The End of the Line

The smell of asphalt and diesel and clean rain had been shifting on the air that summer afternoon. It had been the first day of sunshine after days of rain, the city purged of itself, cleansed of itself.

Shedding its skin to begin again.

And, it had seemed to him, heralding your arrival in the building.

Your skin had been dewy, glowing, in the warm golden light of the afternoon.

You had been laughing, saying, hold on, I think I have a bottle of water. S’hot out there today.

Bucky never checked his mail, but he had needed a reason to linger in the foyer, to watch you.

Such a small kindness, and still it had been something that made him pause, made him want to fall into your orbit.

The mailman had swiped sweat from his brow, smiled, adjusted the satchel on his shoulder. You’d handed him the bottle of water.

He had thanked you, told you how he hated Amazon, that he’d look out for the letter you’d been expecting from your mother.

Don’t know many people that write anymore. It’s all junk mail and bills and packages.

Oh, not me. I love to get mail.

And so, you did. And so, you do.

And so, Bucky starts checking his damn mail every single day.

Quickly, he figures out your schedule. When you’re most likely to be at your mailbox.

Without fail, he manages to catch you. He finds out that you demand letters from friends and relatives. He finds out that you write and send letters almost daily.

You’re friendly with the mailman, sometimes leaving snacks out in the lobby. You give him a card with a tip at every holiday.

You love mail.

Not just packages but letters. Junk mail. Credit card statements. Water bills.

You delight in it all.

You’re the only person, the only modern person, he knows in the city that checks the mail every single day without fail.

It’s totally and completely bizarre but Bucky comes to love the mail too.

If only because he gets to see you, and maybe because he had thought people didn’t really do the letter thing anymore.

He gets to chat with you for a few minutes each day with a stack of useless paper in his hands. Your smile is like sunshine on a cold day. Your laugh like a balm against bruised skin. You always smell like vanilla and coffee, and he finds out that you work at a coffee shop to supplement your income from your office job.

Bucky treasures those talks, mourns the days that he’s away on assignment and doesn’t get to see you.

One day, he gets up the nerve to ask you down the street to a diner. He buys you dinner and tries to feel like he’s not the luckiest man in the universe for getting to sit across from you and listen to you complain about customers, for getting to watch you smile and laugh and sip on a terrible cup of coffee.

True friendship blooms between you that day. Like the seed of a relationship had only needed the smallest drop of water to sprout.

Bucky starts finding letters from you after that, on paper that smelled like vanilla. Just silly little anecdotes that made him smile, dropped among the ads and useless magazines.

You start hosting movie nights at your place where you burn incense and talk to your plants like they’re beloved children. In the darkness of your tiny studio, squished close to you on your beaten up, faded couch that you’d gotten at a curb sale, he falls in love with you maybe just a little bit.

He tells himself that he’s not falling in love with you, he’s definitely not. You’re friends and nothing more. And Bucky needs a friend, his therapist tells him so at every turn.

So what if he dreams about you almost every night? So what if he treasures the scent you leave behind on his clothes after a night in? So what if sitting close to you on that ancient sofa, his thigh pressed to yours, shoulder to shoulder, is one of the greatest joys of his life? So what if his heart almost beat out of his chest the day you laid your head against his arm while watching a favorite movie of yours?

So fucking what?

He’s happy to have you.

As a friend.

Does he sometimes sleep with the shirt he wore to your place over his pillow? Maybe. But it's only because the lingering scent of your lavender incense helps him sleep.

It has nothing to do with the smell of you. Like vanilla and coffee, lavender and bergamot.

It has absolutely nothing to do with staying close to you.

It has nothing to do with hoping he’ll wake up smelling like you just a little bit, just to keep you close.

Bucky convinces himself that it's normal to perfectly time his trip to the mailbox every day, just to talk to you, just to make sure that you’re okay.

Until, a few weeks before Valentine’s Day, in the deep chill of an arctic blast that had descended over the city at the end of January, you’d told him about your meddling coworker at your office job.

“She keeps trying to set me up with one of our other coworkers,” you had wrinkled your nose. “I’m not really interested but I’m thinking maybe I’ll go just to shut her up about it.”

And what if you went and felt something?

What if he lost you?

But what is there to lose, really?

You weren’t his.

You don’t belong to him, though he feels like he’s entirely yours.

Pressed close to you in the darkness of your apartment, TV screen flashing brightly over your features, he had wondered why he thought you’d ever want him in that way, see him that way.

Your features had been soft in the low light.

You’d lit the lavender incense again, which he was beginning to think might be for his benefit. You know he has trouble sleeping.

“Maybe I’ll get a Valentine out of it,” you’d said sleepily. “I’ve never had one before.”

And that had convinced him to try.

He could be your valentine.

You made him believe he could be, that maybe he was worthy of that.

~

You’re standing in front of your open mailbox, wearing an enormous pink knitted scarf, when Bucky ducks in from the winter storm swirling outside. The winter has been particularly brutal, one snowstorm after another making his anxiety flare like an emergency signal.

His heart almost stutters to a stop as he pauses in the entryway, glued to the spot. He hadn’t expected you to still be in the foyer, and immediately he recalculates his carefully thought through plan.

While he hadn’t expected you to be in the lobby, Bucky certainly hadn’t expected to find you wearing the scarf he had left anonymously in front of your door two days ago.

He’s glad you like it enough to wear it.

Just like he was glad that you liked the flowers he left a few days before that enough to post them on Instagram, enough to talk to them like the rest of your plants, thanking them for their contribution to the little garden of your window before they wilted and withered away.

It does make him worry just a tad that you’ve so easily accepted gifts from a stranger, anonymously dropped in front of your door or through your mail slot.

Now, you slowly shuffle through the letters in your hands, frowning gently at the junk mail.

He swallows, watching you flick past an electric bill, smile at a letter from your grandmother, before you get to the last envelope in the pile.

You frown and flip it over when someone ducks past him into the building, reminding him that he’s standing in the open doorway like an idiot, the bag of pastries from your favorite bakery in his hand probably freezing.

Bucky tries not to think about the way the corner of your mouth ticks up into a smile, your eyes widening just a bit, when you see the script on the back of the baby pink envelope.

He curses under his breath and heads in your direction. You look up at his approach, stuffing the pink letter between two pieces of junk mail. “Oh, hey, Bucky,” you say, smiling so big it looks like it hurts. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Bucky’s heart jumps into his throat and he almost chokes on it. “Happy Valentine’s Day, doll.”

You try and fail to suppress another smile, “Staying in this Valentine’s Day?” You nod at the bag in his hand.

“Guess you could say that.”

The door to the building opens again and you shiver as a gust of wind snakes through the lobby. “No world saving on the agenda then?”

“Well, the night is young,” he says drily. “The world has gone to shit in less time.”

You laugh and his heart flutters just a little bit. He feels like a kid around you, like the world is light and would never need saving again, not by him or from him.

“Here’s to hoping then. I’ll light a candle for you.” You eye him for a moment, one eyebrow lifted. “No date this Valentine’s Day?”

He snorts, even as his heart hammers, turning his ribs into a mosaic of black and blue with the force. If he’s lucky, you’ll be his date by the end of the night. “Don’t exactly have people lining up. What’re you up to tonight, sweetheart?” Bucky asks as you lock your mailbox.

You lift your pile of mail and shake it at him, “Gettin’ my mail.” The corner of your mouth twitches and Bucky tries not to let his eyes linger on your lips, or, more dangerously, on the pink letter peeking out of the stack.

The letter he had slipped into your mail slot yesterday.

“Other than getting your mail,” he says as you start towards the stairs and begin to climb. Bucky lags, deliberately walking slowly to prolong your time together, trying to work up the nerve to ask you over to his place. “No Valentine’s date for you either? Manage to avoid the date with the coworker?”

“Ugh. Yes. But now I’m totally avoiding this horrible speed dating thing my friend wants me to go to. She’s convinced it’ll be fun. It’s themed for Valentine’s Day.” You wrinkle your nose at him. “I think it sounds like the ninth circle of hell. So, I’m staying in with my book. I mean, I deserve it right? I’ve already put in so much effort into avoiding that date with my coworker.”

Bucky is grateful that you think the speed dating thing is hell.

His crush on you has rapidly turned into an obsession. And he knows himself well enough to know that he would absolutely sabotage that speed dating gig. Bucky isn’t about to let anything ruin his plan. He hasn’t spent the last two weeks meticulously playing the twelve days of Christmas Valentine’s Day style for something like speed dating to ruin it.

In addition to the flowers and scarf, he’d sent you a reservation to your favorite restaurant that you can’t really afford, your favorite brand of chocolate, a box of tiny candy hearts which he’d been present for when you found in them in your mailbox and laughed yourself sick over, delighted. He’s given you a sweater and a new perfume, a book, incense.

Maybe he’s not good with words, but he knows you well enough to know what you’ll love, even if it isn’t him.

Nerves are clawing at the inside of his skin by the time you stop outside your door, trying to work up the courage to ask you to come over.

Conveniently, he’d stopped at your favorite bakery. Conveniently, he’d ordered all your favorite goodies.

“-so glad someone sent me this scarf, I mean, the radiator has been broken for a week and its fucking cold. Landlord keeps promising to send someone but-,”

“I’ll take a look at it for you, honey.”

You peer at him, an odd emotion swimming in your eyes before it darts away, and you smile. “What would I do without you? Thanks, Buck.” You say, like it means nothing. Like every nerve inside him doesn’t light up at the thought you of you needing him for something as mundane as maintenance.

You pause and then continue, fidgeting just a bit, “I’d love to know who keeps sending me stuff.” Your tone is carefully light, but a little bit of sadness is hiding in the back of your throat. “Would like to thank them.” You don’t meet his eyes as you say it.

He hums, watching you fumble with your key, “What if you have a stalker or something, Y/N? Wish you’d be a little more careful.”

“Worried about me, Barnes?” You tease. Bucky just stares at you. Of course, he is. He’s always worried about you. You roll your eyes, “I get good vibes and intentions from these gifts. I think I would know if they carried bad energy.”

“You’re kidding right? This is how you end up on Dateline-,”

“Oh hush, let me enjoy my silly little gifts. I’ve never had a secret admirer. Or even a valentine. And besides, you’re in the building. I'm sure you’d know if I were in any danger. You probably already investigated and know who they are.” You send him a smile that makes his heart feel like cracked eggshell and turn to your door, “The worst thing about this apartment is that it's three floors up with no elevator,” you huff, finally jamming your key into the lock. “I guess I’ll-,”

Panic surges up his throat. It's now or never.

“You’ve never had a valentine?” He asks, stalling for time, though you had told him the night he decided to be your valentine this year.

“Some of us can’t pull ladies like you, Barnes,” you tease, bumping your shoulder against his. “I mean, I’ve had partners on Valentine’s Day in the past just not, like, a valentine, y’know? Like someone who sends you sappy little notes and just loves love.”

God were you about to be disappointed when you found out it was him.

He’s your fucking valentine. Your secret admirer.

While he’d planned to ask you over to dinner, Bucky would also like to delay you looking at that fucking envelope he stuffed in your mailbox like it was nothing.

It's not time for you to read it yet.

The letter is a security blanket for when everything inevitably goes to hell.

Really, it's a good thing he’d caught you in the foyer. If you’d already gotten your mail, likely you would have ripped open the letter and read it right away.

“You could come over,” he says. “Got enough here to feed an army,” he lifts the bag or pastries. “We can watch that new show you were telling me about yesterday.”

He doesn’t expect is for you to hesitate. Normally, you readily agree to an evening spent together.

You finally wrench your door open.

It swings in and you gaze down at the pile of mail in your hands. “Um,” you shift from foot to foot. “Y’know I-,”

You stop, seeming to consider how to continue, thumbing at the pink paper.

And Bucky finds himself jealous.

Of a letter.

That he sent.

He’s jealous of himself.

You want to read the anonymous letter from your valentine rather than spend time with him.

Maybe his heart sinks to the bottom of his belly, maybe his soul turns to ash in his mouth.

Better give up now.

“Don’t worry about it, hon-,” he starts, even though you not agreeing to come over would ruin everything, when you seem to snap out of it.

“No,” you smile and toss the mail on the counter by the door. “Of course. I’d love to.” From the door, he can see the whole of your apartment. The pink and white bedspread, your plants, the photos of family members and friends on your wall, the fairy lights, and that tiny couch in front of the TV that has come to feel like home, like love.

“Don’t have to, doll-,” he starts.

You shut your door and lock it again before looping your arm through his. “Of course I do. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

~

You sit on the floor in front of his coffee table, legs crossed, fingers sticky with powdered sugar and icing that you wipe on a napkin delicately.

You’ve been chattering at him for the last few minutes.

Something about work.

But Bucky can’t really focus on that at the moment.

He hasn’t touched his share of the goods and you’ve definitely noticed.

The room is thick with a tension that’s entirely his fault. He can see you trying to parse through it, why things feel so odd and strained.

You reach out and touch the back of his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking himself, trying to snap out of it. Bucky doesn’t want to frighten you, he knows how he looks, blank and foreign and far away, when he’s too deep inside himself.

Now or never, something screams at him.

“Actually, I have something for you.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Like a present?”

“Kinda, sweetheart,” he stands, and your hand falls away from his. His skin feels cold in the absence.

Bucky stands and moves to the kitchen where he earlier stashed your final gift.

If things go to shit in the next few minutes, hopefully you’ll read the card he dropped in your mail slot that’s currently waiting for you back on your kitchen counter.

Your eyes are fastened to him, flicking to the pink wrapped box in his hands.

He sits down across from you on the floor and presses the box into your hands across the coffee table.

You stare at it for a long moment, the look on your face unreadable to him.

“Bucky,” you say gently, decidedly not unwrapping it. “I-I don’t wanna sound – I don’t wanna ruin what we have between us but –,”

Oh. Fuck.

“But like, we’ve been friends for a while now and I – I dunno I was telling myself I should tell you –,”

Probably that you had a partner. That he’s gotten too comfortable with you and needed to back off.

“Well, that I’ve kinda been falling for you these last couple of months and –,”

Wait –

“And I don’t want to sound, like, presumptuous, but…are you the one who's been leaving all the presents?”

His brain goes staticky, white with blankness. How could you have known?

“I –,”

“Because I think maybe you would have – I mean is it you? I’m really hoping it’s been you.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you start to fidget, crinkling the corner of the pink paper in your hands, the edge of your thumb running under the tape nervously.

“It’s not, is it? I just made everything really weird between us. I thought it was you because you kinda seem like you would have hunted down someone randomly sending me stuff.” You don’t look at him as you say it. “Oh god, does that mean I do have a stalker?”

Bucky swallows and finds his voice, lodged tightly in the back of his throat. “You thought I would –,”

“Yeah, I mean,” Y/N tears the tape a little and sets the gift aside carefully. “You’re kind of protective. You seem to worry about me a lot and I thought it was odd this random stranger giving me things didn’t bother you but –,”

“Honey it's me,” Bucky says softly. “It is. It's me.”

You don’t seem to hear him, your eyes still locked on the tartes and eclairs in front of you. “Because you know how much I like getting mail and you know all my favorite things.” You shrug. “Sorry I’m making things weird –,”

Bucky says your name, forcefully enough that your head snaps up. “It’s me.”

“What?” Your brow creases.

“I – fuck, I like you. A lot. And I didn’t want you to go on that fucking date with your coworker and you’ve never had a valentine and – I dunno, I just really like you. I thought maybe –,”

“I did,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I said it didn’t I? I fell for you. You think I let other people in my apartment so much? Wait around by my fucking mailbox waiting for you to show up?”

A laugh startles out of him, “I thought I was just really good at timing it.”

You roll your eyes and stand.

He follows your movement, tilting his head back to keep you in his view. You crouch down next to him, and he reaches for you at the same time that you reach for him.

Then, you’re in his lap, knees digging into his hips as he kisses you.

You taste like candy.

Like Valentine's day chocolate and all your favorite baked goods.

Your fingers curl into his hair, curve behind his ears when you cup his face between your palms.

Bucky anchors his hands to your hips, afraid to do anything but kiss you. Just in case it's a dream, just in case you change your mind.

He’s dreamed of kissing you before, he’s dreamed of holding you, touching the curve of your waist.

It doesn’t compare to having you in his lap, your lips soft against his.

This pink scarf brushes against his wrist when he finally lifts his hand to cradle your cheek.

You pull back and press your forehead to his.

“Thank you for all my gifts, Bucky.”

He smiles, “Don’t read that pink letter, honey.”

“Why?”

“It’s…honestly I thought – doesn't matter. Just don’t read it. I’ll write you a thousand more letters.”

“Promise they’ll all be really sappy.”

He chuckles and hooks an arm around your waist, tugging you close before twisting to press you back into the rug. Bucky hovers over you, lets you twist your fingers into the chain of his dog tags and tug him down. “I promise,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, the curve of your cheek, your top lip.

“And that you’ll hand deliver them to my mailbox.”

“Promise,” he kisses your lips.

You arch up, kissing him back hard, digging your foot into the back of his knee so he collapses against you fully.

“Will you be my valentine?” It’s a breathless question.

By the time he’s actually enjoying himself, the majority of the little impromptu party had already died down. Natasha had gone to her bedroom, Thor was already almost asleep on one of the couches, and everyone else was paired off and chatting in little groups.

Bucky doesn’t care about what they’re doing.

No, he’s just glad that you decided to sit with him.

Maybe it’s a little silly, but it makes him feel special. There’s intention behind everything you do, encouraging him to be more open with you through your genuine curiosity and kindness. He finds himself more comfortable with you than he's felt in forever, a feeling of contentment blanketing him in warmth every second he spends with you.

It’s downright adorable to watch you tell a story because you become so animated, your hands gesturing wildly as you go on, and fuck, he just wants to take your hands in his. They’re probably so soft. Speaking of soft - your lips. Every time your tongue peeks out to wet your lips or your teeth nibble at your lower lip, Bucky is nearly overcome with the urge to pull you close and kiss you.

Shit. Maybe the liquor was a bad idea. He can feel his self control waning - and he isn't the only one, either.

The amount of times you’ve found yourself distracted by him tonight would be embarrassing if the shots you took hadn't numbed that part of your brain. You keep touching him without really thinking about it and the fact that he leans into it every time makes your belly erupt with butterflies. God, he’s just so pretty it kills you. And funny, too. Not to mention sweet and caring and ridiculously fucking sexy.

The small part of yourself still ruled by logic knows you need a distraction. Those pretty blue eyes are going to draw you in too far to be saved if you aren’t careful - even though you just know kissing him would be heaven right now.

“Hey, is Steve back yet?” You ask out of the blue.

“I don’t think so. Why?” Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together in confusion and you want to smooth the little crease away with your thumb so badly.

“Wanna prank him?” You expect that you’ll have to convince him, to tell him it’ll be fun to mess with his best friend, but the second the words fall from your mouth, his eyes light up with playful mischief. You find that you love how it looks on him.

That’s how you end up sneaking down the hall after subtly slipping away from the common room, dragging Bucky along behind you with your hand wrapped around his. Jarvis took a little more convincing when you asked him to give you a heads up if Steve came back, but with the promise not to cause any real property damage or grievous bodily harm, he eventually relented to you and Bucky’s drunken whims.

Barely contained bouts of giggling and whispers that could hardly be considered quiet echo from the otherwise empty hallway as the two of you tiptoe towards Steve's room, playfully shushing and swatting at each other for being too loud. Bucky can’t even remember the last time he did something so stupid, purely for the fun of it, and he wants this moment to last forever.

“Wait… what are we even gonna do?” He whispers as you peek around the corner before pulling him by his hand to follow. Thank god for the alcohol that flows through him; it's the perfect cover for the blush that tinges his cheeks at the feeling of your fingers laced with his.

“I don't know,” You shrug. “Hide the TV remote somewhere crazy, steal all the lightbulbs. Oh, we could hide all of his left shoes! And -”

Your excited half-baked plans get cut off by the familiar voice of Jarvis. “Good evening, Captain Rogers. Welcome home.”

Neither of you catch Steve’s polite response. You're too busy ushering at each other, desperately flailing to find a place to hide before you can get caught like a couple of idiotic drunken teenagers. Is there any real danger? Not in the slightest, but are the two of you rushing like it’s life or death? Absolutely. There’s no stopping the constant laughter bubbling up from you both in the miniature argument of, “go, go ,go - stop laughing!” “you stop laughing!”, as you shove each other into the small storage closet nearby.

Fuck, you can barely both fit and the ridiculousness of it all only makes you laugh harder. As your eyes adjust in the darkness, you’re blessed with the image of Bucky. He’s managed to bite back his own fit of hysterics, but he’s still looking at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars in the sky, and your heart nearly breaks in it’s yearning for him.

“Shut up, you’re gonna get us caught.” He breathes out with a soft chuckle, but you can’t, so he takes a preemptive move and covers your mouth with his hand.

The air of hilarity screeches to a halt. Your senses are overwhelmed with Bucky. The smell of leather and spice, the amplified huffs of his breathing, the slight brush of his chest against yours with every inhale, the feeling of his metal fingers warming up against your skin. You’re drowning in him. He’s more intoxicating than the liquor that sings in your veins like a siren song, drawing you closer and closer to crossing the line of no return that has been tempting you for months.

You aren’t the only one who senses the sudden shift, the tilt-a-whirl of emotions that sweeps the rug out from under your feet. Bucky’s eyes widen as he realizes the position he’s unintentionally put the two of you in and he’s almost certain you can hear the embarrassing way his heart starts to pound in his chest. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you can read him even better than usual as he lets his hand slip away from your face. There’s an apology threatening to bubble up to the surface, but it’s held back by an innate curiosity that has his eyes dropping to your lips for a mere second before locking eyes with you once more.

The absentminded flick of his tongue against his bottom lip is what does you in.

“Fuck it.” You mutter and with a surge of confidence, you lean up to capture his lips in a soft, barely there kiss.

Bucky freezes for a millisecond before he melts into you and presses you back against the door with a stuttered breath. Everything else is wiped away in that moment. The alcohol simmers down to a low warmth thrumming through your entire being, the worries of being caught flicker out into nothing - anything that isn’t you and the way you feel under his touch doesn’t exist.

You’re so… soft. Yielding. You accept the hand that cups your cheek and tilts your head to kiss you deeper without hesitation, your fingers tangling in his shirt to hold him close. It’s been so long since Bucky has known any gentle, loving touch and he knows he will never be able to get enough from you. All he can hope is that you’ll give him more, because god knows he’ll take anything you’re willing to give.

Your hand slides up his chest and settles on the side of his neck, your fingertips teasing the hair that curls behind his ear, and Bucky whimpers. Holy fuck, what a pretty sound from such a big tough man.

He has to break the kiss when you suck his lower lip playfully, a rough groan rumbling through him as he lets his head drop to your shoulder. Despite the pleasant haze of alcohol and affection, Bucky knows this is as far as this can go tonight in good conscience. Some sweet kisses, maybe some cuddling if he plays his cards right. But as much as he wants to let those base needs take over, he wants to wait until you’re both clear headed even more.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I wanted to do that for so long.” Bucky whispers, shuddering and nuzzling his face into your neck as you keep playing with his hair. The feeling of his body pressed to yours, trapping you between him and the door, has him emboldened. He can't imagine not spending the night sleeping in your bed with you safe in his arms. “Can...can I stay with you tonight?”

“Someone's feeling bold.” You chuckle.

Heat rushes his face as he groans in embarrassment. “C’mon, you know I don't mean - well, I do mean that but not now, not when -”

“I know what you mean, Buck, I'm just teasing you.” You gently tug on his hair until he leans back to look at you, and the sight of his subtle pout has you huffing out a laugh. “I'd love to have you in my bed tonight, baby.”

Bucky hums, a low and content sound that rumbles through his chest, and captures your lips in another soft, appreciative kiss. He can't stop his hands from wandering, exploring the soft curve of your waist. After everything he's been through, Bucky tries to do at least one thing for himself everyday, just to make him smile, and he's found his new favorite thing: kissing you.

It takes you both a little while to stumble out of that closet, but at least Bucky was smiling the entire time.

{Taglist} 

He was warned a lot could take a while to catch up. That trauma and healing requires the body to prioritize in whichever way that’s best for it, so some functions would be delayed indefinitely and return later in their own time.

Apparently, “indefinitely” meant six months and “return” meant a reappearance like a wrecking ball, an atomic bomb, the Big-fucking-Bang.

He arrives at this conclusion in the afternoon. Two o’clock on a leisurely Saturday with the T.V. droning in the background and dust floating in a beam of sunlight. A stream of hot white slashing across the air and on the pair of legs dancing through the kitchen making lunch.

Hair sleep-wild, shirt crumpled and tucked in with two fingers into the hem of your shorts, you scoot across hardwood bumping open drawers shut with your hip, and bumping him impishly by way of apology, too. Woke up late after night of watching movies and you had promised to make breakfast, but due to tardiness, elected on lunch instead.

He’s baffled when it hits him. The kind of hard-hitting no shit moment you get when someone tells you the answer to a riddle you’ve been chewing on for hours, trying to decipher that missing component you just can’t get a grip on. And when the answer wakes up your brain, and your brain face-palms itself, you’re walloped with both relief and irritation.

In Bucky’s case, he’s walloped with the scent of spearmint toothpaste and soap-clean skin only lightly musky. Saltiness lingering from an evaporated sheen of sweat, a dampness that dried over, previously wet from a specific type of touch.

You sail beneath his nose, ducking into the opened refrigerator, and that scent— that intoxicating sweetness he remembers pulling out of past lovers, sucking off his fingers, savoring in his throat— crashes into him with its entire, terrifying, exhilarating implication.

Fuck.

He’s dried tinder shoved into a firepit, aflame head to toe. It goes up his fingertips, his knuckles, his arms and shoulders and every dormant nerve begins to unstitch towards you. He feels it, his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes rolling, spine tingling, the hollow of his throat bobbing at new knowledge.

Last night, after corking up the wine bottle and cleaning the scatter of empty chip bowls and hummus plates, you washed your face, giggly. And then you said goodnight with a woozy grin, your finger on the light switch, and then—

You touched yourself.

And the idea of that— the lightning storm of many ideas, the flash flood of thoughts he viscerally half-knows, now half-experiencing for the first time is too, too much.

He splits.

The bathroom door’s latched before you can ask him where he’s going. The shower gushes freezing cold water and Bucky stands beneath it with one hand on the tile for support. He’s panting, shivering, squeezing his eyes shut until he can call himself a sentient person and not just an anthropomorphic, raging desire to fuck, and fuck, and fuck.

-

He staves it off for an evening but he’s not stupid. Erections are bothersome at best and debilitating at worst and now his body is on a warpath.

How has he survived? What the hell has he been doing, living with you, sitting on the living room couch sharing blankets, watching T.V., mundanely passing his time with all work and no play like a celibate dumbass?

Is that why Sam’s been giving him those shit-eating grins as he angles his head to the left, drawling phrases like “how’s being co-ed’s workin’ out”, “you learn anything new”, “getting back into the swing of things yet”?

Swinging is… an understatement.

Bucky’s cock is springing to life every half hour like a goddamn jackknife. He locks himself inside his room— that suite with the shared bath and double sink countertop where you brush your teeth and grin at him before bed.

Bed.

Where you lie your pretty head down with your minty fresh lips parting like a full moon split in half, fingertips exploring yourself beneath sheets. Or, you might be the kind of girl who sleeps naked, who peels off her clothes and stretches out on the duvet, shameless, effortless, gorgeous.

It rocks him to the core how much he misses sex. He can’t believe he forgot about sex.

The curves of a woman’s figure, the softness of her lips. Your lips that have resuscitated him after falling into a river—lips that feel like they’re breathing him back to life now—he knows are the softest. The back of your knees, the inside of your wrists, that high spot on your spine his thumb pressed down on once as he guided you through a crowd, seemingly innocent places that make you think twice. He could spark something inside you there, so that when you slink away on nights like last night, he’ll be sure you’re wondering about him.

Do you wonder about him? When you smile at him over your shoulder, foot in your bedroom doorway as if propping an invitation open, is that something? Those nights you go on half-hearted dates and come back early, shrugging, “Dunno, felt weird to— I don’t know,” and plop back down, contented to be next to him. Is that something, too?

It doesn’t help that he dreams, wading off, unable to stop his mind from roving deeper into the last notion he had. Try as he might to steer himself into safer waters, he drifts out to sea and toward the figment of your touch.

So, he touches you back, and realizes his body remembers how to move in all the ways he used to and better. He’s not 16, 20, 23. He’s not at the tail end of a gangly period of growth or entombed by the standards of a cloistered, virtuous decade. He’s not starved thin on rations, scrambling in an alleyway behind a dusty bar and up a waitress’ skirt.

No, he’s looked in the mirror since then. Seventy years later and he’s a steel column of muscle and firepower, confident inside his demigod’s body. He could be dominant, if that’s what you asked of him— and you might, hovering there in the black hole of his desire. You might ask him to hold your wrists above your head and scrape his teeth along your throat, use that newfound strength in his hips to make you his girl.

He should have fucked you a long time ago on the couch to the soundtrack of a forgotten movie. On the counter, interrupting breakfast, scrabbling for something to grip, knocking shit over, too fevered to care.

He’d do you right. Do you long and good and how you deserve.

“Buck—" you’d cry for him, “Can’t believe we haven’t done this before.”

“Yeah,” he’d say, “You’re so fucking warm, and hot, and my god, I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t take it anymore. Gonna get up inside you, baby, gonna open you up, gonna ruin you for everyone else.”

Did he have a dirty mouth back then? He can’t remember. It feels natural, though.

Bucky’s got a quarter-empty bottle of lotion on his side table. Snagged from beneath the sink and unscented for sensitive skin because you said it’d be best since strong fragrances might irritate or trigger him, and you weren’t wrong about that. He wants to laugh at the irony, but he’s too distracted with it sliding out of his fist, painting his cock. He’s dead tired from trying to regulate himself all day along with dodging you, lying about it, just fucking stressing.

It took some convincing, but you gave him space. 10 feet away from his trembling insides and on the other side of the door, you mentioned that you’ve been meaning to get drinks with Wanda for a while now and he could always text you. Thanks, and you’re welcome, get a taxi and have fun, see you later bye bye, and then he was safe.

His body wants to go to sleep. But it also really wants to come.

He starts almost too fast. Grip clumsy and impatient but he remembers this part: when pleasure becomes the only thing you want, so you want to prolong it and prolong it. He lets go, lets his hand rest on his thigh, takes a few shallow breaths and tries again.

This time, almost delicate. His hand is relaxed when he eases into it, allowing the underside of his shaft a slow glide, the tip of his cock a featherlight pass over his callused palm.

And then, rapid fire. Your gorgeous tits in his mouth, slapped at and bitten. Your clit, rubbed hard and fast. Your lips, kissed until bruised, then further by his cock thrusting inside. The gloss of perspiration beading on your collar and chest and how your hips would look as you sat on your knees and when you sucked him to the edge of orgasm—Bucky squeezes and pulls off, then he does it again, the drag of his fist making a delicious, sloppy sound—he thinks he’d want to flip you over.

Scratch that. He wants to see you. Wants to witness the swollen rim of your open mouth, the silent request to swallow him.

That knocks him over. He tips all the way off and damn prolonging the pleasure; there was no way he could have with the kind of visual playing out in his mind.

Bucky comes so much it’s astonishing. He shudders uncontrollably, gasping out loud with the wind knocked out of him, and arches up toward the ceiling like he might levitate. And then, on the comedown, because being backed up for who knows how long wound him up for the kind of orgasm that decides to return for an encore, he comes again.

His balls hurt afterwards, and his eyes will hardly stay open, and the fog in his room is a haze of semen and sweat, but his head’s finally clear now and he’s got enough willpower to clean up and crack the window.

His back hits the mattress and he’s out like a light.

-

A car door shutting wakes him up.

A clatter of heels up porch steps, a muffled “shit!”, the deadbolt latching, and then keys and a purse tossed onto the carpet.

You’re home.

Bucky looks over to the clock. 2:34, and you’re stumbling in and cursing yourself with, “Sorrysorrysorry,” hushed, to an empty room, “Nnnnn—gotta wash up— shit, shit, Buck’s asleep. Do it in the kitchen. Yeah, okay.”

He’s still exhausted from earlier, so he settles on drifting back to sleep, maybe waking you up in the morning with a big mug of coffee for that inevitable hangover you’ll have. Business as usual because he’s got it out of his system and his body will return back to normal for a bit. He might have to schedule it in once a day, but he’ll figure it out. Besides, it’s just a private fantasy, safe and sound, contained in his head.

Adults have fantasies. He’ll get over it.

He yawns and grins when your hip bumps the counter, your feet pattering away, and the kitchen faucet turns on with a rush. You’re such a considerate dope. Three sheets to the wind but you still manage to lock the door, turn off all the lights, and keep the banging around to a minimum. He’s glad to have you.

Another yawn. He’s asleep again.

-

“Mmm…”

He wakes up for the second time.

It’s barely audible at first, especially if he was still an oblivious celibate, but now it’s like his ears can comprehend a new language, like all his capabilities have been unlocked.

Or maybe it’s just because you’re off your face and don’t remember he’s got that super hearing thing.

He can’t recall if voyeurism was ever his kink, but just this once, maybe it can be. His curiosity takes hold, lights up upon hearing a stifled groan of two syllables that sound surprisingly like his name. If he focuses, he can dampen the nighttime outside his window, smother out the air conditioning and—

“Bucky… that’s… oh, it feels so good…”

His cock springs back to life.

There’s a rhythm of folded knees, thighs squeezed together in pulses, fingers reaching between them, and the hot, pleading breaths you puff into the clamped grasp of your hand. Even your heart, wildly banging around in your chest. He takes note of the tempo and dives beneath the waistband of his boxers, keeping pace.

“There, faster… don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He thinks, I won’t, and finds it a little quaint how this entire thing seems to be mutual, after all.

-

He wakes for a third time, in the late morning, and rolls out of bed to brush his teeth and shower. He definitelysmells like sex, and when he opens the door to the bathroom, you’re already at the counter, also smelling like sex. Bucky slyly looks down and adjusts himself, tilting his groin away and out of view.

“Mornin’” You rub at your temple, hungover. “Think you were in my dream last night,” you say absently, blinking out the sleep, ungracefully squeezing toothpaste onto your toothbrush where it falls off in a goopy pile. You scrub in gentle circles, leaning over to spit and rinse, and come back up wet and bleary. As Bucky washes his face, you tug his towel from the rack.

He pats off his cheeks, brushes his own teeth with one hand next, the other reaching sideways to swipe a rolling bead of water off your neck, purposefully running his thumb up your throat.

Low and encouraging, he asks, “Yeah? Was it a good dream?”

You blink in quick flutters at that, surprised and abruptly reliving a fuzzy memory, a prickle of dew casting itself over your brow.

“Y-yes,” you stutter, sudden heat rippling off your body, that lovely perfume of incoming arousal rising to meet him. When you stumble back, flustered, he holds you still, sets you on your shaky feet.

Bucky licks his lips, thinks about how maybe this won’t be a thing he’ll simply get over, how he is quite glad to have you, and maybe he can have more of you, too.

“Lord Pierce shall be with you soon.” He tells you, though you hardly listen. You sit numbly with your hands in your lap, staring across the room at the fire. Your father paces, occasionally stopping to stand behind you with his hand resting on your shoulder briefly, before nerves take him again and he paces once more.

Under any other circumstances you might’ve been at least a little excited to meet your future husband. You wouldn’t have picked him yourself, but you were hardly expected to anyway. Any excitement was quelled by rumour. Lord Pierce’s most loyal and trusted men, those knighted were all ruthless soldiers.

Although natives to your lands had lived with your conquerors for many years now, there was still an air of mystery, a divide between the two cultures. The Hydran’s kept to themselves in the castle, dishing out edicts and enforcing the law where necessary, but never fully integrating themselves into society.

It didn’t help that the knights were all universally feared. It didn’t matter that you were no longer at war, Pierce ruled with an iron fist and his men had total authority when they deigned to visit the towns or villages. They acted with complete impunity, and their known violence and unforgiving nature only served to further the peoples’ fear.

And you were to marry one of these men.

You had done your best over the past days to remain positive, but the reality of your situation was setting in. You could only hope now that your future husband’s reputation was reserved for the battlefield.

The door opens suddenly and both you and your father jump in your places, standing immediately as Lord Pierce comes sweeping into the room. Perhaps in his heyday he might’ve been a handsome man, but his features had since shrivelled, giving away his age, though he still looked spry, still moved with ease.

His warm smile is almost convincing as he approaches, holding his hand out for your father to shake in greeting.

“Sir, how good to see you well.” Pierce firmly shakes your father’s hand, before his eyes turn on you. You curtsy, just in time for his time-ripened fingers to take your hand, and he tuts at your formality. You pause, uncertain of what to do when he does a slight bow of his own, bringing your hand to his lips.

“As lovely as you described.” He compliments, standing straight once more and you duck your head in gratitude. He releases your hand and holds his arms wide for a moment.

“Well, let us not stand around, please, sit!”

You do as asked, eyes traveling to where Pierce now gestures to a man who had entered behind him, though you’d been far too involved with the feared ruler to pay him mind previously.

The man steps around the couches, not to sit, simply to stand at the end between both, his gloved hands clasped before him. It takes you a moment to see beyond the dark mass of clothing he wears and make out the individual parts of his pitch black armour, the cape that is swung around his neck and over his shoulders, billowing out behind him. Details of silver stand out to you as you look closer, spying several belt buckles and—

You swallow at the sight of the large sword hung on his hip, and your gaze flickers up to take in the man again, this time as a whole.

Tall, broad, and dark. Despite his pale skin, dark is the only word that comes to mind to describe him. His hair was long and hangs about his face, perhaps neat at some point prior to now, but had since been windswept. His eyes are directed to the floor, so you can’t see them, but dark shadows linger underneath, making his complexion rather sallow in the dim lighting of the sitting room.

His face is rather handsome, you can’t help but think, a thick but shortly trimmed beard covering the lower portion of it. It’s then however, your eyes catch upon something shiny at his shoulder, a pin that holds his cloak in place and you freeze, blood running cold.

A skull, six curling tentacles reaching out from underneath it.

You look away from the knight and lace your shaking fingers together in your lap. Your father and Lord Pierce had been speaking all this time about your marriage, and your dowry of at least half your family’s land. That was Lord Pierce’s ploy all along, there had been no denying it.

He could care less about forming alliances with local families, it was the border land he wanted most. You don’t doubt that your husband would only act as a proxy for Pierce’s control, carrying out whatever the warlord wished for it, no questions asked.

You swallow thickly as at last Lord Pierce and your father stand, stepping toward the Knight, but you find yourself frozen to the spot. They don’t immediately notice, Pierce holding a hand out to gesture at his knight.

“This is my Winter Knight, Sir James. I’m sure you’ll have heard of him,” He speaks to your father, still ignoring how you haven't moved yet. You had heard of him. You weren’t sure of anybody who hadn’t.

Among Lord Pierce’s Knights, The Winter Knight was perhaps one of the most storied. The man had never lost a fight, and was obedient to Lord Pierce as if he were a hound. When talk of Lord Pierce’s Knights came about, the whispered deeds of The Winter Knight were among the most feared.

All of them awful.

All of them horrific.

You feel your stomach drop to your knees, but you have no more time to dwell as suddenly all eyes are on you, and you blink up at the men, Lord Pierce giving you an unsettlingly encouraging look, and you follow to where his hand is still held out in gesture to his knight.

You stand, like you’re supposed to, and step closer to the knight, like you’re supposed to. Your shaky hands gather your skirts and you curtsy like you’re supposed to, offering out your hand, like you’re supposed to.

You nearly gasp when black-gloved fingers take your own, far lighter than you might have thought, his fingers certainly holding yours, however the touch feels as soft as a feather.

The knight bows deep, bringing your hand to his lips gently. You keep your eyes firmly on the floor, afraid you might begin shaking worse than you already were, afraid that your future husband may feel the tremble in your fingers. The brief glance you do steal does nothing to settle your growing anxiety or nerves, his features seemingly devoid of any emotion at all, and the dark, imposing man only becoming darker, more imposing in your mind with his complete lack of reaction.

His movements were swift and smooth enough to appear natural, but something tells you diplomacy was not his calling. No, in your mind's eye you conjure wicked images of the man in the midst of a heated battle, blood marring his still emotionless features.

You’re thankful when he drops your hand at last and you take an involuntary step backwards, toward your father. The knight’s eyes remain downturned. Lord Pierce claps his hands.

“A handsome couple I should say!”

Your father hums along feebly, agreeing.

“The wedding shall be tomorrow. A servant will escort the Lady to her temporary rooms for tonight, and I will act as her guardian at tomorrow's nuptials.” Lord Pierce informs you both, making your heart begin to thump wildly in your chest, and your head snaps to your father with wide eyes.

“B-but Sire, I—” Your father begins, stepping forward, but he’s swiftly cut off.

“—I understand your people have your wedding traditions, but we are in the midst of important siege planning, it would be unwise for me to allow you to stay. As it is, nobody enters the Palais and nobody leaves it until we are finished. Your arrival and departure are the only exceptions, of course.” Lord Pierce tells him with a wave of his hand. There was no room for argument, a sternness now to his words.

Your father sputters, but turns to look at you, eyes brimming with unshed tears and apologies. You silently beg him not to leave, but somewhat reluctantly, his gaze hardens, and he looks away, bowing to Lord Pierce.

“Very well, My Lord. I shall depart with haste…”

You force fight the urge to throw yourself at him, beg him to stay, but instead curl your fists tightly into your palms, remaining rooted to the spot as your father leans in to kiss your forehead.

“I… I love you. I’m so—” Before he can finish his apology, he shuts his mouth, lips forming into a thin line. He nods at you firmly, finally.

You watch as the same man who had escorted you inside the palace leads your father from the room, the door shutting loudly behind them. A few tears escape your eyes and trail down your cheeks.

You jump when a hand lands on your shoulder.

“I know it is unfortunate, but you will be just fine. Before you know it, Palais de la Hiver will be home.” Lord Pierce tells you, and if you hadn’t heard all the stories about his cruelty, his sympathetic smile and warm eyes might have fooled you.

You swallow and let your eyes fall to the stone floor.

Home?

This would never be your home.

—-

You feel numb.

Everything about your wedding was already planned and organised, and you float through the day like a fog in a valley. The ladies that were clearly assigned to help you prepare hardly speak to you, and while they aren’t outright unkind, the room is filled with tension. You can tell they wished to be elsewhere.

They don’t know you. They don’t trust you. You aren’t one of them.

You see nothing of Lord Pierce or the man you’re set to marry right up until the ruler appears and takes your arm to lead you to the altar. The whole ceremony plays out unfamiliar to you, Hydran traditions and weddings vastly different from your own native ones, but that hardly seemed to matter.

The ceremonial room isn’t large or particularly grand. A few other knights, ladies and officials seem to have gathered to pay witness, and in the few moments you lift your eyes from the floor as you’re led forward, it seems as though all watch on with fascinated boredom.

When you finally reach the officiant, Lord Pierce releases your arm, taking your hand and transferring it into the clutches of a dark glove. For a moment you peek up at your soon-to-be husband, only to find him once more with that blank expression. You cast your eyes back to the ground and try to keep your lip from wobbling.

You must disassociate, your mind travelling elsewhere, because the ceremony is over before you know it, the Hydran officiant untying your wrists from where you and Sir James’ hands had been symbolically bound together. There is a polite clapping as you both turn, presented to the bored audience as man and wife and Lord Pierce announces a feast.

The feast has far more guests than your wedding did, and although you and Sir James sit at a long table joined by other apparently important figures, you feel as though the celebration has more to do with the acquisition of your father’s lands than your union.

You sit quietly and watch the festivities, the whole room loud and laughing, music playing raucously as couples drink and dance. Nobody approaches either you or your new husband. Nobody seems to care at all. You can’t even bring yourself to cry, as numb as you are now.

Throughout the meal, you briefly steal glances at your husband, and part of you feels almost angry for his impassiveness, the way his eyes flick slowly around the room. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

You do think it odd that for a knight he seemed to have no colleagues willing to come congratulate him. In fact, it’s odd to you that nobody seems to address him at all. The only person who does is Lord Pierce, and even then he only ever seems to command him. Did the tales of your husband’s brutality isolate him from those within his own circles as well?

Were you truly now married to a man feared even by his own people?

You swallow, and smooth your hands over your lap for the hundredth time since the meal had begun. At any moment now you would retire to your new rooms, the chambers you will share with your new husband, and you will find out how much of a monster he really is. The thought should have made you scared, at the very least nervous, but you felt too numb for that, one small blessing.

It only takes another twenty minutes, and you notice Lord Pierce lean into Sir James, speaking quietly into the man’s ear. Predictably, the knight’s face doesn’t change, he only nods shortly. You feel your heartbeat jump when Sir James stands, and he doesn’t even speak, simply holds his hand out for you expectantly.

For the first time ever his eyes fall upon you and you realise with some amount of surprise, that they’re a stunning bright blue.

You take the hand offered, and keep your head low as you’re led from the table. You might’ve thought the feasting crowd would have noticed the bride and groom leaving, dreaded the whistles and cheering on from the men, but there’s nothing, not a soul seems moved by your exit from the evening.

The hallways are cold and empty as you move through them, doubly so with your company, and you attempt to distract yourself by keeping track of which hall led where and what staircases you climbed and which you didn’t, but the palace is a maze.

You do stop eventually, at a large wooden door Sir James pushes open with one hand. Unfortunately, your numbness takes leave of you then, your heart thumping and you feel as if you’ve been dropped in frozen water.

Your blood pumps loudly in your ears as you are guided inside, and you distract yourself once more by taking an inventory of the chambers before you.

They were large enough, though not particularly lavish, and the furnishings that were present seemed like they might have been put there by someone else. A fireplace with a seat and table by it, a tall bookcase nearby. On the other side of the room, opposite the fireplace was an armoured figure, and it takes you a moment to realise that it is only a mannequin, with your husband’s armour placed upon it.

The back of the room holds the bed, and directly to the left of it, curtained doors that you suppose lead to a balcony. On the right side of the bed is another door, a washroom you suppose.

There are few cupboards and trunks for things, and you wonder how suddenly this marriage was thrust upon Sir James if he had not yet found time to acquire more furniture for your own possessions. It matters not, you spy your own trunk by the wall, a maid clearly having collected it from the room you’d occupied last night.

Your husband closes the door and immediately moves to the fire, stoking it. You take several deep breaths before moving toward the table, where you spy a bottle of something and two glasses, clearly placed there in anticipation of your return to the chamber. You wonder by who, though. You hardly think your husband the sort.

You don’t speak or offer him a drink, you simply pour a good amount into each glass and take a hefty swig of your own before you look up again, nearly jumping when you find Sir James stood, just watching you. He doesn’t move, he just stares at you and for a moment you think perhaps you should have waited, but then he does something that catches you completely by surprise;

His head cocks the tiniest amount, and his eyes narrow in interest.

It’s the first sort-of expression you’ve ever seen cross his face, the first acknowledgement of you being in the same room as him at all, and you wonder what on earth it meant. You see his eyes flick down to your glass, and then back to your face.

You swallow thickly before taking a final drink, finishing the remaining wine and placing the glass back down on the table.

This was it, whether you liked it or not. You look down at yourself, not even really sure of what your gown looked like, or how it came undone. You knew what was required of you, you wouldn’t struggle or fight. Perhaps if he knew this, he’d be kinder. You decide to voice as much, but spare yourself the embarrassment by turning away, moving toward the bed.

“I know what is expected from me. I will yield.” Your hands shake almost violently when you begin pulling apart the fastenings of your dress, but you push down the fear and the worry, focusing instead on undressing. If you could be quick, perhaps he would be too, and you would be left to sleep sooner.

You don’t look back at your husband as you do this, but you know he watches, the prickle of skin on the back of your neck alerting you to his attention. It feels wrong, and yet, this man was your husband. This was the only right way for a man to see you like this.

By the time you’re fully nude, and you’ve gathered the courage to look back at him, you find him exactly where he was the last time you’d looked at him, but now, his eyes seem to be averted, cast downwards.

A moment of panic fills you. What if he did not like what he saw?! You had no desire to be married to this man, but you were now, and his approval of you was important!

You lie down quickly, unwilling to entertain the crazed, panicked thoughts rushing through your mind. No man could be truly displeased with a woman lying ready for them, yes? All you had to do was be a good wife and perhaps your life would not become completely miserable. You could take joy in that, at the very least.

Hours seem to pass in the time it takes his footsteps to near, and you steal a look to where your husband appears in the corner of your vision. You watch him pull his coat and doublet off, each being placed neatly back into a drawer, and the sight almost makes you laugh.

This strange, fearsome man would prioritise cleanliness on his wedding night?

You stay silent however, and turn your eyes away as he continues to undress. He nears at one point, and you tense up, readying yourself, only to stop when he bends low, takes your own clothes from the floor, and sets them tidily inside the same drawer. Your mind spins and whirs and you can’t decide if it's an act of kindness or of his own desire to have his chambers clean.

He approaches you for good then, to the side of the bed and you shift slightly to make more room if he needs it. A tiny peek at his body tells you the man had survived more injuries than you can count with the number of scars that cover his muscled body.

You hold your breath when he gracefully climbs atop you, and you stare up at the ceiling of the four-poster bed, begging your nerves to calm down. You jump when a warm hand grasps your ankle, you gaze snapping to the touch. Sir James seems to pause with your movement, his eyes locked onto yours and your heartbeat quadruples. He dips his chin just slightly, still looking at you, and then continues to move your leg, slowly, perhaps even gently.

You can’t help but watch him as he settles between your legs. You swallow, and with his eyes now moving elsewhere, you look back to the ceiling, your jaw beginning to shake some as you feel him shuffle forwards. He doesn’t lie atop you, instead he places his hands on your hips and carefully tugs you down the bed.

You talk yourself down through each movement he makes, staring upwards even when your vision becomes blurry and you’re forced to close your eyes. One of his hands keeps your body against his while you guess the other guides his length to your entrance. You force yourself to swallow the gasp that climbs up your throat when a hand, a finger prods there instead.

Confusion fills you, and you gasp when the finger pushes into you, dragging and a little painful, but it’s pulled away again in a few seconds, and you keep your eyes closed, too embarrassed now to open them, too scared to move as more fingers glide up your core, settling at the place just above. You wonder what he’s doing, but as he slowly moves his fingers in small circles, you feel the muscles in your core twitch.

It takes you a moment to realise that the ministrations aren’t unpleasant. It’s an odd sensation, warmth crawling over your skin like you were sinking into a hot bath. It doesn’t calm your nerves, but you do feel your body begin to relax.

After a few minutes, the movement stops, and you feel his fingers travel down again, back to your entrance where, just like before, one digit presses in. It doesn’t drag or hurt this time, aided by a wetness you had not realised had spread there. A second finger joins a moment later, and this time he pumps them slowly, sending a slight thrill though you involuntarily.

The fingers stop then, and the hand seems to be pulled away completely. For a moment you debate opening your eyes, but then you feel something warm and hard press against your entrance, and before you can even think a second more, you’re gasping sharply as he sinks inside.

He doesn’t stop or pause like he had with your ankle, but his press forward slows some, both his hands moving back to your hips. You take shallow, hurried breaths as you feel his cock stretch you out, your muscles screaming in discomfort, but you force yourself to be quiet, even when your eyes begin leaking again, and you shake uncontrollably as the tears drip down your cheeks and onto the bed below.

He’s sheathed all the way inside you when a hand leaves your hip. You yelp softly, not expecting the fingers that clutch gently at your chin, holding it still from your shaking. His hold is so soft and gentle, you can’t help but open your eyes, half expecting to find another man.

Sir James leans forward slightly, his expression almost entirely the same as it always is, except for a tiny furrow in his brow. Looking at him almost distracts you some, and you can only stare in mild surprise as he then lifts his hand from your chin, and uses the rough, calloused pad of his thumb to wipe at the wetness on your cheeks, one, and then the other.

Your breathing stutters at the tenderness of it, and even though he speaks no words, the message is clear: He did not intend on hurting you, on making this more painful than it had to be.

Shock only makes you shake more, but the pit of anxiety in your chest seems to dissipate.

He pulls his hand away, and back to your hip.

His first thrust hurts, and you wince. The second does too, but less so and soon he seems to have carved out a place in you that feels somewhat comfortable, and you manage to relax. You keep your eyes fixated on the ceiling, your tears drying.

At last his hips stutter and his breathing gets heavier, and finally with a deep exhale and juddering last thrust forward, you feel the fruits of his labour pool inside you, the feeling of which surprises you for. You swallow thick at the thought of bearing a child to this man, but decide to consider such subjects later.

He pulls out of you quickly, and in seconds is on his feet, moving away from the bed. You watch him as he goes for a new drawer, and he pulls several items from it. He dresses himself in breeches made for sleeping, but steps back toward the bed with a rag and a plain tunic held out.

You blink in surprise, and gingerly take the items from him, using the rag to wipe at the mess between your legs, and then slipping the shirt over your head, taking comfort in the warmth of no longer lying nude. Your husband takes back the rag, disappearing into the washroom before stalking out of it once more. You watch him as he moves about the room, putting out any candles until the chamber is cast in only the small light from the fireplace.

When he returns to the bed, he keeps to the opposite side, but pulls back the blankets and furs and allows you to climb beneath them before he himself follows. He does not touch you further, or bid you goodnight, and you are left with your own dizzying thoughts.

You were confused, and grateful, and in slight disbelief, but you fall asleep with more hope for your future than you had woken up with.

—-

Life in Palais de la Hiver is different in every way than what you knew.

You were a Lady now, and as such had no chores to do, no work, no schedule to keep you busy. In fact, as long as you stayed out of the way of any private business, nobody seemed to notice you at all. Every morning your husband was gone before you awoke, returning only near midday to wash and change from his training, before he left again to do who knows what.

In the evenings he would return and quietly eat whatever meal had been delivered to you by the servants, before climbing into bed and the cycle would repeat. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

You had begun imposing your own schedule. When you rose in the morning, you would dress and eat, before taking a stroll in the castle grounds. You’d given yourself the task of memorising the layout of the areas you were allowed, and in the process, you’d discovered the training ring where the knights would spar.

The ring was overlooked by a balcony that was often occupied by many ladies of the court, clearly vying for the attention of various men. Eventually you make a habit out of watching the knights too, though you keep to yourself, all too aware that you were unwelcome.

You observe your husband more than any of the others, seeing his skill and prowess for yourself. Unlike the other knights, who appeared to take pleasure in violence even within a training scenario, there was never any rage behind your husband’s movements. Much as he was outside of the ring, he always appeared to be indifferent, his actions almost effortless.

If any one thing had become clear to you over the past several months, however, it was the fact that your husband was… different. Aside from the fact he never spoke a word to you, and appeared to hold zero capacity for emotion, the other knights treated him as though he were a dog.

Snide comments and barked orders, your husband obeyed every one of them, even if they, the orders or the man, were below him. The other knights didn’t treat each other the same way, they seemed to have camaraderie, if not friendship.

It makes you confused, and almost angry, but it’s not your place to address.

So you continue on.

After you watch the training for a while, you return to your chambers. You had taken up embroidery and knitting, but you weren’t particularly good at either, so you usually end up reading. When your husband returns at noon to clean up, you always stand to greet him, though he never gives you more than a polite nod as he passes to the washroom, eyes downturned.

You’d begun a ritual of cleaning off his boots and armour when he hung it up. You’d seen him do it every so often, when it was well and truly caked on, and so once he’d left again to oversee his other duties, you’d take a cloth and water and wipe down each piece, before placing it back on it's mantle.

You don’t know if he’d noticed or not, as usual, he never said anything.

You observe one morning while watching the men train, the winter chill in the air requiring you to wrap yourself in a thick shawl, that your husband’s long hair appears to bother him. You’d seen him flick it out of his eyes on many occasions, but for some reason this morning with the wind whipping around the ring non-stop, he appears to be truly frustrated.

Well, as frustrated as he could manage. Nobody else would have noticed, and if you weren’t so used to him by now, you wouldn’t have either, but his hand clenches by his side before he tucks the hair behind his ear, his brow furrowing deeper, and slightly more telling, his nostrils flare. You briefly wonder about offering to cut his hair, before you realise that you had no talent for the art.

It isn’t until you’ve returned to the warmth of your chambers, your embroidery in your hands, that you get an idea.

You make him a ribbon.

It takes you two whole months, and even though your design was fairly simple, your talent was truly non-existent. You also had to contend with the cold that makes your fingers and hands ache after short periods of time, but eventually you sit with a completed ribbon.

It’s black, like the rest of the clothes he wore, but with a dark blue thread you’d created a row of flowers along it, connected by thin white diamonds. You aren’t quite sure what he might think, but you were rather proud.

You’re inspecting it one last time, sitting in the chair by the fireplace when the door swings swiftly open. You jump slightly, ribbon falling to your lap as your husband stalks inside, closing the door gently behind him.

You stand quickly, as you always do, clutching your gift tightly in your hand now as you step toward where he already moves toward the washroom.

“Wait! Please… if you might…?” You realise rather suddenly, that you have no idea how you should address him, but you see him stop anyway. He turns to look at you slowly, brow creased barely noticeably, and you quickly take several more steps toward him.

“I noticed that your hair keeps bothering you while you train… I made this for you, to keep it back…” You hold out the ribbon, trying to keep your hand from shaking too much. Your husband’s eyes drop from your face to your hand.

You see his brow furrow deeper, and hesitantly he takes the gift from you, holding it’s length with both hands as he inspects it closely. You think your heart might burst from your chest in anticipation. When his eyes meet yours once more, and he bows his head deep and low, you have to suppress the urge to jump up and down.

You let out your held air and watch as he stands straight again, turning on his heel and continuing on toward the washroom. It was more of a reaction than you had expected, and even with his silence, his mostly-blank expression, the acknowledgement makes you feel as though you float through clouds.

The next morning when you come to watch the knights train, you hardly recognise Sir James, his face on full display for perhaps the first time you’ve ever seen, his dark hair pulled back from his face, held together by a dark blue and black ribbon.

In a moment between spars, when he rights himself and rolls his shoulders, his eyes cast upwards toward the balcony. Your breath catches in your throat when his eyes lock with yours, staring for just a moment longer than necessary.

—-

Despite the steps forward you make in turning Palais de la Hiver into your home, you’re possessed continually by a pervasive loneliness and depression that refuses to leave you. Some days you were alright, you’d read and walk and find things to fill your time. On other days, you’d stand on your balcony and stare at the massive drop below, wondering if it would be enough to send you away for good, to release you.

As the winter joins you in full force you spend more time out there, standing, staring down below you.

If you were to die, nobody aside from your family would care. Your husband would likely hardly notice your absence, and anybody else at the castle would probably be unsure of your name, let alone if you disappeared or not. However, heights scare you, and any time you attempt to climb up onto the bannister, you scramble back again, afraid.

You would have to try something else.

Your husband has many weapons, he keeps them, his swords and daggers, on his person always, but there was one item he owned that he did not bring with him. A small knife that you’d seen him occasionally clean and place under his pillow. Perhaps once it might’ve scared you to know your husband slept with a weapon so near, but at some point you had either stopped caring or realised he wouldn’t use it on you.

So you take it, one cold and drizzly afternoon, after your husband has returned and left once more for the day, and you know you’ll be alone for hours. You think about perhaps leaving a note, but decide against it. Your life intersecting with his would be nothing more than a passing breeze, you imagine. He would find you, alert Lord Pierce, you would be buried, and life would go on.

Still, you don’t want to make a mess on the carpets, or on the chair you’d spend most of your days in. You think you’d like to be in the open air, so that perhaps your soul can fly freely, return home, and escape the castle walls.

You stand on the balcony once again, eyes dipping down briefly before you shakily lift the knife. It’s cold and heavy in your hands, but you weren’t scared of the pain. You’d thought about this for a long time, one whole year in fact, and it would be the easiest conclusion to your tale.

Despite this, your eyes leak warm tears against your cheeks as you finally place the sharp, gleaming tip of the knife against your chest, directly over your heart. You wouldn’t risk a wound you could survive. You swallow and just hold it there for a moment, calming yourself and evening out your breathing.

This is what you wanted.

You don’t hear the door to your chambers open, the wind and your heart too loud in your ears, but you do see the flicker of movement at the corner of your eyes. Your head snaps quickly to the left in fright, and you find your husband standing by the door to the balcony, his hand on the handle as if he were about to close it when he’d seen you.

For the first time in the whole year you’d been married, his expression is no longer blank, his eyes wide and mouth parted in surprise. For a split second you can only stare at one another, before his eyes drop to the knife held to your chest. A frenzy seems to overcome you both then and you cry out as he lunges for you.

You try to escape him, lifting the knife high and attempting to bring it to your chest before he can reach you, but your hands are grabbed tightly. You thrash against his hold, even manage to drive an elbow into his chest, forcing him back. As you try to clamber away from him, you’re grabbed roughly around the middle with one arm, another hand shooting out and wrapping around your wrist tightly, forcing it, and the knife, away from you.

“Let— Let me go! Let me go!” You gasp, struggling and squirming against him, but he doesn’t listen, only forcing your arm back even more, until it almost hurts, before his thumb suddenly presses down against the inside of your wrist, the force and pain of which shocks you. You cry out again, even as your hand is involuntarily forced open at the move, the knife tumbling from your grasp and over the edge of the balcony.

A sob is torn from your throat as you see it fall, and your husband’s hold on you slackens enough for you to shoot forward, hands clutching the ledge as you lean to watch. He doesn’t release you entirely, his arm around your middle still tight, as if he thinks you may try to jump. You don’t however, instead collapsing in a heap against him, allowing him to hold you up as you begin to sob.

Why did he have to try and stop you?! You want to scream and shout and strike him, but you can do nothing but weep pathetically. Your husband makes no move, not until the rain begins again. You’d have been happy to stay right where you are, but the arm around your middle shifts, and your legs are swept out from under you. You droop even more as he carries you out of the wet, deflating completely as you cry.

In the warmth of the room, you realise how cold you are, your body shaking involuntarily now. Your husband sets you on the chair by the fire and walks away, making you wipe at your eyes, sniffling softly. You jump when he steps in front of you again.

His serious and intent expression as he wraps the blanket from your bed around your shoulders might’ve been funny had the circumstances been different. He seems to fuss for several moments, pulling the blanket securely and tucking it up. When he stops, he pauses, before crouching down in front of you.

You blink tearfully at him, unsure of what to say or do. You watch him as he hesitantly raises a hand, and then lays it on your lap, palm up. You’re too upset and shaken to think clearly, and you react instinctively, unfurling your own hand and placing it in his. He’s warm, and even though his hands are rough and calloused, there’s a comfort in the simple touch that makes your cry again.

You realise that it has been a whole year since someone touched you.

Your mouth seems to work unbound then, and you find yourself sobbing once more as you begin to tell him of your unhappiness. His face remains still, though for once you’re thankful that he appears emotionless. You needed that, for just a moment as you bared all.

“And— and I—” You stutter, lip trembling as you finally stop to catch your breath, eyes falling to your lap as your shoulders lose all tension, and you feel yourself all but slump down in the chair.

“I miss my mother… I want to go home,” You whimper, quietly, lip trembling.

Your husband doesn’t speak, but he does squeeze your hand gently, making you look up at him. When you do, he releases his hold on you, and reaches out to wipe your eyes, like he’d done that very first night, first one, and then the other. He nods softly, frowning slightly.

He doesn’t leave again that afternoon, as you might’ve expected him too, like he probably had planned to when he’d first come back for whatever reason in the first place. Instead helps you into bed, and then sits himself in the chair by the fireplace. You drift in and out of sleep as the rain pours outside, exhausted from your outburst.

When you wake briefly after the night has fallen, you find that he has joined you in bed, though he does not sleep. His eyes open when you shift, and he watches you for several moments as you settle again. He moves slowly then, extending his arm to the vast space between you, his hand once again offered, palm up. You breath in shakily as you place your hand in his again, closing your eyes as he takes proper hold.

When you wake the next morning your hand is still outstretched, but your husband is gone.

A sudden knocking on your chamber door startles you, making you jump up in bed. When it continues, you stumble to your feet, wrapping yourself in a gown before meekly pulling the wooden door open. You almost never had visitors, and you always woke after your husband had taken his breakfast, your plates left for you on the table.

A young man in the armour of the castle guards greets you, his bow half-hearted at most.

“Sir James has asked for you to dress and meet him in the stables, my Lady.”

“My husband?” You ask, confused.

“Yes, my Lady. He urges you to hurry, due to the weather.” He bows again before you can reply, and you’re left standing there blinking into the corridor.

You really felt no desire to leave your rooms at all today, not after the stress of yesterday, and you’d rather been hoping to be alone, but you find yourself hurrying to dress anyway. When you’re ready, you step out of your rooms and find your way to the stables.

You arrive to find your husband standing by a large, stocky horse that was tacked up and even lightly armoured in traditional Hyrdan fashion. He appeared to be fiddling with part of a strap when he notices you.

“Good morning,” You greet nervously, his own head nodding slowly before he lifts his hand, holding it out towards you. It was strange how suddenly you had both taken to the touch.

You give your own nod, heart jumping to your throat when he releases your hand, and leans down, taking your waist in his hands and lifting you to the horse's back as though you weighed nothing.

You have to shuffle to sit properly, your skirts quite in the way, but you sit side saddle, holding tightly onto the saddlehorn when Sir James’ hands leave you, and he climbs up easily, situating himself behind you, much closer than you are expecting.

It isn’t that you’re embarrassed for your husband to be so close, but the fact that the two of you had hardly interacted before yesterday, let alone physically, makes you feel as though it’s something taboo. Moreso when his arms come around you on either side, taking the reins in his hands.

You briefly cast a look up at him as he gently nudges the horse into motion, your hand shooting out to grip his arm when you jerk a little off balance, and he glances down at you. Releasing the reins to hold them with only one hand, he wraps his arm around your middle, holding you more secure as he guides the horse from the stable.

You want to ask where exactly he’s taking you, but you keep quiet, knowing you won’t get a reply. Once you’ve ridden out of the Palais gates, you feel his hold on you tighten even more and quickly the horse is galloping fast down the road, mud and dirt flicking up behind you as you go.

You were never one for horseback riding, apparent as it is, and your nerves jitter anxiously at the edges of your vision, held back only by the strong arm around your middle, and the trust you’ve decided to place in the owner.

You ride for two hours, stopping briefly under a tree when the rain passes through, taking the chance to stretch your legs some, before you mount once more and go on your way. You begin to wonder what exactly you’re doing when the land starts becoming more familiar, and when you pass a signpost that leads you toward your hometown, your hand squeezes at your husband’s arm, just as your heart squeezes in your chest.

You’re swallowing thickly, and trying to blink the tears from welling up in your eyes when he slows his horse, bringing her into a light trot as you approach a large manor house. Servants and maids mill about, collecting water, and doing their chores, and when you’ve finally come to a stop, you all but slip from the staddle, your husband’s arm around your middle preventing you from outright falling, but he does lower you gently, only letting go once your feet have found the ground.

You don’t watch him dismount, too focused on running as fast as you can toward your mother, who must have seen you approaching from the window. She comes stumbling down the front steps, skirts held in her hands, her face pulled into a wide, desperate smile as you throw your arms around her.

“Mama!”

“My baby! My baby! You’re home!” She cries into your neck, and you feel the flow of warm tears down your own cheeks as well. You pull back a little, enough for her to kiss your face, and you coo, excitedly giving your father a hug too when he appears, almost dumbfounded behind her.

“You— You’re— You came home?!” he stutters, holding you tightly, a hand stroking down the back of your head and you nod, pulling away to wipe your face.

“F-for the day, I suspect…” You smile, and look over your shoulder, searching for your husband who stands rigid by his horse, face impassive as ever, but he watches you closely.

You look back to your parents, who have both followed your gaze, their faces suddenly nervous by the knight’s presence. They knew the rumours too, but at this point, you had no idea what to believe. Your husband had been kind to you, for the most part, it didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen him train, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t a seasoned warrior

Letting go of your mother to step back toward your husband, you hold out a hand for him. His shoulders seem to straighten, and you get the feeling he had intended to keep away while you reunited with your family. He steps toward you quickly, his eyes flicking to your parents, then back to you before he places his hand in yours.

“My husband, Sir James.” You introduce him properly.

“Well…!” You mother blinks in surprise as she takes him in fully, his height and size intimidating without all his armour, let alone with him currently in it.

“I… I will set the tea on…!” She announces, turning away and ushering you all inside.

For a moment before you step through the door, you turn back, unable to keep the grateful smile from your face. Your husband blinks down at you, perhaps startled by your sudden spin. Your sheer happiness spurs on your next movements, and you quickly lean forward and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek.

“Thank you,” You say softly, pulling back and watching his eyes dart around your features for a moment. You see his lips part, and he swallows before closing them again, and nodding.