in a thin pair of shorts and a tank top. Even at night, the temperature was still humid and hot. The weather lately feels like you have been living in the SUN and there seems to be no end in sight. You had almost stripped down to nothing and parked yourself in front of your little window a/c unit but thought not. If anything were to happen to you, you'd hate for anyone like a paramedic or firefighter to have to see that. 

"Bucky's having a pool party tomorrow." 

"Oh?" 

Your stomach flopped. You have a giant school-girl crush on your co-worker Bucky. He's funny, charming, and of course handsome and he usually flirts with you at least once a day. The fact that it's a pool party makes you feel more unease and anxious. You weren't nervous at wearing a bathing suit or having to socialize, but the fact that you don't swim and being around water was the problem. 

You don't swim, plain and simple as that and if you have been around water, you usually stand up to your calves or sit along the side with your feet in. The few times you have been in a pool, you've sat on the steps going in and out or you've stood in the shallow end hanging onto the edge for dear life. 

Pools, lakes, streams, and oceans are not your thing. You only have a few bathing suits in your wardrobe out of obligation since you use them for tanning and when you wash your car in your driveway.

"There will be lots of people there..." Nat assured you. 

She was the only one who knew about your issue. 

"I'm sure you can sit on the edge of the pool and dip your legs in if you are uncomfortable." She added. 

"Yeah...I guess...Oh, I just got a text from Bucky." 

You read the message and blushed. 

Bucky – Hey, pool party at my place tomorrow. Hoping you'll come and cool down with me." 

"What does it say?" 

"It's from Bucky...about the party." 

"Ooohhh." Nat made kissy noises. 

"Pfft, whatever." 

You read the message to her making her chuckle. 

"All my text said was 'pool party tomorrow. Come by if you want,' and that was that." 

"Whatever Nat. He's just playing around, you know how he is." 

"Mm mm, you keep telling yourself that. Now, what are you going to wear and what are we going to bring?"

👙☀️💦

Bucky looked around his backyard and went over his check list in his head before everyone arrived. 

"Food table, check. Charged speakers, check. Pool games and toys, check. Bar set up? Double check." He smiled, pleased with himself. 

Bucky had been transferred to a different office for work in the early spring. He was initially annoyed at the restructuring the company did, but when he met his new co-workers, he was excited, especially meeting you. 

He felt a connection to you when you introduced yourself and he's been working up the courage to ask you out for a while. He figures, with a few casual pool parties and BBQs for the summer, it would be a good way to get to know you outside of work before he asks you out.

When he found his house, he was excited it had an inground pool in the backyard. He spent some time fixing up the outdoor space in the spring and can now host parties and get togethers in the summer for his friends, and it's a fun place to keep cool. 

He's grown up loving to swim since his parents have a lake house, so he is used to being on the water in the summer. He's hoping you'll like his backyard just as much as he does, as he finishes blowing up some beach balls and tossing them into the pool.

👙☀️💦

Nat picked you up to take you to Bucky's house. You were nervous and bounced your leg up and down in her car. She had to tell you to relax a few times before you arrived. 

You don't swim, plain and simple. 

You're scared of water and have always had a fear of it. Nothing has ever happened to you, but the thought of being around a lake, pool, stream, or ocean gives you mad anxiety. 

Not being able to see the bottom, plus, there's usually fish and other things in the water like turtles and frogs, currents are strong, as are waves that can suck you away run through your mind whenever you are by bodies of water. Your parents never enrolled you in swimming lessons, and the thought of you taking them now was laughable, seeing as how the classes in your area cater to children and not adults. 

"You're going to be fine." 

You exhaled and relaxed slightly knowing your friend has your back, but still. The thought of you voluntarily getting into the water without looking like you were going to pass out is going to be hard for you to pull off.

👙☀️💦

"Here we are." Nat pulled up to Bucky's house and parked. 

You got out and held your big bowl of pasta salad tight to yourself. 

"Come on." Nat waved, bringing a few bags of chips and her dip with her. 

You slung your bag over your shoulder and followed Nat up the walkway and pressed the doorbell. The door flew open and so did your mouth as a shirtless Bucky opened it. Holy shit. He stood before you in blue swim shorts with colourful balloons on them that showed off his impressive thighs, with his tapered muscled waist, well-defined abs, and thick arms. You had no idea this was hiding under his suits and sweater combos but wowee wow wow. 

"Hey." Nat said, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

"You made it!" he smiled wide at you, then at Nat.

"We brought snacks." You mentally cringed since you thought it was the equivalent of saying 'I carried a watermelon'. 

You followed Nat inside. 

"Let me take that from you." Bucky said, taking your bowl. 

"Thanks." 

"This way." He called over his shoulder. 

He gave you a small tour of the main floor of his house, showing you where the bathroom was and where you could change. You were already wearing a bathing suit under your shorts and top, so you were fine but placed your change of clothes in a bedroom for later. 

"Everyone, Y/n and Nat are here!" A large group of people cheered and waved while you wandered outside.

👙☀️💦

Bucky's backyard was lovely. There were chairs, umbrellas for shade, flowerpots filled with beautiful arrangements, solar string lights, and a BBQ area that surrounded the bright blue pool. You started getting nervous walking by the water but made it to a lounger that was under an umbrella. 

A few people were sitting around the side of the pool and Steve from the marketing team was sitting in a flamingo floatie. 

"Come on in, the water's great!" He playfully splashed Nat's legs making you flinch slightly. 

"In a minute." She called, placing her bag down next to you. 

You were busy willing your heart rate to calm down. Nat handed you a bottle of water, so you took it and sucked half of it back. 

"It'll be fine. I'm going to head in." Nat assured you. 

You watched her as she confidently made her way to the shallow end, feeling envious of her ease around the water. You saw a few more people arrive and someone cranked up the music as the party started.

👙☀️💦

"Are you having fun?" Bucky's voice cut through your thoughts. 

"Yes, it's nice here." 

You were trying to look nonchalant as you sweated through your top. 

"I'm going in soon to cool down. Are you coming?" 

Your heart rate increased but you nodded, not wanting to look like you were a stick in the mud.

  I can do this. All I have to do is stand by the stairs and hang on. I don't have to do anything else. I can see the bottom of the pool. 

Your thoughts were sailing through your mind. You saw Bucky take his flip flops off and then he headed to the deep end, diving into the water. He made it look so easy as he surfaced and shook his wet hair off his face.

👙☀️💦

Everyone had made their way to the pool and were swimming and splashing around. You stood near the edge of the water and looked at it. 

"Come in Y/n!" Sam from security called. 

"Right, yeah." 

You headed to the steps and slowly waded in, gingerly stepping down one at a time willing your sweat mustache to go away. You finally were submerged and stood in the shallow end of the pool, gripping the edge with an arm. You waved your hand on the surface of the water, moving the currant around, feeling a little relaxed but still nervous. 

Holding onto the edge of the pool helped to centre you.

You were finally cooled down since the water felt refreshing on your skin when you saw Bucky swim over to you from the deep end. Something about him when he broke the surface of the water, droplets falling down his tanned chest while he shook his wet hair from his head did some things to you. It was like he was moving in slow-motion and you couldn't look away. 

You sent a silent thanks for the invention of sunglasses so no one could see you staring at his body.

"Cool enough for you?" Bucky asked as he casually leaned against the side of the pool. 

His hair was wet and those water droplets were running down his chest causing you to swallow hard. 

"Yup." You lamely replied. 

He shifted closer causing you to grip the side of the pool hard. 

"Are you having fun?" 

A few people jumped in causing some unexpected waves to lap against you, so you held on tight. You managed a smile even though you wanted to hurl. 

"Yup." You squeaked out wishing you could grab onto something better since you got jostled from the waves.

 Although tempting, grabbing onto Bucky was not an option you reminded yourself. Even though you totally wanted to, it would be weird and people would talk. Nat had ended up in the deep end laughing and splashing around with Steve and the constant waves were making you feel uneasy.

You had enough of being in the water since the people that were swimming were starting to splash and jump around, making you nervous. It started to feel like the water was going to suck you under. 

👙☀️💦

"Are you ok?" Bucky asked. 

There was something about the way you stood and how you were acting. It didn't seem right to Bucky, so he had to ask you. 

"Y-yeah."

 You inched slightly towards the steps, feeling a panic attack coming on. Your foot slipped on the bottom of the pool making you almost fall back but were caught by solid arms. 

"There now." Bucky said, easing you upright. His hands were gently wrapped around your waist.

You had carefully moved close to the stairs so you could easily get out as Bucky still held onto you, moving with you. You were shaking and it felt like the water was going to swallow you whole. This was too much. You pushed yourself too hard. 

"I-I...need to get out..." You broke out of Bucky's arms and headed up the stairs, exiting the pool in record time. 

You got your towel and dried off, still feeling like your life flashed before your eyes with almost slipping and falling under the water when you felt someone behind you. 

"You ok?" Nat stood and was drying off with her towel. 

"Y-yeah." 

You felt silly for how you reacted and were praying no one caught your little episode when you took your towel and hurried into the house to change.

"I'm leaving." You whispered to Nat. 

She was chatting to Steve and offered to drive you, but you told her you would Uber it home, so she didn't have to leave. The BBQ was started and Bucky was in the process of putting some burgers on, but you didn't want to stay, you had enough of the water and sun for the day. 

"I'll see you at work tomorrow." 

"Are you sure you're, ok?" Nat asked. 

"I'm good Nat. Just want to rest." 

"I'm proud of you." She whispered making you snort. 

"Have a nice night." Then you left and headed to the driveway to catch your ride.

👙☀️💦

"Where did Y/n go?" Bucky asked Nat. 

Ever since he helped you in the pool, your whole demeanor changed. He had to get out and start the BBQ, so he hasn't seen you since. 

"She left." Nat said. 

"What?" 

Bucky looked all over the yard for you. 

"Uh, she...wasn't feeling well. Said she wanted to go home and rest for the night." 

"Huh." Bucky felt like that was a lie, but he didn't want to push it. Something happened with you in the water, and he was determined to find out what.

👙☀️💦

"Here's your bowl." 

Bucky came into your office and plunked the empty and clean bowl on your desk. 

"Your pasta salad was a hit, thanks for bringing it by the way even though you didn't get to eat anything." 

"Oh, right, thanks."

"So, everything ok? Are you feeling better?" He asked, believing the lie Nat told him. 

"Yup, all good." 

"Good." 

He lingered in your office looking like something was wrong. 

"Yes?"

He shuffled his feet a little. 

"I just was thinking...I don't think you were sick. I think something happened in the pool with you, but I can't figure out what." 

Your eyes widened and you sat back in your chair. You fidgeted with your fingers and cleared your throat. 

"Well, I...umm..." 

Bucky sat himself in one of your chairs and placed his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward and looking concerned. 

"I can't swim."

His eyes widened in shock, but he quickly relaxed. 

"But you got into the pool..." 

"Yeah?" 

"Why?" 

You shrugged a shoulder and said, "I needed to cool down." 

Bucky didn't say anything, he sat back in the chair and watched you. 

"I never learned how to swim." 

He couldn't wrap his mind around that seeing as how he's always had access to water. Swimming and lifesaving lessons were something he learned growing up, so fearing water was hard for him to comprehend. 

"Well, you looked ok...up until you left. What happened?" 

"My foot slipped and I panicked." 

It made sense to Bucky now. A few people jumped in and were causing the water to ripple and wave, which more than likely caused you to be unsteady, so you slipped a little. 

"I've always wanted to take lessons, but as I got older, I never found the time. That, and the fact that the recreation centres focus their lessons for children, I don't feel comfortable enrolling and being the only adult with a bunch of kids..." 

"I'll teach you." Bucky blurted out. 

You looked at him funny. 

"I'm serious. Let me teach you. In my pool. I've been swimming for years. I can help you, show you some basic moves, get more comfortable...It'll be private, no one will see if you're concerned..." 

You thought about his offer but shook your head no. 

"No, I couldn't...you don't want to spend your free time teaching me how to swim..." 

"I don't mind, honestly. At the very least it may help you feel more comfortable around water, but I think I can teach you some things." He winked at you making your face flush. 

He's talking about the lessons, right?

You bit your bottom lip in thought. Could you spend time in Bucky's pool while he taught you how to swim? 

"Maybe an evening here or there and a weekend, depending on the weather." He added making you seriously consider his offer. 

"Can I think about it?" 

"Sure, let me know at the end of the day. If you do this, no one will know, it'll be between us, I promise." 

He wanted to lock in his nights and days with you and he's certain you'll say yes seeing as how he knows you were checking him out at the party just as much as he was checking out you. 

"Ok...I'll be by at the end of the day with my answer." You gave him a half smile while he got up and left, leaving you to your thoughts. 

You wanted to learn how to swim and get over that fear, so why not take advantage of that? 

Plus, why not spend it in the water with a hot as hell man? You have no idea what this is going to lead to with Bucky, but you're determined to have a little fun along the way.

👙☀️💦

"I'm in." You said, walking into Bucky's office. 

The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, revealing his tanned forearms. He smiled wide and said, "Good. First lesson starts tonight." 

Your eyes widened but you nodded. 

"Come by at 7. That'll give us both time to get home, eat, and digest."

"Ok. I'll see you later."

 Bucky smiled and watched you leave his office. He couldn't contain his smile as he finished replying to some of his emails. He then went in and marked a calendar for the next month and put in the dates he would like to teach you, sending it to you for approval. 

He was all in on you and teaching you how to swim, he's hoping you are into him too.

👙☀️💦

Your heart was racing as you knocked on Bucky's door. You gripped the handles of your tote bag when the door opened. This time, Bucky had a shirt on when he greeted you and red bathing shorts with wiener dogs on them and his feet were bare. 

"Hey!" 

He smiled wide while you walked in. 

"Come on out back."

 You followed him through the patio doors and saw he had set up the pool area with a few floaties by the steps. A few strands of solar lights were already on ready to cast a glow around the area when it got darker out. You placed your bag down and stepped out of your flip flops, placing them aside when you peeked over at Bucky. 

"I'm glad we're doing this." He said, taking his white t-shirt off in one move and tossing it aside. 

Why was that so hot? 

You got your top off and was un-buttoning your shorts when you looked over and saw Bucky was watching you. He cleared his throat and looked away, kicking at a pool noodle that was on the edge of the pool. 

"Right, are you ready?" He asked, looking at you expectantly. 

"Yup." You squeaked out. 

"Come, take my hand and we can get in the water, get used to it a little." He reached his hand out, so you walked to him, guiding you to the pool. 

Your insides felt like they were going to jump out of you. He stepped in first, then turned and was watching you close. 

"No one else is here, it's just us." He reminded you, carefully guiding you down the stairs.

You both stood in the shallow end, getting used to the water. The water was the perfect temperature; not too cool and not too warm. 

"Are you ok?" He asked, watching you close. 

"I'm good." Which was the truth, you were fine standing in the water, with no waves or people around you. 

"Good. You know, I'm proud of you for what you did at the party. Getting in water when you're terrified of it took some guts." 

You snorted at him, but he was serious. 

"I'm serious." He nudged you slightly causing a slight panic to wash over you. 

"Oops, sorry..." He said, seeing your eyes widen at the waves while he steadied you. 

"Now, we can stand here all night or, I can get you to stand and not hang onto the wall. Get a bit more confident if you like." 

You looked around and inhaled before you let out your breath.

 "Ok." 

He gently took your hand and held it while you stepped away from the side. 

"I'm not letting go." 

"Ok Rose." You teased. Bucky looked at you funny and you rambled on about Titanic and the amount of room on the door making him chuckle.

👙☀️💦

You felt good at Bucky's side, more confident as he carefully moved you throughout the shallow end, getting used to walking around in the water. 

"There now." His voice was relaxing as he let go of your hand. 

You didn't immediately put it on the ledge to hang onto. 

"So, I was thinking for your lessons...if you want, we can go slow at first. Getting in and out of water, being able to feel it, dip your head under, that sort of thing. Then, I can show you some strokes, how to move around, get from one point to another...then my ultimate goal is to get you confident enough to jump in..." 

Your eyes widened making him chuckle. 

"...Wishful thinking I know. We won't do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but at the very least I was hoping you would be more confident and assured. What better way to celebrate your new lessons than to jump in and free yourself from your fear?" 

"Wow, you've planned all that in a short timeframe. I was just hoping to see you in your slutty little swim shorts and to get a few feels in to be honest." You blurted out, immediately slapping a hand over your mouth making Bucky laugh.

 "I-I...I said that out loud, didn't I?" You cringed while Bucky nodded. 

"Yup." 

His eyes seemed to sparkle under the solar lights. 

"But I don't mind. I'll wear all the slutty little bathing shorts you want if it gets you more comfortable in the water." Bucky joked making you snort. 

You turned and faced him, then held your hand out for him to shake. 

"It's a deal." He took it and you chuckled, heading towards the stairs to leave.

👙☀️💦

Over the next few weeks, you had gone over to Bucky's house and have gotten used to the water. You are more comfortable getting in and out of it, and the last few times, he showed you how to dip your face in and blow bubbles. 

Tonight though, he was going to get you to float on your back. Once you were more confident, he'll show you some strokes and eventually how to tread water. 

"Look at you go." He teased you while watching you climb into the water with ease. 

"You no longer look like you're going to hurl when you get in, so that's good." He winked at you making you roll your eyes.

 You stood next to him and was prepared for this night's lesson of getting on your back and letting the water support you. 

"Ok, so, are you wet?" He asked, immediately cringing at his own words. 

"Mr. Barnes..." You shook your head and chuckled, dunking yourself under the water to wet your upper half. 

"Yeah, sorry, that was weird. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable with the temperature." 

"Right..." You side-eyed him but smirked, turning to face him. 

"Ok, show me what to do." 

You watched him move so he faced the sky and floated on his back like a starfish, bobbing in the water. 

"Like this..." He said, relaxing and looking up into the sky. 

He stood and brushed a few droplets of water from his face and waited for you to copy his moves. He was patient as you went through the movements in your head and worked out the fear as you slowly moved your legs, so they were in front of you, letting the water float you so you were spread out.

Bucky brought his hands under your back and neck for support but didn't touch you. He wanted you to figure things out before he assisted you. 

"There you go." He encouraged you to lie back a little more. 

"I've got my hands under you in case you need me." You fought through the anxiety and breathed out, then in as you laid back, letting the water surround you as you floated. You felt a gentle brush under your lower back of Bucky's hand, supporting you. 

"I'm doing it!" You yelled making Bucky chuckle. 

"You are." 

He was close to your face as he had sunk into the water to help you.

 "May I?" He asked, tapping your back with his fingers. 

"Ok..." 

You trusted he wouldn't scare you as he moved his hands under you and gently moved you around the shallow end. You had no idea the water would feel this good on your body as Bucky rocked you back and forth. Having his hands on you made your skin heat, even under the cool water, you were grateful the sun was starting to set so your blush could hide. 

His voice was soothing as he told you stories of him and his family at their lake house.

👙☀️💦

"Are you sleeping?" 

Your eyes whipped open. 

Yes. "No." You scoffed and started to right yourself. 

You felt a little embarrassed you fell asleep in Bucky's pool, but you were just so relaxed. You had closed your eyes to enjoy the floating sensation but must have zoned out. Combine that with Bucky's soothing voice telling you stories, it felt like you were drifting aimlessly around the clouds. His hands dug into you as you got yourself standing upright in the water. 

He stood close to you, making sure you were ok. 

"Are you good?" 

"Yup." 

He wore swim shorts with pink flamingos on them making you giggle. 

"I like your shorts tonight." You pointed to them. 

"Yeah? Thought you might like them. Are they slutty enough for you?" 

"Absolutely." You smiled wide making him chuckle. 

"Ok, a few more times of floating, then we can look at the strokes." 

You gave him a funny look. 

"Get your mind out of the gutter Y/n. Swim strokes...s-w-i-m..." Bucky spelled out for you.

 "But I kind of like the other strokes better..." You teased, heading for the stairs making him snort.

👙☀️💦

For your next lesson he planned, you arrived at Bucky's house determined to swim from one side of the shallow end to the other. Last time you were at his house, Bucky had shown you a few strokes (with a lot of snickering by you), but you think you are ready to try them out. 

"Hey!" 

Bucky was waiting at the door for you wearing swim shorts with dancing palm trees on them. 

"Where do you keep getting those?" You pointed to his shorts. 

"I have my sources. Why, do you want to take a closer look?" he wiggled himself a little making you snort. 

Yes, yes, I do. 

 "Are you ready to swim?" He asked, eyes lighting up. 

"I am." You smiled, heading out onto the patio. 

You plunked your bag down and eagerly took off your sundress, then headed into the water. Getting in and out of the pool without being terrified was something you were proud of getting over. Bucky joined you and waded in behind you. 

"Ok, are you ready?" 

He swam over to the side of the pool, and you stood at the other. 

"You can do this. I'm right here if you run into trouble." You were determined to make it to the other side to meet him. You got down into the water and pushed off with your feet, moving your arms to glide towards Bucky.

You wobbled and bobbled your way over but managed to straighten yourself before you made it over to Bucky. 

"I did it!" You cheered, as Bucky helped you stand. 

"Did you see me? I swam from there to here!" You smiled wide as Bucky reached out and embraced you. 

You melted into his warm chest as he patted your back. 

"I'm proud of you." He whispered into your ear making you flush.

"Thanks." You were standing in the shallow end with Bucky's arms around you. 

The night was clear as the solar string lights swayed in the light breeze. You leaned back slightly and looked into Bucky's eyes that were searching yours, then they moved to look at your lips. 

You reluctantly separated, clearing your throat.

 "So, I should...uh...try that again, you know. Practise and what not..." 

"Right." Bucky cleared his throat and shuffled over to the other side. 

You swam over to him a few more times, getting used to the water as you moved around. 

"You're doing so well." He encouraged you to do a few more strokes like a back stroke and doggie paddle, so you were comfortable moving.

"I think next time, you're ready for the deep end." Bucky said, drying off. 

He wrapped his pool towel around his waist. 

You stood frozen, staring at him. 

"What?" he chuckled at your reaction. 

"You think?" You eyed the pool, then Bucky. 

"You're ready, trust me." He stepped close so he was facing you. 

"If you say so." You were nervous but knew he was right.

 "Let me help you." He reached out and helped dry you off. 

"There." 

Every time he had his hands on you, or they brushed your skin, it sent tingles all over you. The man had magic hands and add in his slutty little bathing suit bottoms, it was becoming hard to focus. 

"Oh, you have some hair here..." 

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He didn't remove his hand as it lingered close to your cheek. The moon was out and the lights lit up the yard with the pool casting reflections around the yard. 

"Thanks." You sounded a little breathless. 

He stepped so he stood right in front of you. 

"I'm going to kiss you now." He said, leaning down so his face was in front of yours. 

He smelled like a mixture of chlorine and his cologne he wore at work which was quickly becoming your favourite scent. You nodded and he closed the remaining distance, placing his lips on yours. 

His lips moved with yours as he held you close. Both of your towels dropped when you wrapped your arms around him, deepening the kiss. You finally pulled away from each other, breathing heavily as you smiled up at Bucky. 

👙☀️💦

"So, I think you're ready for the deep end." 

Your eyes widened at his comment making him chuckle. 

"This Saturday night." 

You glanced at the glowing pool and thought about it. 

"Ok." Bucky smiled wide before he leaned in and kissed you again making you giggle since his scruffy face tickled you.

"I was thinking of having another pool party."

"Oh?" 

You had just changed out of your wet bathing suit and stood at Bucky's front door. 

"Next weekend." 

You gripped your tote bag and shuffled your feet around. 

"I think it would be a fun time." You added, smiling up at him. 

"Yeah?"

 "Yup." 

"Good. So, are you going to come to it?" He asked, looking a little unsure of himself. 

"Of course." He smiled wide. 

"Good." 

"Good." You repeated.

 "Let me walk you out." 

Bucky walked you to your car and stood by the driver's side. You placed your bag in the backseat and faced him. 

"I just wanted to say thank you again for helping me. I've learned a lot and well...I appreciate all you have done, so thanks." 

You looked up into his eyes. He puffed his chest out lightly and smiled wide. 

"Anytime." He reached out and played with the elastic band you had on your wrist. 

"Well, goodnight, Bucky." You said, inching towards the doorhandle. 

He leaned in and kissed you once again sending tingles all over you. You separated and hid your red face before you got into your car. You rolled down the window and smiled. 

"See you at work." 

"Goodnight, Y/n."

 You drove back to your apartment in a daze from being kissed to learning how to swim, this was proving to be one of the best summers you have ever had.

👙☀️💦

"Ok, are you ready?" Bucky bobbed in the deep end of the pool while you stood in the shallow end. 

"Uhh..." 

Suddenly, you felt overwhelmed at the task. It had been almost a month of non-stop lessons with Bucky, three nights during the week and once on Saturdays where you've learned to get more comfortable in the water, the different strokes, and how to maneuver yourself so you can confidently be in water. 

"You can do it. Just like we practised in the shallow end. I'll be here to help you if you run into any issues." Bucky reminded you. 

You noted a few waves he was making while he treaded water, but those didn't bother you anymore. 

"Ok." You inhaled, then exhaled, relaxing your breath. 

"Here I go." You announced, pushing off the shallow end wall to the deep end where Bucky waited for you. 

You breathed in your nose, exhaling as you took your strokes, kicking the water which was propelling you forward. Holy shit, I'm doing it. You were halfway when you almost gave up, feeling a few tears prickle your eyes. 

Not that you couldn't do it, but the fact that you WERE swimming. 

You were really swimming. You were determined to get to where Bucky was waiting for you as you pushed through the water. 

"That's it, Y/n!" You heard Bucky shout. 

A few more pushes, and you made it to the end where Bucky was. 

"Holy crap!" You yelled, hanging off the side of the pool. 

"You did it!" Bucky pushed off, wrapping you up in his arms. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck while you both floated in the deep end. You had never been in water without touching the bottom and that thought no longer terrified you. 

"You're so brave!" Bucky whispered, slowly bringing you to the shallow end so you could stand. 

"I am." 

You hugged him tight as you made it, standing up. You high-fived him and he took the opportunity to hold your hand and pull you close to him, hugging you. He kissed you deep, which you eagerly returned. You plunged back into the water, wrapping your legs around his hips while you kissed him back. You finally separated your mouths but still clung onto Bucky as he held you in the water. 

"Aren't you glad you're now more confident in the water? That means we can do more of this..." Bucky leaned down and kissed your neck making you giggle. 

"Yeah, yeah." You said smiling wide. 

"I'm glad you're feeling better about the water." 

"Me too. Honestly, I never thought you would get me to where I actually look forward to spending time in a pool now and no longer feel dread." 

"Good." He squeezed you tight. 

"Which brings me to my next point..." 

"Oh?" 

You could tell he had something important to say.

"This?" He waved a hand between you and him. 

"This...with us?" He squeezed you tight to him. 

"This is something I've been wanting since I walked into your office for the first time after the holiday break." 

Your mouth fell open in shock. 

Sure, you flirted with each other, but you never thought that it was anything serious. 

"So, consider all of my lessons date nights." 

Your eyebrows rose, but his face was serious. 

"So, what, we're together?" You teased. 

"Yes." He smirked and squeezed your hips. 

"Oh." 

"You're mine Y/n." His voice deepened. 

"Just like that?"

 "Yes. Just like that. Now, do you think you have enough confidence to jump into the deep end?" 

Your head was still fuddled, but you snapped out of it. 

"Jump in? To the deep end?" 

Bucky nodded. He held you close. 

"You can do it, you're ready." He whispered. 

You looked at the deep end and then the ledge of the pool a little wary. 

"Think about it but I know you're ready. We'll have one more lesson before the party and I'm confident you'll be able to jump in without issue." 

"If you say so." You sighed, hooking your arms around his neck. 

He smirked and then leaned in to kiss you. Something about being wrapped around Bucky in the water felt right as you eagerly kissed him until your hands were well and shrivelled.

👙☀️💦

"Ok, so just step off the ledge. Hold your nose if you want. I'll be right here to catch you if you get overwhelmed." Bucky assured you at your final lesson before the party. 

He swam in the deep end while you stood on the edge of the pool looking at it. You had swam back and forth alongside Bucky all evening and this was the last thing you were going to do before the pool party. 

You fiddled with your fingers while watching the water.

 "Sit on the edge and plunk yourself in if you want." 

You took his advice and sat at the edge while he was in front of you. 

"Just plunk in, I've got you." 

His arms were out and he was watching you close You inhaled then exhaled, edging yourself closer. 

"Ok. Here I go." You gently plopped into the water and bobbed back up with Bucky's arms around you. 

"You did it." He smiled, helping you to the side.

You had an arm on the side of the pool as Bucky surrounded you. 

"That was easy." You scoffed making him chuckle. 

"Ok then, go for it. Jump in then." He gestured towards the steps. 

"Fine." 

You got yourself out and stepped to the edge. Bucky was in front of where you were going to land. 

"On three. Ready?" You nodded and straightned your shoulders. 

"!...2...3!" He said and on three, you jumped, holding your nose. 

The water surrounded you but you pushed up, reaching and pulling the water with your arms while you kicked. You broke the surface and sputtered a little, but you were floating. Bucky was in front of you, but he wasn't holding you, you were swimming. 

"Holy crap!" You yelled, smiling wide. 

"I didn't even swallow any pool water or anything." 

You were elated you jumped in. It was scary as hell but exhilarating as you were able to swim back to the surface. You swam to the shallow end and stood, wiping water from your eyes. 

"You did it!" Bucky smiled wide. 

A few tears escaped your eyes as you wiped them away, feeling slightly silly for crying. Bucky saw and immediately hugged you tight, whispering calming words in your ear as you went through your emotions. 

"Are you ok?" He asked, leaning down to check on you.

 "Yeah, just a little emotional, ya know?" 

"Are you sure you're ok?" 

"All good."

 You breathed heavy, smiling at him. 

"Good." He kissed you silly as you melted into his arms.

 "Now, do it again." He said, separating from you. 

You chuckled but knew he wouldn't let you get out without trying it a few more times. Each time you did, you got more confident in yourself, and Bucky was encouraging you every time. He really was the best as you ended up sitting on a lounger, drying off. 

"Ok, party is tomorrow. You got this." Bucky said, flopping down next to you. 

He was wearing the palm tree shorts again tonight. 

"Thought you would have a new pair for me to ogle?" You pointed to his shorts. 

He snorted and said, "Tomorrow doll." And shot you a wink before he helped you up.

👙☀️💦

"Are you nervous?" Nat asked while she drove you to Bucky's. 

You carried a Caesar salad with you and saw her corn salad in the backseat. 

"A little." You shrugged, hiding your smirk. 

You told no one Bucky had been teaching you how to swim and were eager to show her. You pulled up to his house and got out, reminding yourself to calm down while you walked up to Bucky's front door.

 He opened it when you got to the door making Nat snort at what he was wearing. 

His bathing suit bottoms were bright blue with dancing hot dogs on them making you chuckle. 

"Hiya!" 

Bucky almost leaned in and kissed you, but he corrected and grabbed your salad instead. You hadn't told anyone you were seeing each other. 

"Right this way ladies." He said and walked you to the pool. 

A bunch of people were already there, chatting and sitting around the edge of it. You placed your tote bag by a lounger and sat down, waving to a few people.

👙☀️💦

Bucky was in the water already and had looked over at you, nudging his head at you so you would get into the water. 

"Are you good to get in?" Nat whispered. 

You smiled and shrugged a shoulder. 

"I think so." 

"Ok, I'll see you there." 

She took off her cover up and stepped into the pool while you got up from your lounger and took off your shorts. You started walking to the shallow end and then stopped, deciding to head to the deep end where Bucky was. 

You made sure he was watching you in case there were any issues. 

Jumping into the pool when there were people in it was a different feeling than when it was just Bucky. You stood at the deep end and looked around. You saw Nat was watching you, seeming confused before you gave her a wink and jumped into the deep end. You surfaced and Bucky was right by your side, but you didn't need him. 

You swam to the shallow end and Nat was halfway to you when you stood and wiped the water from your face. 

"What the hell?" She whispered at you. 

"Surprise?!" You shrugged. 

"But...how? When?" 

For once, your friend was speechless as she watched you dunk yourself in the water. 

"I guess I should have told you I took some lessons." You said smiling at her. 

"No shit." 

She was relieved she didn't have to rescue you, but her eyes narrowed as she saw Bucky swim up to you and grab you around your waist before he let go, swimming over to Steve. 

"You're definitely going to have to tell me about THAT later." She grumbled making you snort.

👙☀️💦

The party was a success in Bucky's eyes. People had fun, ate, and drank, and more importantly, Bucky knew you felt confident and sure of yourself because you never left the water. 

He had to call you out of the water to eat something since you were having such a good time. He had a hard time refraining from any sort of physical contact from you but he's certain that will change soon when you decide to tell people about your relationship.

👙☀️💦

Nat had changed and was ready to head back when you told her you were staying behind. You had brought another bathing suit with you (and a change of clothes but she didn't need to know that) and told her you would Uber it home. She was driving Steve back anyways and you're certain there was something going on with them too. She told you she would be calling you Sunday evening to get all the details on your lessons and Bucky.

Once everyone had left, you stayed behind and headed to the pool, sitting along the edge with your feet in. You heard Bucky approach and saw him climb the stairs into the pool, relaxing as he swam towards you. 

"I think everyone had fun today." He said, standing in front of you. 

"I think so too." 

"I can't tell you the amount of times Steve pulled me aside and asked me if there as anything going on with us..." he chuckled.

 "Yeah, Nat said she's going to call me tomorrow night."

Bucky lowered himself in the water and was right in front of you. The night had turned dark as the solar lights flickered on, lighting up the yard making it look like it was glowing. You leaned back and looked up into the sky, seeing a clear night above you, when you were suddenly grabbed and yanked into the water. 

"Bucky!" You yelled, laughing as he held you close. You wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck, holding onto him like a koala bear. He nuzzled your neck making you squeal as his scruff tickled you. 

"Thanks again for teaching me. I know I've said it lots, but I really mean it." You squeezed him tight. 

"You're welcome." He whispered. 

You could feel every hard ridge of Bucky while he walked you around the shallow end. 

"It's getting darker out." You said, looking around the backyard. 

"I know..." Bucky stopped and placed your back against the wall of the pool, caging you in before he let go of you and floated away on his back. 

You watched him float around as he made his way to the side of the pool. You could see him squirm a little as he stood and smirked at you. You saw he was holding a wet lump of something and your eyes widened, seeing him hold his swim shorts up. You watched as he plopped them on the side of the pool, then he flashed you a wolfish grin before he took off towards you making you giggle. 

"What are you doing?!" You said, swimming away from him.

 "Just a little late night skinny dip doll." He said, chasing after you. 

You didn't put up too much of a fight when he finally caught you. You laughed and gave in as he held you in his arms.

 "Now, all we need to do is get you out of this..." he tugged on your bathing suit sending tingles throughout your body. 

"Oh, we do now?" Bucky nodded, leaning in to kiss your neck. 

"Yup. Not only was it my goal to teach you to swim so you would be more confident...I wanted to teach you how to swim so I could have naked nighttime swims with you." 

Your eyebrows shot up at his words. "Pool rules and all." He shrugged, then nibbled your ear. 

"Pool rules?" 

"Yup." 

"Since when?" 

"Since you stepped foot in here for your first lesson." He squeezed your hips and kissed you, making you see stars. 

👙☀️💦👙☀️💦👙☀️💦👙☀️💦👙☀️💦

[vunblr]

Knight of Briars (#5)

Pairing: Knight! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Time travel. Medieval AU. 50's AU. Slight Angst. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Mild Violence. Period expected misogyny.

Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.

Word Count: 4.3k

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The brief encounter with the street outside the store had done nothing to prepare him for this.

He counted the buildings without meaning to. Four here. Six there. All of them tall in a way that offended his understanding of what stone and mortar were meant to do.

Small stone, at that.

He tilted his head back once, studying the face of a structure looming over the street, and felt something close to vertigo.

The bricks -if that was even the word- were absurdly small, identical, and stacked in rows so precise they might have been drawn with a ruler and simply willed into permanence.

Higher than any keep he'd laid siege to. Higher than the bell tower at Wintermouth Cathedral, which had taken forty years and three master masons and had still needed scaffolding twice in his lifetime.

How does it hold?

She stopped in front of one such building, smaller than its neighbors, though smaller was doing considerable work in that sentence, and mounted three steps to a set of doors.

She pulled one open without ceremony, without announcing herself to anyone, without a steward or a porter to bar entry to a stranger, and walked inside as though the building belonged to her the way a woman owns a shawl.

He followed, because there was nothing else to do, and stepped into a hall.

Marble underfoot, or something convincingly like it. A row of small brass boxes set into one wall, each with a slot and a number, they purpose entirely opaque. Light again without flame, hanging in a glass fixture overhead, steady and shadowless.

This is not a florist's household, he thought.

He knew what it was to walk into a great house as a guest and be received as one. He knew, with rather more bitterness, what it was to walk into a great house as staff, had spent enough of his squireship fetching, carrying, standing at attention in halls not unlike this one, waiting to be noticed or ignored, whichever suited the lord in question that day.

Was that it, then? Flowers by morning, service by evening? some second position in a household large enough to warrant it, explaining the marble, the brass, the strange indifferent grandeur of the place?

He said none of this. He had learned, in the space of one morning, that his conclusions about this century had a poor survival rate once spoken aloud. So he held his tongue and followed her toward a narrow staircase at the back of the hall.

The climbing did nothing to improve his opinion of the day, since each step was a constant reminder of the state of his bruised ribs. He kept his breathing even through will alone, one hand trailing the rail, and said nothing.

She glanced back once, near the second landing, some question half-formed on her face. He gave her nothing to work with, so she turned around and kept climbing.

By the third floor, sweat had gathered along his spine beneath the ruined shirt, and his vision had gone a touch too bright at the edges, a warning he chose to ignore in favor of counting doors instead of stairs.

---

She'd clocked it two flights ago, the careful, deliberate way he was breathing, the hand that never quite let go of the rail, the fact that a man who'd crossed half of Camden without complaint had gone very quiet somewhere around the second landing.

She didn't say anything. She had a feeling he'd sooner collapse on her stairwell than admit to needing a minute, and there was something in the set of his jaw - stubborn, absurdly proud, entirely unbothered by what it was clearly costing him - that she found herself, against her better judgment, a little charmed by. Which was not a thought she had time for right now, with a bleeding stranger three steps behind her and a landing still to reach.

She kept climbing. Slower than she strictly needed to. Just in case.

----

A corridor stretched ahead of them, narrow, lined with identical doors, and identical brass numbers screwed into identical wood.

He catalogued it out of habit -the width, how many doors stood between them and the stairs- before it occurred to him that there was likely nothing here worth defending against, and the habit still refused to switch itself off.

From behind one door, there was music. Not lute or pipe, but something layered and strange, a woman's voice threaded through with instruments he couldn't place.

From another, the smell of onions frying, rich enough that his stomach gave a low, traitorous rumble.

He frowned at that second door as they passed it.

The kitchens were on the third floor. It made no sense.

Kitchens belonged low, ground level, or below it if the house could afford the excavation, close to the well and the fuel stores, far enough from the sleeping quarters that smoke and grease didn't creep into a lord's bedding.

Every keep he'd ever served in, ever laid siege to, ever simply visited, kept its kitchens low. He turned it over, half convinced he was missing some obvious explanation, and came up with nothing.

Unless this household ran differently. Unless the entire logic of the place inverted itself the way everything else in this century seemed determined to.

She stopped in front of a door indistinguishable from the others save its number, and drew a ring of keys from her purse, finding the right one without hesitation, the ease of long habit. The lock turned, and the door opened onto a narrow entry, dim and modest, but unmistakably a dwelling.

He stood in the corridor a moment longer than necessary, his gaze moving once more down the row of identical doors stretching in both directions. Service quarters, he decided.

"You may introduce me to your employer at your convenience," he said, following her through. "I would prefer not to be mistaken for an intruder in his household a second time today."

She turned to look at him with an expression he was rapidly learning to be wary of, the kind that came right before she informed him he'd misunderstood something, in a manner she found simultaneously exhausting and, despite herself, a little bit funny.

He didn't yet know what he'd said wrong. That, too, was becoming familiar.

"My employer," she repeated.

"The lord of this house." He gestured back toward the corridor and its row of doors, already bracing -without quite knowing why- for the ground to shift under him again.

She closed the door behind him and looked at him a moment, one hand still on the latch, working through how precisely to explain something she'd clearly never had to explain to a grown man before.

"Mr. Barnes," she said slowly. "There is no lord."

"Then whose house-" He stopped himself. Every theory he'd voiced aloud today had met the same fate, and he saw no cause to expect this one would fare better.

"This is my apartment." She said the word carefully. "It's mine. I pay rent on it every month, out of what the shop makes. Every one of those doors you just walked past, that's not one household. That's a different family behind every single one. A different kitchen, different bathrooms. Strangers to each other, mostly, sharing a staircase and nothing else."

He stared at her, and felt the shape of the building rearrange itself in his mind. It was not a great house at all, but something closer to a hive. Dozens of lives stacked one atop the other with nothing holding them together but shared stairs and walls.

"An entire building," he said slowly, "of strangers."

"Yes."

"Stacked."

"...Yes."

She was watching him, but with an attention that had nothing to do with the conversation they were having, and he felt it land somewhere just beneath his collar before he'd decided what to make of it.

"Hey," she said, softer than before. "You look like you're about to go down again. Sit for a minute?"

She gestured toward a low, upholstered thing pushed against the far wall. Two cushioned seats joined into one continuous piece, the fabric a bright, unrepentant orange.

He had never seen its like. Not a bench, not quite a settle, too soft-looking for either, its cushions plump and uniform in a way no upholsterer he knew could have managed by hand.

It looked, if he was honest, extremely inviting.

It also looked new. Unmarked. The kind of thing a household kept for guests of consequence, and he was aware, with some discomfort, of exactly how far he fell from that description at present.

"I would ruin it," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"The seat." He gestured at himself, at the dried blood, the dirt ground into the linen, the general catastrophe of a man who had crossed six centuries without the benefit of a bath. "That fabric will not survive contact with me. And I am not dressed to sit in a lady's parlor regardless."

Something flickered across her face, not quite amusement, but not quite exasperation either.

"It's not a parlor," she said. "It's just the living room. And it's a couch, Mr. Barnes, not a coronation throne. It'll survive."

"All the same." He held his ground, aware even as he did it that the ground in question was faintly ridiculous: a man arguing etiquette while swaying on his feet in a stranger's home, in a century that had already proven it cared nothing for the rules he knew.

He couldn't seem to let go of them regardless. They were, at the moment, nearly the only thing of his own he still had. "If you have something less consequential."

She studied him a moment longer, then exhaled through her nose in a way he was beginning to recognize as her particular flavor of surrender. "Fine. The kitchen, then."

She led him into a smaller room with a tiled floor, pale and clean, a window over a deep basin, and, against the wall, a small table with two chairs, their seats covered in the same relentless color as the couch, though blue instead of orange.

He lowered himself into one carefully, his ribs complaining the entire way down, and studied the chair beneath him.

Bright, even, unfaded blue. The kind of pigment that, in his experience, cost more per yard than the chair itself was likely worth.

For kitchen furniture.

"Water?" she asked, already moving toward the far wall.

He nodded, distracted, still cataloguing the room: the smoothness of every surface, the absence of soot anywhere. Then she opened a tall white cabinet set against the wall, and he stopped cataloguing anything at all.

Cold air rolled out of it. He felt it from where he sat, and some old instinct, the one that had kept him alive through winters of campaign, sat up and took notice before the rest of him had caught up.

"What," he said slowly, "is that?"

"The icebox?" She glanced back, one hand still on the door, a bottle in the other.

"It has no ice."

"It doesn't need ice, it's electric. Keeps things cold on its own."

He rose, forgetting his ribs for exactly as long as it took three steps to carry him there, and looked into the cabinet himself before she could object.

Shelves. Bottles. A bowl of eggs, pale and ordinary, sitting beside butter, unmelted, in a room warm enough that any butter he'd ever known would have long since gone soft and glistening on a table.

He found himself wanting, absurdly, to touch it, to confirm with his own hand what his eyes were telling him couldn't be true.

"How?"

"I don't actually know," she admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in it. "Something with wires, a motor… I don't know the mechanics of it any more than I know how a telephone carries a voice across town. It just works. You plug it in, and it's cold, and that's as far as my understanding goes."

He stared at the shelves a moment longer, at the ordinary miracle of butter refusing to soften, and felt something very close to wonder. And beneath the wonder, quieter, something that felt uncomfortably like grief.

Traveling through centuries, he had arrived at a place where a woman kept the dead of winter locked in a box in her kitchen and thought nothing of it.

She poured water into a glass -clear, flawless glass- and set it in front of him as though it were nothing at all.

He was hardly positioned to complain, since she had taken a bleeding stranger into her home and fed him besides, but he found himself glancing toward the cabinets regardless, expecting a jug of small ale, a pitcher of cider, anything a household of any means offered a guest before water.

Water alone, had killed men he'd known. Good men, careful men, who'd survived worse than a bad well and gone down anyway with their guts turned to fire. Almost every house's table poured ale or wine for that reason as much as for taste.

That this place, with its marble hall and its brass boxes and its indifferent grandeur, should hand him water and nothing else struck him as strange enough to notice.

He lifted the glass and drank anyway, telling himself that whatever this century had done to its water, it had also apparently solved the preservation of food in a cool box, and a man who trusted one miracle might as well trust the other.

The taste caught him off guard. It wasn’t unpleasant, but strange. No hint of the barrel it had traveled in, no faint rot at the back of the throat that a man learned to drink around.

It tasted, as far as he could tell, of nothing at all. Clean. He'd never had water that tasted that clean, and some old, wary part of him kept waiting for the sickness to follow regardless.

"Is it safe?" he asked, careful to keep the question light, a thing he was merely curious about, rather than a thing he genuinely needed answered before his next swallow.

"Perfectly. It's tap water, comes straight out of the faucet, city runs it through filtration before it ever gets to a pipe. You could drink it all day and never think twice."

Faucet. He turned the word over, another one for the stack, and said nothing.

She caught the blankness on his face and rose, crossing to the basin set into the counter.

"Here. If the jug ever runs dry and you want more, don't wait around for me. Just do this." She turned a small metal handle.

Water came. No need to pour, carry, or draw it up on a rope from some hidden well; it simply arrived, a clear, steady stream falling into the basin, as though the house itself had a vein opened somewhere and this was where it bled.

He was on his feet before he'd decided to be, some part of him needing, absurdly, to see the mechanism of it, as if enough looking might finally make it make sense. "Where does it come from?"

"Pipes. Underground, runs under the whole city, connects to a reservoir north of here. Every building's hooked into it." She watched him with open curiosity now. "You want it hot instead of cold, there's a second handle."

"Hot?"

"Mm-hm."

He looked at the two handles. Looked at her. Looked back at the water, still running, and felt the day's tally of impossible things tip over into something he no longer had the will to keep counting.

"You are telling me," he said slowly, "that every house in this city commands its own well. Hot and cold both. Without a servant, a bucket, or a rope."

"That's the general idea, yeah."

He said nothing for a long moment, turning it over, what a man could build, what a man could stop needing, if he never again had to haul water himself.

He thought, unbidden, of every squire and servant he'd ever sent down to a well at dawn, or even gone himself when he squired, and wondered what those boys would have made of this.

She reached past him and shut the tap. The water stopped as abruptly as it had come, and the silence that followed felt, absurdly, louder than the sound itself had been.

----

She watched him sit back down, slower than he probably wanted her to notice, and felt her own worry sharpen in response.

He was pale under the bruising. Worse than in the stockroom, now that the adrenaline of the street and the stairs had burned off and left him with nothing to run on but stubbornness. She was starting to suspect stubbornness was mostly what he had left today.

He needed a bath. Badly. And rest, and quiet, all of which she could actually provide here, behind a locked door, away from patrolmen and gossiping bakery owners. That part, at least, she could manage.

What she couldn't provide was clothes, and that was the part actually nagging at her.

He couldn't wear what he had on; there was no version of a corner grocery where a six-foot-something man in a laced medieval tunic and thigh straps walked in without every head turning. She'd been running through options since the stockroom and kept landing on the same one.

"I can wash what I'm wearing," he offered, apparently following the direction of her thoughts more accurately than she'd expected. "It only wants soap and water. I've done worse with less on campaign."

"It's not really a laundry problem, Mr. Barnes." She said it as gently as she could manage, not wanting to make him feel worse than he already seemed to about needing help. "Even clean, that's not something a man wears walking down Camden Street in this year."

"I have nothing to offer you outright," he said, after a moment, "but I could part with something of value. The belt. The leg straps." He nodded down at the heavy leather still buckled across his hips and thighs, the only thing of worth currently on his person. "The leather alone is good work. It should fetch enough for whatever I need."

She wasn't sure whether to be touched or exasperated, and settled, after a second, on both at once. There was something almost unbearable about how hard he was working to make sure he didn't owe her anything. "I'm not taking your pants apart for scrap, Mr. Barnes."

"It is not scrap. It is craftsmanship."

"I believe you. I'm still not doing it. I know a place. Charity, secondhand, mostly donated. You don't have to pay, and you don't have to give me your belt to make yourself feel better about not paying. It's fine."

He didn't look like he agreed that it was fine, but he said nothing further, which she was coming to understand was as close to agreement as she was likely to get from him. She'd take it.

"Stay put and drink your water," she said, smoothing her skirt. Then she crossed to a basket near the icebox and drew out a cloth bundle with biscuits, plain and slightly dense.

"You're probably still hungry. One sandwich isn't much, considering whatever it is you've been through today. Eat those while I'm gone. I'll be as quick as I can."

He looked at the plate, then at her, something in his face she couldn't quite name, and she decided not to push for a name for it.

"Thank you," he said, quiet enough that she almost missed it over the sound of her own keys. "And… Bucky." He said it almost before he'd decided to. "Please. Call me Bucky."

She paused with her hand on the door, caught off guard. It was a small, private surprise hearing a man this formal hand her something informal on purpose, like he'd decided she'd earned it.

"Alright then," she said. "Bucky."

She was out the door before she could decide what to do with the rest of it.

----

She took the stairs two at a time, bags of flour-sack cloth knocking against her hip with every step, and allowed herself a small, private satisfaction over the haul.

Two pairs of trousers, both plain, both in decent shape. Two undershirts. Three button-up shirts, all in the largest size the donation bin carried; apparently the largest size was also the least popular, because she'd had her pick of three, tags barely worn off. Socks, a few pairs, unmatched but clean.

She'd even swung by the little men's shop on the corner for the one thing charity boxes never carried enough of, sliding two pairs of short underwear across the counter to a clerk who hadn't so much as blinked. Small mercies.

Not bad, she thought, climbing the last flight. Not bad at all for forty minutes and whatever cash she'd had folded in her coat pocket.

The apartment was quiet when she let herself in, quiet enough that her stomach gave one small, unpleasant lurch before she registered why. The living room was empty, and for one dumb second her mind went straight to worst-case: gone, hurt because he meddled with something unknown, collapsed somewhere she couldn't see.

She set the bags down just inside the kitchen doorway and leaned in.

There he was. Exactly where she'd left him, same chair, same table, the plate of biscuits reduced to crumbs and one lonely survivor. Relief hit before she'd even fully processed why she'd been braced for something worse.

His head had tipped back against the wall at some point, throat exposed, mouth slightly open, one hand still loosely curled around the water glass as though he'd meant to keep drinking.

He hadn't heard her come in. Whatever was going on with him, and whatever had actually happened to leave him bruised and half-convinced he was a knight out of a storybook, the exhaustion was real, and something about seeing it made her chest ache a little more than she felt entitled to on a few hours' acquaintance.

She crossed the room slowly, quiet out of some instinct she didn't examine too closely and stopped a few feet away. He frowned in his sleep, and she found herself wondering what a man like him dreamed about. Nothing good, probably.

It was, she noted with some irritation at herself, deeply unfair how good-looking he still managed to be while doing it. Even bruised, even filthy, even asleep in a kitchen chair with his neck at an angle that was going to cost him.

Great, she thought. That's exactly the thought you needed to be having right now.

She shook it off, mostly, and refocused on the more immediate problem: he was going to wake up with a crick in his neck to rival his ribs if she let him stay like that much longer.

"Hey," she said, gently, crouching down to something closer to his eye level before she reached out. She touched his shoulder. Lightly, carefully, and tried to say his name again.

It happened faster than she could track.

One second her hand was on his shoulder, his name half-formed on her lips for the second time, and the next, his eyes had snapped open, his hand had closed around her wrist like a manacle, and his other hand was at her throat.

Not gripping, not yet. Just a half-second suspended somewhere between reflex and intention, fingers pressed light but certainly against her skin, the pressure of a man who knew exactly where to close his hand and how much force it would take, poised on the edge of applying it.

Her whole body had gone very still, some animal part of her taking stock of the situation faster than the rest of her could catch up.

Then he saw her. Not whatever ghost his sleeping mind had conjured in her place,  and his hand recoiled from her throat like he'd touched a stove.

He let go of her wrist a half-beat after, both hands snapping back, and shoved himself away from her so hard the chair legs shrieked against the tile.

"I'm sorry." Low, fast, wrecked. "I'm sorry- I didn't- are you hurt, milady? Did I hurt you?"

Milady? Well, at least it wasn’t wench.

"I'm fine." She kept her voice level, even though her pulse hadn't quite caught up with that fact yet, one hand coming up unconsciously to touch her own throat, still warm from where his'd been. "I'm… fine."

He didn't look like he believed her, and honestly, she wasn't sure she believed herself either. Not shaken by what he'd done, exactly, but by how close it had come, and how little time there'd been between his eyes opening and his hand finding her throat with that kind of certainty.

He was staring at his own hands now, jaw working, color gone from his face in a way that had nothing to do with the morning's injuries.

"May I see?" His voice had dropped, quiet and careful, stripped of all its usual formal armor. "Please. I need to see that I didn't-" He didn't finish it. "Please."

She lowered her hand and let him look, some instinct telling her this wasn't a moment to argue with him about it, that he needed the proof more than she needed the space.

He stepped close, close enough that she could feel him not quite touching her, his eyes moving over her throat, but there was nothing to find. The barest ghost of pressure, gone already, nothing that would leave a mark.

She was abruptly, uselessly aware of how near he was standing, and annoyed with herself for noticing it now of all moments.

He looked at her face once he was satisfied, and whatever was in his eyes in that moment, she didn't have a word ready for it.

"I shouldn't have grabbed you like that," she said finally, quiet. "Waking someone up out of a dead sleep, I should've known better. My fault too."

"No." His answer was fast, firm, and with no room in it for argument. "It is not. A man does not require permission to be startled to see reason before he raises a hand to a woman who has done nothing but show him kindness. No excuse covers what I nearly did. I won't let you make one for me."

She opened her mouth to push back  -some instinct to smooth it over, to meet him halfway- then closed it again, because the look on his face told her plainly this wasn't a fight she'd win today, maybe not ever.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time it landed somewhere lower and more tired than the first two.

She let it sit a moment before she moved. Then she nodded toward the doorway, toward the bags still waiting where she'd left them, glad for once to have somewhere else to point his attention, and hers.

"C'mere. I want to show you what I got."

It wasn't subtle, the redirection of the topic, and she suspected he knew exactly what she was doing. But he let her do it anyway and followed her the few steps to the kitchen table, watching her upend the flour-sack bags across it with something that might, in a better hour, have been curiosity.

Trousers. Shirts, still stiff with the fold-lines of whoever had donated them and never worn out. Socks in mismatched pairs. A single undershirt he picked up and turned over in his hands, studying the cut like it was a garment he half-recognized, and half didn't.

"They're not much," she said, "but they'll get you through the next few days. We'll figure out the rest as we go."

He set the undershirt down and looked over the rest of the pile with careful attention.

"Thank you," he said. She was starting to lose count of how many ways he'd found to say it, and how much he seemed to mean it every time and how much, against all reason, she was starting to like hearing it.

"Don't thank me yet." She managed something close to a smile, enough to pull the air in the room back toward ordinary. "You still have to survive a bath. And getting dressed. I have a feeling that's going to be its own adventure."

He looked at her like he had no idea what she meant by that.

She decided not to ruin the surprise.

Next Chapter

dividers by: @/honeyluvsw

[merkitty49]

This is so great!

I love how he has just resigned himself to the fact that his opinions and understanding about modern things will just be wrong.

And the marvel of clean water is touching.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

The Fifth of July

Summary: It's your birthday. Bucky remembered a comment you made three months ago about a restaurant. He found a necklace in Steve's things and thought of you. He wrote you a card and admitted he hates motivational posters.

This is what being loved by James Barnes looks like.

A/N: Apologies, but this is just a pure piece of self indulgence. Happy birthday to me.

The morning started the way most good things in your life did lately— slowly, and with Bucky.

There was a morning order to things: the first was the light of the sunny morning, filtering through the curtains, bright and consistent. Next thing that came to your senses as the warmth at your back— the consistent weight of an arm around your waist. When you were the first to rise, the thing you often noticed wash his breathing, the deep even breathing of restful sleep. He had been up late last night— some call with Sam that had stretched well past midnight. You and Bucky had gotten together with Sam to honor Steve, but the small celebration had gone sideways because someone had called in a favor. You were used to it, the usual chaos which came with being in close orbit to Captain America. You'd fallen asleep waiting for him and hadn't heard him come to bed.

But he was here now. He was always here now.

You chose to lay still for a while, letting the morning seep in from outside the apartment and thought about how different today felt from birthdays past. Ones where you woke up alone in your apartment and spent the first waking moments quietly deciding whether to feel sad about it. Before the fake-boyfriend-who-became-the-real-thing. Before the socks in the underwear drawer and Alpine colonizing your side of the wardrobe. Before the ring on your finger.

Before James Bucky Barnes had made himself so comprehensively a part of your life that your apartment felt wrong when he wasn't in it.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the still fast asleep super soldier. His was jaw soft and expression held a particular defenseless quality that only existed when he wasn't bracing against anything.

You'd seen a lot of versions of this man over the course of knowing him, loving him— the suspicious one, the sarcastic one, the one who looked at you like you'd personally rearranged his understanding of the world— but this one was still the one that got you. Every time.

Happy birthday to me, you thought with a smile, and settled back into him.

Bucky woke twenty minutes later.

You felt it happening, the slight shift in his breathing, the small adjustment of his arm, the way he went from deeply unconscious to quietly, calmly present in a matter of seconds. He'd always done that. There was no groggy intermediate phase that you usually experienced. He was just… awake.

His lips immediately found the back of your neck.

"Morning, Princess," he murmured.

"Hi," you said, turning your head slightly.

"Happy birthday."

That's all it took to undo you. Two words, in that voice, rough with sleep, against your skin. You closed your eyes.

"Thank you," you said.

He pressed another kiss to your shoulder, lazy and warm. His hand spread flat against your stomach, pulling you a little closer, and you felt the easy certainty of it all— the weight of him, this morning, this life you'd somehow stumbled into… and would choose again without hesitation every single day.

"Sleep okay?" he asked.

"Really well, actually."

"Good." He had been worried that the interruption to last night's celebration would have affected you badly. His thumb traced slow circles against your hip. "What d'you wanna do today?"

You shrugged. "Haven't thought about it."

"That's a lie," he said, smothering a grin against your shoulder. "You've been thinking 'bout it for at least… two weeks."

"That may be true... but I wanna hear what you had planned first."

He was quiet for a second before he came in with an accusatory; "Who said I had anything planned?"

"You've been weird about your phone all week, Bucky."

"I'm always weird about my phone."

"Weirder than usual."

He exhaled exasperatedly through his nose and you could feel him deciding what to say. "Okay," he said finally. "Here's what I had in mind. But if you hate any of it, don't tell me, 'cause I put a deposit on the reservation."

You turned over in his arms to face him properly. He was propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with that careful expression he got when he was a little worried how something would land with you, trying hard to look like he wasn't invested when he very clearly was.

"Tell me," you said, softly.

"I thought breakfast here. The good stuff… definitely not the emergency cereal. Then dinner— I booked the rooftop at that place on the waterfront." He paused. "The one you pointed at three months ago and said 'that looks like the kind of place you'd cry because the food is too good.'"

You stared at him. "You remembered that?"

He shrugged, brushing off the gesture. "Dinner at seven. But before that—"

He reached back to the nightstand and came back with something small, flat, wrapped in brown paper. He held it out.

"This first."

You looked at it, then at him. "Bucky, you didn't have to—"

"I know I didn't have to... Open it."

Inside the brown paper was a card.

A real card, not a printed one— thick cream paper, something handwritten on the front in his handwriting. Which had always been oddly elegant for someone who maintained such a persistently uncommunicative personality. Two words were on the front.

My Princess.

You opened it.

His handwriting filled the inside. Neat and carefully spaced, like he'd planned out each line before he committed it to paper.

I've been trying to write something impressive for three weeks. But this is all I got.

You came into my life like a grenade I didn't see coming. Which would be more poetic if I hadn't actually encountered enough of those to last a life time. But the metaphor stands.

What I'm trying to say is: before you, I was just existing. Since you, I've been living. And I know that sounds like something off a motivational poster. And I want the record to reflect that I hate motivational posters.

My point is, you're the best thing I didn't plan for. And I plan for everything.

Happy birthday. I love you. Please don't make me write another one of these for at least six months.

— Bucky

And then, underneath, in smaller letters:

P.S. Alpine tried to help. She sniffed the card, then sat on it… twice. Basically contributed nothing useful.

You sat there for a moment with the card in your hands.

"Bucky," you said.

"Before you say anything—"

"You said you hate motivational posters."

He blinked. "That's what you got from that?"

"I'm getting to the rest of it." You looked up at him. He was watching you with that careful expression— the one he wore when he'd made himself vulnerable and wasn't sure yet if it was going to be okay. "I love you too, Buck," you told him. "This is the best card I've ever received in my entire life, and I'm including my grandmother's birthday cards which always had a twenty dollar bill in them."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "So I'm better than twenty dollars."

"Significantly better than twenty dollars." You leaned across and kissed him— properly, with your hand on his jaw— and felt him soften into it the way he always did when you caught him off-guard with something real, something tender. His hand crept up to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your cheek.

When you pulled back his expression had changed. Less guarded, much warmer.

"Now the present," he said, a shy grin appearing on his lips.

"There's more?"

"There's always more. For you." He reached over you to the nightstand drawer and came back with a small velvet pouch. Dark green, soft, the kind you recognized immediately— the kind that held something special. Your eyes narrowed.

"What's this?"

He held it out. You took it, turned it over once gently before opening it. Inside, on a square of dark felt, was a necklace.

Fine gold chain. And hanging from it, a crescent moon with three stones set along the inner curve catching the morning light. Dark. Deep. The blue of a midnight sky.

Your breath caught.

"Bucky." Your voice came out smaller than you intended.

"Apparently they are Montana sapphires," he said. "I found the pendant in Steve's things a few months back. His ma had kept them— wrapped up in a cloth in an old tin." He paused. "When I saw them, I couldn't stop thinking 'bout you. So I took them to Anita. She sorted the rest."

You looked down at the stones. That deep, deep blue, that sometimes showed in his eyes. Usually in the dark late at night.

Your throat tightened.

"The moon," he added, quieter now, like he needed to get the rest out. "That crescent sketch. The one in your personal folder. You told me once it was the first thing you ever made that you were actually proud of." He gave you a small shrug in response to the look you gave him. "I remembered."

You set the necklace on the nightstand, took his face in your hands and kissed him. He pulled you into him immediately, warm and solid and certain, and kissed you back the way he always did when you caught him off guard with something real.

When you pulled apart he pressed his forehead to yours.

"It's perfect," you told him. "Buck, absolutely perfect."

He exhaled slowly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You turned your back to him and lifted your hair. He fastened the chain carefully, then pressed his lips to the back of your neck. When you faced him again he was already looking at you— at the pendant, at your face— like he was trying to hold onto both images at the same time.

Neither of you said anything else for a moment.

Then Alpine landed on the bed between you with a thump and sat down like she'd been there the whole time.

Bucky looked at her. "Really?"

She purred.

You laughed, and felt him laugh against you, quiet and real.

Happy birthday to me.

[tw1sters]

Sympathy is a Knife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of which is you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

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

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

“I want you here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Showtime,” she beams.

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

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

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

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

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

“Becca—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

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

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

“My lady.”

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

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

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

“How did you find me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why try?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, I—”

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

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

“Thank you for the dance.”

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

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

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

“Ladies.”

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

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

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

“You are most kind and gracious.”

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

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

So you tell her your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He did have one dance—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

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

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

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

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

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

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

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

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fate is a funny thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, what did you take?”

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

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

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

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

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

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

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

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

“Help me.”

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

“My shirt next.”

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

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will only offer his thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only me. Always me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-you finished?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I asked, do you understand me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, you can’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

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

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

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

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

And again and again and again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, she would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urges that were outside my control. 

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

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a mess. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I should return now—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” he murmurs.

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

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

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

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

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

And for once, you listen to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

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

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

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

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

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

He looks furious.

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

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

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You left,” Bucky presses.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not your choice.”

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

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

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

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

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

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

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

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

You want him. You do.

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

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

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

“I’m scared.”

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[superbassbuck]

the tags are calling my name. another banger from samuel herself

[thesuperheroesnetwork]

Texts From Superheroes

Facebook | Threads | Patreon | Instagram | BlueSky

[navybrat817]

@biteofcherry @poindextersgirlforever can't drop this here and not expect me to melt. 🫠

Just imagine Bucky. Thick torso. Broad shoulders and chest. Big arms. Soft stomach. Visible strength beneath his calm and slightly gruff demeanor. Various parts of his body covered in tattoos and scars that tell stories.

Makes sure you eat, and he's a great cuddler.

His body is a built-in heated blanket and he has the most watchful blue eyes, okay?

[navybrat817]

Bringing You Back

Pairing: Enforcer!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Your father sends Bucky to bring you home.

Word Count: 300

Playlist Prompt: Say Something - A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera / “It was over my head”

Warnings: Mention of arranged marriage (not to Bucky), mob AU, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 17 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You didn’t even make far when Bucky Barnes found you. 

Of course, your father sent his best enforcers to track you down. He probably thought it would soften the blow since it was Bucky. You trusted him most of all out of his men. 

Bucky looked almost bored leaning against his car, his hair blowing in the light breeze. You liked the leather jacket on him. You half expected him to show up on his bike, but that wouldn’t be practical if you tried to fight. 

He’d win anyway. 

“I’m not going back,” you told him, your eyes as defiant as your tone.  

He sighed, but he made no move to grab you yet. “You shouldn’t have run.”

“And my dad shouldn’t try to force a marriage on me, but here we are,” you snapped.

You stupidly thought Bucky would speak up for you when your dad said the alliance with a total stranger would strengthen the families. It was a foolish thought. You weren’t together. 

But you hoped…

And I am feeling so small

It was over my head

I know nothing at all

You backed up when Bucky suddenly moved toward you in purposeful strides. There was violence in his eyes. But he would never hurt you. 

“And you should’ve trusted me to handle it,” he said through his teeth. 

Your heart pounded. Bucky hardly ever let his emotions show. That was a reason why your dad liked him. He was lethal. Efficient. 

Cold.

Not like this. 

“I-”

He gripped your chin tenderly. “Do you really think I’ll sit back while you marry someone else?”

Your eyes widened. 

Did… Bucky want you?

“Get in the car,” he ordered gently. “And trust me.”

You didn’t want to go back. 

But you had to trust that Bucky had a plan. 

He has to have a plan, right? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[lfnr-blog-blog-blog]

VAGUE SCREAMING NOISES 😱😱😱😱😱

Actually what Bucky pictured doing ^^^

[navybrat817]

Yes, Shy! Just like that. And thank you! So good to see you! ❤️

[kayhi808]

Happy (Belated) International Fairy Day! Do you think Miss Abby would leave out treats for fairies?

-Zombie

Zombie!! 🥰

This is the first time I've heard of International Fairy Day but it definitely seems like something The Gumdrops would be interested in! 😊

It's International Fairy Day and you and Bucky have the Gumdrops for the day. All 3 are dressed up as fairies with wings.

"You know what's, Mr Bucky?" Chloe's hand is held securely in Bucky's vibranium one, as they make their way down the sidewalk.

A small chuckle escapes Bucky, "Nope, what, Chloe?" The similarities of his daughter's best friends aren't lost on him.

"I so 'cited it's Fairy Day! Too bad A'pine no can comes wit us." Chloe's fallen in love with the family cat and she's the only Gumdrop that Alpine will tolerate.

Mia chimes in from Bucky's right side, "Me too, Mr Bucky!"

"And me, Papa!" Abby yells from behind. He glaces back at Abby holding your hand, doing her version of skipping by your side, fairy wings bouncing with every stride. "I so 'cited!"

Your little group is headed to "Books of Wonder," an independent bookstore that specializes in children's literature in Midtown Manhattan. They have an in-store event for Fairy's Day, with storytelling & crafts. You thought it'd be perfect for the little girls.

You arrive and there's a good crowd of children that showed up. Bucky helps you check the girls in & you're directed to the back of the store, where they are getting ready to start storytime. "You sit wit us, Mama."

"Thank you, Abby, but I'm too big. They need room for the other children. I'll be right over there with Papa," you say pointing to Bucky leaning against the bookshelf waving as he sees you looking his way.

"Ok, but don't weave us here."

"Never!! I promise. We'll be right there."

The storyteller read them 3 stories and had them get ready for crafts. They rolled up the carpets and brought in little tables and chairs.

"Mama! We can make faiwy wands or faiwy HOUSES!" Abby and the girls are all hopping up and down."

Knowing it's the wrong answer, Bucky asks, "So, we're making wands?"

"No, Mr Bucky!"

"We want houses so we can leave snacks and dey come visit wit us!"

"Papa, you know how cool it will be when we has fairy fwends?? We puts snacks in da houses so dey want to visits us."

"Ooooh! I understand now." The girls shake their heads at Bucky. Silly old man.

[kayhi808]

@kjah97 @ozwriterchick @buckysdoll85 @missvelvetsstuff @soa-queen @mega-kittyglitter-1 @lex-is-up-all-night-to-get-bucky @massivescissorsthingperson You guys!! 🥰 Thank you so much for reading a sharing!! 😘

[wisdxmwrites]

Beefy Bucky Appreciation Post

best Bucky era oat. argue w the wall.