Yallternative Kitchen Witch in Her 30s

He had a system at home.

A good system.

Coffee. Silence. Alpine curled beside him on the couch like a tiny judgmental loaf of bread. Maybe a movie he wouldn’t pay attention to. Minimal human interaction.

Peace.

Instead, Sam showed up at his apartment an hour ago carrying cupcakes and bad intentions.

“You can’t stay inside that apartment forever with Alpine,” Sam says now, like he’s continuing an old argument. “That cat is starting to absorb your personality.”

“She likes me.”

“She bites everyone else.”

“That sounds like a them problem.”

Steve hides a smile.

Bucky leans his head back against the seat with a groan. “Why am I even needed at this thing?”

“It’s Morgan’s birthday,” Steve says.

Sam grins. “Family event. It will be good for you.”

Bucky flips him off without looking.

The car goes quiet for a minute.

Not awkward quiet. Just familiar.

The kind built over years of near-death experiences and too many shared memories.

Outside, the city slowly shifts into larger houses, quieter streets, cleaner sidewalks.

Rich people territory.

Bucky already hates it.

“You could try having fun,” Steve says eventually.

Bucky stares at him like he personally insulted his ancestors.

“Why are you saying that like it’s easy?”

Steve glances at him briefly. “Because staying miserable on purpose gets exhausting after a while.”

That lands harder than Bucky wants it to. He crosses his arms, glaring out the window again while they pull through the massive Stark gates.

Lights glow across the property ahead, warm against the dark evening sky.

Music drifts faintly through the air.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

He already wants to leave.

Sam unbuckles first and points at him before he can move. “And no disappearing after ten minutes.”

“I never do that.”

“You vanished through a bathroom window last time.”

“It was efficient.”

“You’re impossible.”

Bucky pushes the car door open. “Yet here you are. Voluntarily spending time with me.”

Sam throws an arm around his shoulders immediately, dragging him toward the house despite his complaints.

“That’s because underneath all the grumpy murder grandpa stuff,” Sam says, “you secretly love us.”

“I could bench press you into traffic.”

“But you won’t.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

Mostly because Steve opens the front doors right then—

And somewhere inside the house, faint and warm and distant, he hears someone singing.

— 15 minutes earlier —

The dressing room is chaos.

Cheap rhinestones scattered across the counter. Someone in the hallway yelling about balloons. Someone else asking where the cake table went.

And Dylan is pacing.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, tugging at the ridiculous blue Beast jacket stretched across his shoulders. “I can’t do this.”

You pause halfway through putting on your gloves. “Dylan—”

“I’m serious.” He points toward the door like the answer is waiting outside. “Do you know whose house this is?”

“Yes,” you say carefully.

“It’s the Starks.”

You stare at him through the mirror. “Tony Stark is literally paying us to sing to children, not dismantle a bomb.”

“That’s worse.”

You snort despite yourself, adjusting the off-the-shoulder yellow gown. It’s prettier than you expected when the agency shoved the costume bag into your arms this morning. Layers of gold satin spill around your feet, catching the light every time you move.

For one stupid second, you almost feel like Belle.

Dylan doesn’t.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“You’re not gonna throw up.”

“What if the Avengers are there?”

You stop.

Okay. Fair point.

The knot in your stomach tightens instantly.

You need this job. Rent is due in four days, your audition last week went nowhere, and the commercial you filmed still hasn’t paid you. Which means you absolutely cannot afford to panic now.

So you grab Dylan by the shoulders.

“Listen to me,” you say firmly. “You need to calm down. Do you know how much we’re getting paid for this?”

“Yes, but—”

“And if you ruin this for me, I will personally feed you to the Hulk.”

That earns a weak laugh.

“Pretty sure he’s off-world,” Dylan mutters.

“Then I’ll wait.”

Another laugh. Better this time.

You smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket. “We go in there, smile, sing, wave at rich children, and leave with enough money to survive another month. That’s it.”

A knock hits the door before he can answer.

“Princess Belle? They’re ready for you.”

Your stomach flips.

Dylan immediately pales again.

You squeeze his arm once before stepping away. “Breathe.”

Then you lift your chin, paste on a princess smile, and walk out.

The Stark house looks less like a house and more like a museum designed by someone with unlimited money and zero restraint.

Everything gleams.

Soft golden lights wrap around the enormous backyard. Staff members move through the crowd carrying trays of tiny desserts that probably cost more than your electric bill. Children run across the lawn wearing paper crowns and superhero masks.

And near the center of it all—

“Mama! Belle’s here!”

Morgan Stark barrels toward you at full speed.

You barely have time to crouch before she crashes into your arms, giggling wildly.

“Oh my gosh,” you say in your best princess voice, warm and bright. “Princess Morgan! I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her gasp is immediate. “Really?”

“Of course. The castle talks about little else.”

She beams.

And just like that, the nerves disappear.

Because this part—you know this part.

You know how to soften your voice until children lean closer to hear you. You know how to make wonder feel real. You know how to turn exhaustion into magic for two hours at a time.

Morgan takes your hand immediately and drags you toward the other kids.

“Belle, can you sing?”

“Can you dance?”

“Where’s Beast?”

“Oh, he’ll join us later,” you say smoothly, praying Dylan survives the next ten minutes. “But for now…” You straighten dramatically. “Who would like to hear a story?”

A chorus of screams answers you.

Then you start singing.

And the entire party quiets.

Not because you’re loud.

Because you’re good.

Your voice carries softly through the backyard while the kids sit cross-legged around you, completely enchanted. You smile at each of them like they matter individually. Like this isn’t just another exhausting gig at the end of a long week.

Across the lawn, Bucky looks up almost by accident.

And immediately regrets it.

Because now he’s looking at you.

Fairy lights glow softly above your head while children crowd around your skirts, completely enchanted by every word that leaves your mouth. You laugh at something one of them says, bright and easy and real enough that it reaches him even from across the yard.

And for one strange second—

You don’t look like someone pretending to be a princess.

You look like one.

Then your eyes lift suddenly.

Find his across the crowd.

Bucky expects the usual reaction instantly.

The hesitation. The recognition. That brief flicker people always get when they realize who he is.

Instead, your expression softens.

Just slightly.

Like seeing him standing there alone somehow matters to you more than it should.

And the smile you give him—

God.

It’s small.

Almost shy.

But warm enough that he actually feels it.

Like sunlight slipping through something cracked open.

You hold his gaze for one tiny, suspended second longer than necessary before turning back to the children beside you.

But now your heartbeat feels different too.

Because there was something unexpectedly gentle in the way he looked at you.

Bucky watches Morgan stare at you like you hung the damn moon.

Watches you stay perfectly in character when another kid spills juice on the hem of your dress.

You don’t even flinch.

“Accidents happen,” you tell the horrified child gently. “Even in castles.”

Something in his chest shifts unpleasantly.

Or pleasantly.

He hasn’t decided yet.

Because normally, people trying too hard to be sweet annoys him.

But you kneel to talk to the children at eye level. You remember every single name they tell you. When Morgan grabs your hand during the story, you squeeze back automatically without breaking character once.

None of it feels fake.

Which is exactly the problem.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, already irritated with himself.

You’re midway through teaching Morgan and three other children how to properly curtsy when your phone starts vibrating inside the hidden pocket sewn into your dress.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Your stomach drops instantly.

Because only one person would call you repeatedly during a job.

“Princess Belle,” Morgan says seriously, tugging your glove, “Amelia says princesses aren’t allowed to eat chicken nuggets.”

You crouch slightly. “Amelia has clearly never met a princess after a long day.”

Morgan gasps. “You eat nuggets?”

“In alarming quantities.”

The children dissolve into laughter.

Your phone buzzes again.

Definitely Dylan.

“Excuse me one moment,” you say gently. “The castle may be under attack.”

Morgan grabs your skirt dramatically. “By who?”

You glance at the phone screen.

Dylan: I THINK IM DYING

“…the French.”

You slip away before the kids can ask further questions.

The second you push through the side doors into the hallway, you answer.

“What happened?”

“I threw up.”

You stop walking. “What?”

“I told you I was gonna throw up.”

“Oh my God.”

“Also,” he says weakly, “I think I have a fever.”

You press your fingers to your forehead.

Of course he does.

Of course this happens at Tony Stark’s house.

“Can you still come out for the photos at least?”

A miserable pause.

“…if I move too fast I think I’ll see God.”

“Great.”

“I’m so sorry.”

And the worst part?

He genuinely sounds devastated.

You sigh, leaning against the wall. “It’s okay. Stay in the dressing room. Drink water. Don’t die before I get paid.”

“That’s fair.”

You hang up.

Then immediately turn and nearly collide with Pepper Potts.

“Oh!” she says. “There you are. Morgan’s asking for—” She stops instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You try to smile professionally.

It must fail horribly.

“The Beast actor is sick.”

Pepper blinks once.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

“He can’t come out at all?”

“He’s currently fighting for his life in the dressing room bathroom.”

Pepper’s face cycles rapidly through concern, stress, and the specific exhaustion only rich parents hosting children’s parties can achieve.

Because unfortunately, the timing is terrible.

Kids are already gathering near the photo backdrop.

Morgan keeps asking when Beast is coming.

And somewhere nearby, you hear Tony Stark loudly saying, “I can absolutely do it.”

Pepper turns sharply. “No.”

From the other room: “Why not? I have range.”

“You have an ego.”

“I can roar.”

“You have to greet people.”

“I can greet people as Beast.”

Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose.

You almost laugh despite yourself.

Then another voice joins in.

“…Tony’s right, though.”

You glance toward the doorway and nearly choke on your own heartbeat.

Because standing there casually like this is a completely normal Tuesday are two actual Avengers.

Captain America himself stands beside a man you recognize from the News. Sam Wilson.

You suddenly become intensely aware that you’re dressed as a Disney princess while holding a phone that still has Dylan: I THINK IM DYING on the screen.

This cannot be your life.

Sam leans against the doorway easily, looking far too entertained by the situation already.

But it’s the man beside him that catches your attention.

The same man from earlier.

The one who looked at you across the backyard like he’d forgotten, for a second, where he was.

Dark hair. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black Henley. Arms crossed tightly over his chest like he already wants no part in whatever conversation this is.

And yet somehow, standing this close to him now, you still feel that strange little pull from earlier.

Unlike the others, he isn’t smiling. If anything, he looks like he’d rather walk directly back out the door.

Sam’s eyes flick briefly toward you before landing on Pepper.

“All due respect,” he says, “I think we found a better option.”

Bucky narrows his eyes immediately, like he already knows where this is going.

Steve nods slowly, already betraying him. “Actually…”

Pepper looks between them hopefully. “Wait.”

Sam grins.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

Bucky straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re tall,” Sam says helpfully.

“So is Steve.”

Almost on cue, Morgan’s voice suddenly rings through the backyard.

“UNCLE AMERICA!”

Steve barely has time to react before a tiny blur in pink slams into his legs.

“There he is,” Bucky mutters.

Morgan grabs Steve’s hand immediately. “Come see my castle!”

And Steve actually lets himself get dragged away.

“You’re abandoning me?” Bucky calls after him.

Steve only throws him an apologetic smile over his shoulder before disappearing outside with Morgan.

Bucky looks deeply betrayed.

Sam looks delighted.

“You were saying?” Sam asks.

Bucky glares at him. “I hope your wings fall off.”

Pepper is visibly trying not to laugh now.

Meanwhile, you’re standing there clutching your phone like your entire career is collapsing in front of you.

“I really don’t want to cause trouble,” you say quickly. “I can just explain to Morgan that Beast got delayed—”

“Morgan’s seven,” Pepper says softly. “She’s been talking about this dance all week.”

Guilt hits instantly.

Bucky notices.

And unfortunately for him, Sam notices Bucky noticing.

Which means it’s over.

“Buck,” Sam says, suddenly far too smug, “you wouldn’t even have to talk much.”

“No.”

“You’d just stand there looking grumpy.”

“No.”

“You already do that recreationally.”

 “Why don’t you do it?” Bucky shoots back immediately.

Sam places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Because I’m beautiful in a completely different genre.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“See? Beast energy.”

Bucky looks at you then.

Really looks at you for the first time up close.

The gold dress.

The nervous expression you’re trying to hide.

The way your hands twist together for half a second before you force yourself still again.

You look exhausted.

But somehow you’re still worried about disappointing a little girl.

And that annoying feeling in his chest returns.

Stronger this time.

Pepper steps closer carefully. “Bucky,” she says softly, “could you help us out? Just for a little while.”

He exhales slowly.

Looks toward the backyard where Morgan’s laughter drifts through the open doors.

Then back at you.

“…I hate all of you,” he mutters.

Sam lights up instantly. “That’s not a no.”

“It should be.”

Pepper smiles hopefully. “Bucky?”

He closes his eyes briefly like a man accepting his fate.

“…fine.”

The room goes silent.

You blink. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky points at you immediately. “This doesn’t leave this house.”

Sam nearly folds in half laughing.

And ten minutes later, you’re backstage beside a very grumpy Beast while trying to adjust the dark blue coat around his shoulders.

The costume department clearly did not account for super soldiers.

The fabric pulls tight across his chest every time he moves.

Bucky notices you staring immediately.

You step closer carefully, adjusting the fur near the collar.

“I’m sorry if the costume’s too tight,” you murmur. “The actor who usually plays Beast is… significantly less built.”

Bucky huffs quietly.

“That’s one way to say it.”

Up close, he’s unfairly intimidating.

Dark blue fabric stretched over muscle. Gloves hiding the metal hand completely.

Even the ridiculous Beast mask somehow makes him look dangerous.

Which feels deeply unfair for a Disney prince.

“You know,” you say gently while fixing one of the gold buttons, “you really don’t have to do this.”

Bucky looks down at you.

Then toward the backyard where Morgan’s excited voice carries faintly through the doors.

“…yeah,” he says quietly.

A pause.

“I kinda do.”

Before either of you can say anything else, the dressing room door swings open and Morgan storms in dramatically.

“BEAST!”

The little girl launches herself directly at Bucky.

Every muscle in his body visibly locks.

You almost panic for him.

But then, carefully, awkwardly, he catches her before she can crash face-first into the costume.

Morgan gasps, completely enchanted. “You’re so tall.”

Bucky looks at you, and somehow you know that beneath the mask, he looks completely helpless.

You grin. “That’s Beast.”

Morgan grabs his gloved hand immediately. “Belle said you were late because of a curse.”

Bucky looks down at her.

“…yeah,” he says after a second. “Traffic curse.”

You snort so suddenly you choke on air.

Morgan is already dragging him toward the doors with alarming strength for a seven-year-old.

You smooth your dress quickly before following after them, trying to slip back into character.

But it’s harder now for some reason.

Because this doesn’t feel like part of the performance anymore.

You barely know him.

You know he looks permanently annoyed at the world. You know children somehow trust him instantly despite the terrifying resting expression.

And you know he agreed to wear a giant Beast costume for a little girl he clearly adores.

Which is doing unfortunate things to your brain.

The backyard erupts the second Morgan reappears with him.

“BEAST!”

Children swarm immediately.

Bucky freezes.

Again.

You quickly step beside him before the poor man fully short-circuits.

“Oh dear,” you say brightly in Belle’s voice, slipping naturally into the scene. “The Beast seems overwhelmed.”

“I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath.

You hide another smile.

The next twenty minutes become complete chaos.

Children asking Bucky impossible questions.

“Do you live in the castle?”

“Can you roar?”

“Why are your hands so big?”

One tiny girl stares at him suspiciously before asking, “Are you hairy everywhere?”

You nearly inhale your own tongue trying not to laugh.

Bucky looks ready to walk directly into the ocean.

But somehow he stays.

He does the photos.

Lets kids hold his hands.

Even growls once after Morgan begs him to.

The children lose their minds.

Across the yard, Sam is recording the whole thing while Steve laughs so hard he has to sit down.

You catch Pepper wiping tears from her eyes at one point.

Probably from laughing.

Probably.

Then the music changes.

Soft piano drifting through the speakers.

Your stomach drops instantly.

The dance scene.

Morgan gasps dramatically. “NOW!”

Bucky goes still beside you.

“No.”

“Oh yes,” you say, smiling at him through clenched teeth.

“I don’t dance.”

“You’re literally a prince.”

“I’m literally not.”

Morgan grabs both your hands and shoves them together before either of you can react.

And suddenly—

Oh.

Your gloved hand lands against his.

His hand settles carefully at your waist.

The other wraps around your fingers.

You feel him hesitate.

Not because he doesn’t know how to dance.

Because he’s trying not to hurt you.

The realization hits instantly.

“It’s okay,” you say softly before thinking better of it.

His gaze flicks down to yours through the mask.

The world around you keeps moving, kids laughing, phones taking pictures, Sam yelling something obnoxious in the background, but for one strange second, it narrows into just this.

The warmth of his hand.

The carefulness in the way he’s holding you.

The fact that he smells faintly like coffee under all the costume fabric.

“You trust people too easy,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“That’s a weird thing to say during a Disney dance.”

“You didn’t answer.”

You should probably make a joke.

Instead, your eyes catch briefly on his gloved fingers resting against your waist.

Gentle despite the strength behind them.

Then Morgan yells, “KISS HER!”

Both of you jump apart instantly.

“Nope,” Bucky says immediately.

“Absolutely not,” you add at the exact same time.

The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.

Bucky Barnes keeps one hand at your waist, the other holding yours carefully as he guides you through the slow steps.

Too carefully.

Like he’s afraid to press too hard.

Like he’s constantly aware of himself.

His hand tightens at your waist without warning, pulling you just a little closer each time. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the heavy costume layers. And whenever he leans down to hear you over the music, a shiver runs all the way down your spine.

The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.

You glance up at him just as he looks down at your feet.

“…am I doin’ this right?” he asks quietly.

His voice comes out rough and muffled beneath the Beast mask, low enough that you almost don’t hear it over the music.

The question catches you completely off guard.

Because he sounds genuinely unsure.

You blink once. “You know how to dance.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Something warm twists painfully in your chest.

His grip tightens slightly at your waist.

“Don’t wanna mess this up.”

You smile softly. “You know, most princes are a little more confident during the ballroom scene.”

“Yeah, well.” He exhales quietly. “Pretty sure this prince skipped rehearsal.”

That pulls a laugh out of you.

Bucky’s gaze lifts at the sound immediately.

Not to the children.

Not to the crowd.

Just you.

And for one strange second, the dance stops feeling like part of the performance at all.

Then, quieter this time:

“…seriously, though,” he murmurs, thumb shifting faintly against your waist, “I’m not crushin’ your feet, am I?”

Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.

“No,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”

This is getting dangerous. Because somewhere between the dancing and the quiet way he keeps looking at you, this stopped feeling like part of the job.

You clear your throat quickly and pull back just enough to look over his shoulder.

“Morgan!” you call brightly.

Across the dance floor, Morgan gasps dramatically like she’s been summoned by destiny itself.

“Princess Morgan,” you say sweetly, already stepping away from Bucky before your brain completely melts, “I believe the Beast owes you a dance.”

Morgan screams.

Actually screams.

Bucky looks at you immediately.

You give him your most innocent Belle smile.

His eyes narrow under the mask. “You’re ditching me.”

“I would never.”

“You literally are right now.”

Morgan crashes into him before he can argue further, grabbing both his hands excitedly.

“C’MON BEAST!”

Bucky looks at you one last time over her head.

“You’re trouble,” he says flatly.

Your pulse jumps embarrassingly hard.

Before you can answer, Morgan drags him away into the crowd of children demanding another dance.

The second he’s gone, you exhale.

Hard.

Then across the dance floor, Morgan spins dramatically beneath Bucky’s arm while he awkwardly tries to keep up without stepping on tiny children.

And despite the giant Beast costume and permanent grumpy expression he’s laughing.

You watch him crouch slightly when she talks so he can hear her better through the music. Watch him steady her automatically every time she nearly trips over her dress. Watch one huge gloved hand settle carefully at her back while she spins herself dizzy.

The Beast mask should make him look ridiculous.

Instead, somehow, it only makes the contrast worse.

Big and intimidating and visibly dangerous even under layers of fake fur—

Yet impossibly gentle with her.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“Well,” a voice says beside you, “you’re lookin’ at him exactly the same way the kids are.”

You nearly jump.

Sam Wilson grins knowingly as he reaches for a cupcake from the dessert table.

“I am not.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“That’s never stopped anybody before.”

You glare at him.

He grins wider.

Somehow, hours later, Morgan Stark still has enough energy to power a small country.

“Belle,” she says for what must be the twentieth time that night, “are you gonna stay forever?”

You smile tiredly, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I don’t think your dad has enough snacks for that.”

Tony points from across the yard. “I absolutely do.”

Pepper immediately says, “No, we don’t.”

Morgan giggles.

And beside her, the Beast exhales dramatically before lowering himself onto one knee with the exhaustion of a war veteran returning from battle.

“I’m old,” he mutters.

You laugh softly. “You danced with children for two hours.”

“I fought in actual wars that were easier than this.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Sam calls from somewhere behind him.

The Beast lifts a gloved hand without looking and flips him off.

Morgan gasps.

You gasp louder. “Beast!”

Sam nearly collapses laughing.

“Sorry,” the Beast says flatly. “The curse slipped.”

Morgan thinks this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her life.

Honestly?

You do too.

A little later, Pepper gently steals Morgan away, leaving you alone beside the Beast for the first time all evening.

And suddenly the silence feels… different.

Not awkward exactly.

Just noticeable.

You become very aware of the night air against your skin. Of the weight of the wig pinned to your head. Of him sitting beside you with the Beast mask pushed up, revealing his face.

Which turns out to be a mistake.

Because he’s unfairly handsome.

You look away immediately.

“So,” you say, mostly to stop your brain from malfunctioning, “thanks again for saving my job tonight.”

He huffs quietly beside you. “Wasn’t for your job.”

Your eyes flick back to him.

“Morgan?”

“Morgan,” he confirms.

A beat passes.

Then, quieter:

“…you too, I guess.”

Your heart does something deeply irritating.

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly like he regrets admitting it already.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re almost being nice to me.”

“That’s the mask.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“The fur changes a man.”

That earns another laugh out of you.

And again, that look crosses his face.

That brief pause like he wasn’t expecting the sound but likes it anyway.

You notice it this time.

From across the yard, Steve walks by carrying three children at once somehow.

“You surviving?” he asks.

The Beast sighs. “Barely.”

Steve grins, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you.

You suddenly get the horrible feeling everyone here knows each other too well.

Including whatever this weird thing currently happening between you and the grumpy fake prince is.

“So,” you say carefully after Steve leaves, “do you always volunteer for emergency Disney prince duty?”

He snorts softly.

“First time.”

“You seemed pretty experienced.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You handled the kids well.”

For a second, he doesn’t answer.

His gaze drifts toward Morgan laughing beside Pepper near the cake table.

Then he shrugs slightly.

“They’re easier than adults.”

You blink.

“…that’s actually the most concerning thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”

That finally gets a real smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Gone almost instantly.

But you saw it.

And unfortunately for your sanity, now you want to see it again.

“Cake!” Morgan announces like a war cry.

The children erupt instantly.

You barely have time to laugh before Morgan grabs both your hand and the Beast’s clawed one at the same time.

“C’mon!”

Bucky visibly braces himself.

Morgan leads you directly toward a tiny plastic table surrounded by miniature pink chairs.

Bucky stops walking immediately.

“No.”

Morgan gasps. “What?”

“I can’t fit in that.”

“You have to sit with Belle!”

Children nearby immediately begin chanting:

“BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!”

Bucky looks personally betrayed by every child present.

You press your lips together hard, trying not to laugh while lowering yourself carefully into one of the tiny chairs.

The skirt of your dress spills around you in soft yellow satin.

Across from you, Bucky stares at the chair like it insulted his family.

“You’re doing great,” you tell him helpfully.

“I hate you.”

“That’s not very princely.”

“That’s because I’m not a prince.”

Morgan points dramatically at the seat.

Bucky sighs like a man moments from death.

Then lowers himself carefully into the tiny chair.

The plastic creaks ominously.

Every child at the table gasps.

You fully choke on a laugh.

Bucky turns toward you slowly through the Beast mask.

Morgan shoves paper plates toward both of you proudly while Pepper begins passing out cake.

And honestly?

It’s cute.

Ridiculously cute.

Children talking over each other excitedly. Frosting everywhere. Morgan sitting between you and Bucky like she personally arranged a royal wedding.

Then Morgan accidentally gets blue frosting across her own cheek.

“Oh no!” she gasps.

You laugh softly, grabbing a napkin. “Hold still, princess.”

While you wipe frosting from Morgan’s face, you completely miss the tiny streak of blue icing that ended up on your own cheek.

Bucky notices immediately.

And unfortunately—

Now he can’t stop looking at it.

You’re talking to Morgan about castles or books or something, but he’s not listening anymore.

Because there’s frosting on your face, near the corner of your mouth.

And somehow that feels more distracting than the dress.

Than the dancing.

Than literally anything else tonight.

“You got somethin’ there,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward his own cheek with one giant clawed glove.

“…there.”

You try wiping it away blindly.

“Did I get it?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Bucky stares at the stupid oversized Beast gloves for a second like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here tonight.

Then, carefully, he reaches across the tiny table.

His claw brushes softly against your cheek.

Warm despite the gloves.

You stop breathing entirely.

He tries wiping the frosting away—

Except the giant fake claw only smears it worse across your skin.

You stare at him.

He stares at the disaster he just created.

Then, very flatly:

“…I made it worse.”

From somewhere behind him, you hear Sam make a noise suspiciously close to choking.

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Soft at first.

Then brighter.

“It’s okay,” you manage between laughs. “You tried.”

And before you can think better of it, you lean forward slightly.

“There,” you murmur.

Your fingers brush gently against the corner of his mouth, wiping away a streak of blue frosting Morgan must’ve gotten on him earlier.

The second you touch him—

He freezes.

Completely.

Your smile falters just slightly.

Because suddenly you’re very aware of how quiet he got.

How still.

How carefully he’s looking at you now.

Like your hand against his face means something bigger than it should.

Morgan looks between both of you while happily shoving cake into her mouth.

“…you guys are weird.”

Sam immediately loses his mind laughing somewhere behind the table.

And Bucky?

Bucky can’t even argue with her.

The party finally begins to quiet down sometime after cake.

Children are asleep on couches inside the house. Half-deflated balloons drift lazily across the backyard. Someone turned the music low enough that it blends into the warm night air instead of filling it.

And Morgan Stark is fully asleep in Bucky Barnes’s arms.

It happens slowly.

One minute she’s still talking sleepily about whether Belle and Beast would survive a zombie apocalypse and the next, her head slips against his shoulder mid-sentence.

Out cold.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

Bucky looks down at her carefully, adjusting his hold automatically so she settles more comfortably against his chest.

The Beast gloves are gone now.

The mask too.

And without them, he somehow looks softer and more dangerous at the same time.

Dark hair messy from wearing the costume all night. Sleeves pushed up slightly. Tired eyes watching Morgan with this quiet kind of patience that makes something ache in your chest.

Pepper appears beside you with the expression of a woman who’s one minor inconvenience away from sleeping for three days.

“Oh no,” she whispers fondly. “She’s done.”

Bucky huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

Pepper reaches for Morgan carefully. “I’ll take her upstairs.”

For a second, Morgan stirs slightly against him.

Then tiny fingers grab weakly at the front of his shirt.

“No,” she mumbles sleepily. “Beast stays.”

Your heart actually hurts.

Bucky goes very still.

Pepper looks dangerously close to emotional already.

And after a tiny pause, Bucky murmurs:

“Alright. I’m stayin’.”

Morgan settles instantly.

You swear Pepper might love him a little for that.

Eventually, between the three of you, Morgan is successfully transferred upstairs without waking again.

And then—

The silence.

Just you and him standing alone beneath strings of warm lights while the last few party guests drift out through the gates.

The yellow skirts of your dress brush softly against your legs every time the wind moves.

Bucky looks at you for a second too long.

Then looks away.

Then back again.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice rougher now without the mask muffling it, “that dress is kinda unfair.”

Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.

Because he says it like it slipped out accidentally.

Like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Heat crawls up your neck immediately.

So naturally, you deflect.

“Good thing the costume covered your face then.”

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Then his gaze shifts briefly past you.

Toward the tables scattered across the backyard.

Most of the candles have burned low by now. Half-empty glasses abandoned beside crumpled napkins. Flower centerpieces beginning to droop after hours in the heat.

And right in the middle of one arrangement there is a single rose.

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Thought Belle was supposed to have a rose.”

You blink, caught off guard by the comment.

Then laugh softly. “You know the story?”

He gives you a look.

“Steve made me watch animated movies for cultural rehabilitation.”

A laugh slips out of you instantly. “That cannot be a real sentence.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You poor thing.”

“I survived.”

“Barely.”

You laugh again.

One large hand closes around the stem of a red rose tucked between candles and gold ribbon.

And without ceremony he pulls it free.

You stare as he turns back toward you, holding it out casually like this isn’t doing very dangerous things to your heartbeat. You shake your head, smiling as you take the rose carefully from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a second.

Warm.

Gentle.

And somehow that tiny touch feels worse than the dancing did.

 “You just stole from Tony Stark,” you murmur.

“He’ll survive.”

“You’re a criminal.”

“I’ve been told.”

And for one soft, dangerous second the fairy tale feels a little too real.

And suddenly the air feels too warm.

The fairy lights above you blur softly while your heartbeat pounds hard enough to be embarrassing.

Because there’s something very unfair about the way he looks at you now.

Not like Belle.

Not like part of the performance.

Like you.

And the worst part?

You think maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

A nervous laugh escapes you quietly. “You flirt a lot for someone who looked physically offended to be here earlier.”

“I was physically offended.”

“You’re doing better now.”

“That’s debatable.”

You smile.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.

And there it is.

That terrible, dangerous pause.

The kind that changes things.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

One more inch and—

Bucky steps back first.

Like the thought alone startled him. He glances toward the house, jaw tightening once when he realizes he doesn’t know how to do this anymore.

Doesn’t know how to stand in soft light with a beautiful girl dressed like a princess smiling at him like he’s someone safe to be around.

Not after everything.

Not when she still looks at him with warmth instead of caution.

Someone like you should probably meet someone normal.

Someone uncomplicated.

Not a man who spent half the evening hiding behind a Beast mask because it somehow felt easier than being himself.

And maybe that’s why, after a long pause, he just says quietly:

“You should get home. It’s late.”

The words hit harder than they should.

But you still smile softly. “Yeah. Probably.”

Neither of you move right away.

Then finally, you step back.

“Goodnight,” you say gently.

Bucky nods once.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

The nickname lands directly in your chest.

And then you leave.

Just like that.

No number exchanged.

No big moment.

Bucky watches until your taillights disappear through the gates.

And something in his chest feels suddenly, violently empty.

“…you are the dumbest man alive.”

Bucky closes his eyes immediately.

Of course Sam Wilson is still here.

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You didn’t even ask for her number!”

Bucky drags a hand down his face tiredly. “Sam.”

“No, seriously,” Sam says, horrified. “What was your plan here? Just suffer forever?”

Bucky glares at him. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m devastated for you.”

“I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “She’s sweet.”

Sam blinks once.

“…that’s your argument?”

“She deserves someone normal.”

“None of us are normal.”

“That’s different.”

Sam opens his mouth—

Then pauses suddenly.

His eyes drop toward the patio floor near Bucky’s boots.

“…hold on.”

Bucky frowns. “What.”

Sam points dramatically.

And there, half-hidden beneath one of the chairs, sits a pair of gold heels.

Tiny.

Definitely not his.

Bucky stares at them for a second.

Then something in his expression shifts almost immediately.

Because he remembers you wincing every few steps near the end of the party. Remembers you carrying the shoes in one hand while walking barefoot through the grass. Remembers the yellow dress brushing around your ankles while fairy lights reflected softly against your skin.

A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Sam looks deeply offended by the existence of this emotion.

“Oh my God,” he says. “I thought she was Belle, not Cinderella.”

Bucky shoots him a look while bending to pick up the heels carefully.

They’re ridiculously delicate in his hands.

Sam watches the whole thing with growing horror.

“You are gone,” he says.

Bucky ignores him, thumb brushing absently over the gold strap.

Then, before he can think too hard about why he’s doing it, he glances toward the gates one last time.

Like maybe you’ll magically come running back for them.

Sam stares at him for a long moment.

Then slowly reaches into his pocket.

Bucky narrows his eyes immediately. “What’s that.”

Without answering, Sam holds out a small business card.

The princess company logo printed across the front.

Bucky looks at it.

Then at Sam.

Then back at the card.

“…you stole this?”

“I networked.”

“That’s not what networking is.”

Sam grins.

And after a long, dangerous pause—

"Shit."

"What now."

Taking a last hit, you flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with a heavy black boot. Yelena looked to where you nodded, turning to see Sam Wilson and worse, Bucky Barnes soldiering right towards the two of you. She groaned outward, rolling her eyes.

"Don't they have their own shit to do."

Avoiding Bucky's glaring stare, you nearly pinched the bridge of your nose out of frustration and nerves. It had been about six months since you last seen Bucky, leaving him rolled up in a thin sheet as you escaped the hotel room. See, the thing was, you liked fucking Bucky Barnes - you were human after all, but things were complicated at best. Plus, Sam sorta severely disliked Yelena and your antics; always interrupting their investigations but was it your fault that you were simply better at espionage?

"Of course the two of you would be here." Sam was annoyed and you could only smile at the man, hands on your hips. Yelena examined her nails and shrugged. "Well, the job needs to get done and you two idiots are about three days late..."

Holding back a smile, you finally braved a look at Bucky and nearly flinched at how focused he was on you. Giving him a slight nod, you listened to Sam and Yelena bickered until a peace offering was given by Bucky. Yelena began to protest but you spoke to her in her native tongue and she practically pouted. Bucky inserted himself into the conversation and Sam demanded everyone speak in a language he too could understand.

You smirked. "Fine, we'll play nice...for now but my sister gets the kill."

Sam said no one was getting killed but he was naïve to what was really going on and you gave Bucky a look that questioned if he understand. Without Sam noticing, he gave a slight nod and you knew he got it.

"This is Red Room business, so we'll handle the asshole." Yelena spoke quietly and it sent a shiver down your spine - her tone left no room for objections and Sam dropped it. He mentioned the hotel they were staying at and you agreed to meet them to trade intel.

"We'll be there in two hours, we have some sisterly business to do."

Once everyone was satisfied with the arrangements, Yelena started toward the car but Bucky asked to speak to you...alone. Sam took the hint, drifted away down the street as you turned to your sometimes booty call. He looked good as always and it sent sinking feelings down your stomach. Hands in his pockets, he asked how you were.

"Shit hotels, but I always enjoy spending time with my sister."

He gave a small smile but it quickly faded. "How are you really?"

The interior wall you built fell when he reached down to your hand; his warmth filled all the little corners of coldest in your heart and you felt weak. He made you feel weak all because he made you feel wanted. Bucky was your downfall and that's why you kept him at a distance but he was the king of distance and downfalls. Yet, he stood there with the warmest touch a person had ever placed on you. It made you desperate to give in and even Yelena had pointed out the personal torture you were putting yourself through.

"You two are alive, why not?"

What a poet, your sister.

"I want some alone time with you, later..."

Feigning slickness, you purred at him. "Miss my body that much?"

Bucky didn't take the bait, inside he pulled you roughly against him. His hands held yours down at your side and he looked, no, he stared deep into your eyes. "I don't want you just like that, don't be stupid."

That should have pissed you off but it didn't. Instead you softened under his touch and you whispered okay. That's all you could say and when he released you, he touched the side of your face before kissing you gently on the lips. "Six months is too long..."

"...I know, I'm sorry."

He smiled then and kissed you on the forehead. The lightness reappeared in his eyes and he smirked. "Not so tough for an former assassin, are you?"

"Takes one to know one," you snapped back, smiling as he held your hand. He gave it a squeeze and promised to see you later. "Go spend time with your sister, I'll see you soon."

"Promise?"

The childlike air in your tone would have made you flinch months ago but it felt good to indulge. It felt good to be wanted and to have what you truly want - and that was the man in front of you.

"Promise," he smiled, giving your hand a kiss before departing to where Sam had disappeared. Watching him until he was no longer in sight, you felt an arm move around your shoulder and Yelena whistled.

"Oh you got it bad."

He saw you as he always had. As his childhood companion. His co-conspirator. His little stormcloud. Someone to be safely matched away to another man while he watched with unwavering approval and a clear conscience.

To spare Mr. Storm the humiliation of your silence, you had laughed then and concurred that Mr. Storm was quite agreeable and would one day make a woman very happy. You had even made fun of Bucky in return, saying something witty about his own admirers and how he should live up to his own advice.

He had never noticed the way your hands trembled around your teacup. He had never noticed the way your smile faltered when he turned away.

And so, quietly, without drama or accusation, you had begun to retreat.

You let others fill your dance card first. When he talked about how happy you would be with someone else, you learned to control your expression. You painstakingly taught yourself to look at him the way he looked at you: with love, with familiarity, and with nothing that would give away how much it hurt.

You told yourself it was sensible. You told yourself it was necessary. You told yourself that loving a man who so clearly did not love you in return was undignified, unwise, and bound to end in humiliation.

Better to step back while you still could.

Better to pretend you were merely growing up, growing distant and independent.

Better to break your own heart quietly than risk having him do it aloud.

Now, you stand at the edge of the ballroom, the heat of a hundred candles pressing against your skin, the air thick with beeswax and orange-flower water. The chandeliers glitter like frost above the swirling silks and satins, but your eyes find only one figure among the crowd.

James moves through the dancers as though the floor were made for him alone. His coat is midnight blue tonight, the colour of deep water cut so perfectly. He has grown into the promise of his boyhood: tall, dark-haired, with that same crooked smile that once belonged only to you. Now it belongs to everyone. To anyone who asks.

He is dancing with Lady Romanoff again.

You watch the way her gloved hand rests lightly on his sleeve, the way her red hair catches the light when she laughs at something he has whispered closely in her ear. They are beautiful together—striking, effortless, the sort of pair that makes mothers lean close and whisper about settlements and titles and future heirs. 

Your stomach twists, a slow, familiar ache.

He never looks at you.

Not once. Not even when you entered the room in the new gown your mother insisted upon—pale primrose silk that cost more than sense should allow. Not when you passed within three feet of him earlier, close enough to catch the faint scent of bergamot and cedar that always clings to his coats. He had been speaking to Lord Pierce about hounds or politics or some such manly thing, and his eyes had slid over you as though you were part of the wallpaper.

You have known him all your life. Your mothers decided you should be friends when you were still in leading strings, and so you were. You shared lessons, pony rides, scraped knees, secrets whispered under the old oak. He taught you to climb trees; you taught him which berries would not make him sick. 

When you were fifteen he sat beside you at the pianoforte in the music room at his father’s estate, his fingers guiding yours over the keys, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and teasing: “No—feel the music, don’t attack it.” You had felt it, all right—felt it straight through to your bones. You have never played the same since without remembering the warmth of his hand over yours.

You hate that memory now. You hate all of them.

You hate the way he still calls you “stormcloud” when he bothers to speak to you at all, as if you are forever the sullen twelve-year-old who once threw her embroidery hoop at his nose. You hate the way he talks of marriage so lightly—how any man would be fortunate to have you, how you will make some fellow excessively happy one day, how he will dance at your wedding and drink to your health and then go home to his own empty bed without a backward glance. He says it kindly, fondly, the way one praises a sister.

You are not his sister.

Your dance card hangs heavy from your wrist, half-filled with names you accepted only to have something to do with your hands. Lord Walker, Mr. Wilson, young Lord Reynolds—polite, eligible, perfectly unobjectionable. You will refuse them all later with headaches or twisted ankles or whatever excuse preserves their pride.

Across the floor, the music ends. Lady Romanoff curtsies; James bows. She says something that makes him laugh again—that low, warm laugh you used to collect like pressed flowers. He offers his arm; she takes it. They move toward the refreshment table, her head tilted toward his in easy confidence.

Your chest feels suddenly too small for your heart.

You turn away, pressing your fan against your mouth as though it might hold in the sharp, stupid tears that threaten.

That is when you hear them.

Two ladies stand just behind you, their voices lowered in what they clearly believe is discretion, their silk sleeves brushing, their heads inclined together like conspirators.

“It must be settled soon,” one murmurs.

“They are always together, are they not? Every assembly, every ball—Mr. Barnes never misses a dance with her.”

“Indeed,” the other replies softly. “My mother says it is only a matter of time. One does not parade a lady so openly unless one intends something serious.”

A pause. Then, with quiet satisfaction: “She will make a magnificent duchess.”

The ladies drift away, satisfied with their little exchange, unaware they have just undone someone.

Foolish, hopeless girl. 

You have spent years waiting for him to see you and he never does. You tell yourself not to look at him, but you do anyway; you feel like a moth to a flame.

And there he is—still smiling at Lady Romanoff, still leaning slightly toward her, still offering her that soft, attentive expression he never seems to have for you anymore.

You cannot bear another moment of it.

You turn sharply, skirts whispering against your ankles, and slip through the nearest door that leads to the terrace. The night air strikes your cheeks like cold water; you drag it in, grateful for the shock of it. The ballroom’s golden glow spills out behind you in a long rectangle of light before the door closes and leaves you in shadow.

You are halfway across the flagstones, aiming for the stone balustrade and the dark gardens beyond, when you collide with a solid, unyielding form.

A startled gasp escapes you. Strong hands steady your elbows to keep you from stumbling.

“Forgive me—” you begin, the apology automatic, then falter as you look up.

Mr. Storm.

He is dressed plainly by the standards of the ton; dark coat, modest cravat, nothing to draw undue attention—yet he has always carried himself with confidence, a man accustomed to being overlooked and content with it. Tonight, however, his brow furrows the moment he sees your face.

“My lady, are you all right?” he asks gently.

His hands release you at once, but his concern does not. His gaze lingers in unmistakable worry, as though he cannot help noticing the glassy brightness in your eyes, the way your breath stutters as you try to master it.

You swallow.

You straighten.

You summon what remains of your composure and arrange it carefully upon your features like a mask.

“I am perfectly well,” you say, too quickly. “I merely required some air.”

He does not look convinced.

“You look—” He hesitates, then chooses his words with care. “You look as though something has troubled you.”

The kindness in his voice nearly unravels you.

You are tempted to confess, to admit that your heart feels as though it has been crushed between polite smiles and whispered speculations, that you are unbearably tired of pretending you do not love a man who so clearly does not love you back.

But you do not.

You cannot.

“I assure you, it is nothing,” you reply softly. “I only wished to be alone for a moment.”

He studies you, clearly torn between pressing further and respecting your wish. At last, he inclines his head.

“Of course,” he says quietly. “Forgive my intrusion.”

You offer him a small, grateful smile—one that does not quite reach your eyes. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Storm.”

You step around him, silk brushing past his sleeve as you pass, and move toward the balustrade before he can say anything more.

Behind you, Mr. Storm remains where he is, watching with gentle unease as you retreat into the shadows, painfully aware that whatever troubles you is far beyond his power to mend.

You stand at the balustrade with both hands braced against the cold stone, staring out at the shadowed hedges and winding paths as though they might offer answers, or absolution, or at the very least some small distraction from the turmoil inside your chest.

Your shoulders are held too straight, your breathing too measured, every muscle locked into place by sheer force of will, as though composure itself might fracture if you allow it even the smallest crack.

The night air stirs.

A soft breeze moves through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and roses and something else—something painfully familiar.

Bergamot.

Cedar.

Warm wool and leather.

Your heart beats violently in your chest.

You know that scent. You have known it since childhood, since borrowed coats on cold mornings and shared rides and stolen moments in quiet corridors. You have known it in every season of your life, woven so thoroughly into your memory that you recognise it before you recognise anything else.

Before you hear footsteps.

Before you feel his presence.

Before he speaks.

You remain where you are, fingers pressing the stone more tightly, as though the balustrade might anchor you against the sudden, treacherous surge of emotion that threatens to undo you entirely.

He stops close.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, close enough that the hem of your gown brushes the toe of his boot, close enough that every nerve in your body lights up in helpless recognition.

“Stormcloud,” he says at last, and his voice is rougher than usual, stripped of its easy teasing.

You stiffen despite yourself.

For a moment, you pretend you have not heard him, that if you remain perfectly still he might vanish again into the shadows, that this is nothing more than your heart playing cruel tricks on you.

But you have never been very good at lying to yourself.

Slowly, reluctantly, you turn.

The moonlight spills over you like silver poured from the sky, catching in the loose strands at your temples, glinting along the silk at your throat, outlining every fragile line of your face. You see his breath catch as he looks at you, see the way his expression shifts from guarded to stunned to something dangerously close to awe, and for a fleeting, treacherous instant, you wonder if you imagined all of it.

Then sense returns.

“Bucky,” you say quietly, because anything louder might shatter you, “what are you doing here?”

He hesitates.

You see it—the familiar pause, the instinctive search for something safe and untrue, the reflexive attempt to hide behind politeness and humour and half-truths. You have watched him do it for years.

“I was—” he begins, then falters.

The lie dissolves.

“To see you,” he admits softly. “Of course.”

Your eyes flicker, betraying nothing of the storm beneath. You nod once, small and careful, the way you have learned to do when you do not trust yourself to speak honestly.

“Is my father looking for me already?” you ask, already retreating behind courtesy. “Then I must return.”

You step around him, intending to pass, intending to escape before your composure collapses entirely, but your shoulder brushes his chest as you do so, and the contact is like fire through silk and wool and bone.

You barely make it two steps when his fingers close around your wrist. You halt and turn back, your gaze dropping first to where he holds you, then lifting slowly to his face, wary and questioning.

“Your father is not looking for you,” he admits quietly, forcing his grip to loosen even as every instinct urges him to hold fast. “Might I—would you walk with me in the gardens? Just for a little while. If it pleases you.”

You study him in silence.

The familiar lines of his face are drawn tight with uncertainty, his eyes oddly stripped of their usual confidence.

At last, you nod once.

You free your wrist with a neat, controlled motion, and he releases you immediately, watching with visible remorse as you absently smooth the faint marks his fingers left behind.

“Ladies first,” he murmurs, gesturing toward the steps.

You descend into the gardens, skirts whispering over stone, acutely aware of him following at a distance that feels both suffocatingly close and unbearably far.

The gravel crunches beneath your slippers and his boots as you walk in silence, the moon casting pale ribbons of light across the paths. You keep your gaze fixed forward, chin lifted, every instinct screaming at you not to look at him, not to weaken, not to remember how easily he once made you laugh.

Beside you, he is painfully aware of his own clumsiness, of how effortlessly he can charm rooms full of strangers and how utterly helpless he becomes when it is only you.

He glances sideways. And you, sensing his gaze like a physical touch, feel your pulse betray you.

He clears his throat.

“You look radiant tonight,” he says at last, clumsy and earnest.

“Thank you,” you reply softly, politely, because politeness is safer than truth.

Silence falls again.

Your hands brush as you walk, once, then again, then again, the backs of his knuckles grazing yours with every step, each accidental touch sending shocks through your system that you pretend not to feel.

He struggles desperately for something harmless to say, something that will not expose how tightly wound he is, how close he is to unraveling in your presence.

“I noticed your dance card was filling quickly,” he says, attempting a careless lightness that does not quite reach his eyes. Then, with a crooked half-smile meant to soften the remark, he adds, “Did you—ah—did you happen to leave a space for me?”

The words land far harder than he intends.

You turn your head slowly, one brow arching in that familiar, cool manner that has unnerved him since you were sixteen, the expression that plainly asks whether he has quite lost his senses.

“A space for you?” you repeat quietly, incredulity threading through your voice. “And pray tell me, Bucky, why precisely should I reserve a place on my card for a gentleman who never troubles himself to ask?”

There is no sharpness in your tone, and yet every syllable carries years of restraint and disappointment beneath it, years of standing politely aside while he danced with other women and spoke of your future as though it belonged to anyone but himself.

“If you wished to claim a dance,” you continue, composed and unflinching, “you might have considered requesting one. That is, after all, the customary method.”

He winces inwardly, the rebuke striking exactly where it was meant to.

He stops walking.

You take one more step before realising and turning back, the moonlight falling fully upon your face, illuminating the restrained hurt in your eyes that he has been too blind to acknowledge for far too long.

James draws a breath that feels like the first in years.

“Then, will you dance with me now?” he asks quietly.

Dance with him?

The words hang in the moonlit air between you, impossible and absurd. A quiet, incredulous laugh escapes you sharply and a little broken.

“Dance with you?” you echo, glancing around at the empty gardens, the silent hedges, the distant glow of the ballroom windows. “Here? We shall look like two perfect buffoons waltzing about with no music.”

Bucky gives a slight shrug of one broad shoulder. His expression holds firm; if anything, it deepens in gravity, those striking blue eyes boring into yours and twisting your chest.

“Yes,” he says simply. “No one’s watching.”

You should refuse. You should walk away. You should preserve what remains of your dignity and leave him standing alone beneath the moonlight.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “Very well.”

He steps closer.

One hand settles at your waist, warm even through layers of silk and stays; the other lifts to take your free hand, fingers threading through yours with reverent care. He draws you in until you are close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to remember every foolish, dangerous dream you have ever had about being held like this.

He begins to lead.

A slow, unhurried sway at first, then the familiar steps of a waltz, guiding you across the gravel to music only he seems to hear. His gaze never leaves your face; you feel it like a touch, intense and unwavering. You fix your eyes on his cravat, on the midnight-blue edge of his coat, anywhere but him.

But then he twirls you—smooth, effortless—and when you come back to him, your body fitting against his as though it remembers every childhood dance in empty corridors, he exhales softly against your hair and murmurs, almost plaintively,

“You look at everyone else so easily. I cannot remember the last time you looked at me like that.”

There is no accusation in his tone. Only bewilderment but that is not how it sounds to you.

To you, it sounds like vanity; entitlement. Like the complaint of a man accustomed to being admired and offended when he is not. You hear only arrogance. The careless confidence of a man who believes every woman in the room owes him her attention.

You push away from him, palms flat against his chest.

“Look at you?” The words burst out, hot and trembling. “Do you truly need every woman in society to look at you, Bucky? Are you that vain?”

He blinks, startled, colour rising along his cheekbones. “I meant no offence,” he says quickly. “I did not mean it like that—”

But the hurt has been dammed up too long; it spills over now, reckless and cruel.

“Then pray continue whatever it is you have with Lady Romanoff, or whichever beautiful, accomplished woman has caught your fancy this week,” you snap in a flurry of words. “I am certain they hang on your every word and gaze adoringly enough to satisfy even your considerable pride. I have not the time for these games.”

You step around him, skirts swishing, pulse roaring in your ears.

His hand shoots out again—fingers closing firmly around your wrist just as you pass.

“What’s got you so agitated?” His voice is quieter now. “And do not make up an excuse. You have been avoiding me for months.”

You stop.

You laugh again, short and bitter, without humour.

“You’ve been quite clear about your enthusiasm in finding me a match, now that you’ve found yours,” you reply coolly. “I am merely getting out of the way.”

You tug sharply at your wrist; his grip locks harder, solid without causing pain.

“And what, precisely, are my interests, if not you?” he demands, irritation threading through the words. “Do be so kind as to lay them out for me, since you seem to know them better than I do myself. Because I assure you, you are ridiculously mistaken—”

You snort, utterly unladylike. You roll your eyes toward the darkened sky as though appealing to the heavens for patience.

“Me? Oh, for God’s sake,” you mutter. Then you look back at him, chin lifting, eyes blazing.

“If you are so very confused,” you say tightly, “then perhaps you ought to return to Lady Romanoff at once and spare us both this absurdity. You already dance with her at every assembly, escort her everywhere, and allow half the ton to plan your wedding for you. Pray, do not let me delay you.”

You gesture sharply in the direction of the ballroom, bitterness threading every word.

“Go on,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “Marry her. Make her exceedingly happy. Make her your duchess and let society applaud you for your excellent judgment.”

Your voice drops, edged with exhausted contempt.

“Why are you here with me at all?” you demand. “Why interrupt my evening to interrogate me as though I owe you explanations, when you have already made your preferences so abundantly clear? So I’ll say it again, I have neither the time nor the inclination to entertain this performance, James. If you wish to play at courtship, at least have the decency to commit to your chosen partner.”

His expression tightens.

For a moment he looks genuinely taken aback, as though he had not expected the depth of your resentment.

Then his spine straightens. His shoulders square and his jaw sets.

You see it instantly—the reflexive armour sliding into place, pride rising like a shield, the familiar defences of a man who has never learned how to admit he is frightened.

“If that is truly what you think,” he says coolly, wounded dignity sharpening every word, “then perhaps you ought to consider that I have done nothing more than behave as a rational man in an irrational situation.”

You blink.

He continues, voice firm and controlled

“You withdrew from me without explanation. You avoided me. You filled your card with other men. You made it perfectly clear that you wished for distance. And now you accuse me of impropriety for respecting it?”

He gestures helplessly between you.

“I am not a mind reader,” he adds, more harshly than he intends. “If you wanted something different from me, you might have said so. You cannot expect me to stand idle forever, waiting for signs you never gave—”

Your free hand moves before thought, palm cracking across his cheek with a sound sharp as a pistol shot in the quiet garden.

His head snaps to the side. For a long moment he stays turned away, profile silvered by moonlight. He turns his face back a touch, just enough to look at you sideways, eyes narrowed and dangerous. The corner of his mouth curves in a slow, dark smirk that sends heat and ice chasing down your spine. He pokes the tip of his tongue to the inside of his reddened cheek, as though tasting the sting.

Your stomach flips traitorously.

You yank again; this time he lets you go.

He lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the mark. “Well,” he drawls in his deep voice, amused, “she can slap.”

A rush of heat fills your chest, hot and angry and long suppressed, and before wiser thoughts can intervene, you shove both palms against his chest, meaning to put space between you, meaning to reclaim the distance you have spent years forcing upon yourself.

“Do not,” you snap, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “do not stand there and make sport of this as though it were some amusing anecdote to recount later.”

He does not move an inch.

Your hands meet solid resistance, muscle and bone unyielding beneath his coat, his boots rooted to the gravel as though he has grown there. He absorbs the push without flinching, without retreating, without allowing you even the smallest victory of distance.

If anything, he leans into it.

Refusing to be moved.

Refusing to let you go.

Your breath catches at the defiance of it, at the way his nearness seems to multiply rather than diminish.

“You speak of signs,” you continue fiercely, hands still pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring yourself, “as though I have done nothing but hide from you, as though I have never once given you reason to think—”

You laugh bitterly, the sound tearing itself from your throat.

“Do you remember that garden party?” you demand. “Do you remember standing beside me, smiling so easily, and telling me how splendid I would look with Mr. Storm? Do you remember how readily you matched me with other men, how comfortably you spoke of my future as though it had nothing to do with you at all?”

Your voice fractures, but you force it steady.

“You told me, again and again, that I was safe to give away. Convenient to admire. Suitable for someone else.”

You push at him again, harder this time, as though you might drive the truth into him through sheer force.

“So why,” you whisper fiercely, eyes blazing, “why would I make my regard plain to a man who was already arranging my happiness with someone else?”

He stares down at you, stunned.

The fight drains from his posture in visible increments, pride giving way to dawning horror as each word finds its mark.

“You stood there and praised every other man who dared to look at me,” you go on, voice trembling now despite yourself. “You jest about it. You encouraged it. You made it clear—so painfully clear—that I was never meant to be yours.”

Your hands slide up from his chest to clutch at his lapels, not in affection but in desperate emphasis.

“And now you dare to tell me I gave you no signs?” you murmur brokenly. “That I asked nothing of you?”

You release him abruptly, stepping back at last, chest heaving in uneven breaths.

“I learned from you,” you finish quietly. “I learned from you that loving you was something I was meant to do in silence.”

And silence falls between you.

Not the gentle, companionable sort, but the heavy, suffocating kind that presses in from all sides, thick with everything that has just been said and everything that has been left unsaid for years. 

You stand there for a moment longer, chest rising and falling unevenly. Then, you slowly straighten yourself.

Whatever fire has driven your words drains away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

You have said it. You have finally said it. And you are done.

Without looking at him again, you turn away, gathering your skirts with trembling fingers, intent only on putting distance between yourself and the man who has loved you badly and too late and in all the wrong ways.

“Wait.”

You do not stop.

He moves after you at once, long strides eating up the space between you, and his hand closes around your arm again in a desperate appeal.

“Do not walk away from me,” he pleads quietly. “Not after that. You cannot—God, you cannot say all of that and then leave me here without allowing me to answer you.”

You try to pull free.

“There is nothing left to say.” you say tightly.

“There is everything left to say,” he insists, tightening his grip just enough to keep you there, his thumb pressing lightly into your sleeve. “You think I have been silent all these years because I did not care. You think I stood beside you and matched you with other men because you were nothing to me. And I swear to you, if you walk away believing that, it will be the greatest cruelty you have ever inflicted upon me.”

You turn back then, anger flaring weakly through your exhaustion.

“Cruelty?” you scoff. “You—”

“I was a coward,” he interrupts fiercely.

The words burst from him without polish, without caution, without any of the careful restraint he has always wrapped himself in.

“I was terrified, I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” he admits hoarsely. “I have been terrified of you since I was fifteen years old and realised that the girl who climbed trees with me and laughed at my stupid jokes could one day look at me and decide I was not enough.”

He breathes unevenly, eyes bright with emotion he has never learned to manage.

“Every time you smiled at another man, every time someone asked you to dance and you accepted, every time I imagined you belonging to someone else, it felt like being skinned alive,” he confesses. “And still I smiled. Still I jest. Still I pretended it was nothing, because the thought of you knowing how much power you have over me was unbearable.”

Before you can retreat into distance and pride and self-preservation, his hands close around both of your wrists with unmistakable strength and intention, anchoring you in place, holding you there as though he has decided—here and now—that he will sooner tear himself apart than allow you to walk away without hearing what he has to say.

You stiffen in startled protest, breath catching.

“Bucky—”

“I am in love with you!” he says suddenly.

The words are unpolished, unguarded, torn from somewhere deep in his chest before he can soften them or dress them up in propriety.

“I am in love with you,” he repeats, more hoarsely now, as though saying it once has only made the need stronger. “I have been in love with you for so long that I no longer remember what it is like to exist without you in every corner of my thoughts.”

His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, not to hurt you, never that, but to make certain you remain here, present, listening, unable to hide from what he is laying bare.

“You have ruined every other woman who has ever crossed my path,” he admits quietly, almost fiercely. “No matter whom I stood beside, no matter how lovely or accomplished she was, she will never be enough.”

His breath is uneven, his composure unraveling visibly, the careful restraint he has worn for years slipping through his fingers like sand.

“There is no peace for me in loving anyone else,” he murmurs. “You are the standard by which my heart judges everything, and nothing has ever come close.”

“But if you still wish to walk away,” he continues quietly, “if after all of this you decide that you cannot forgive me, that you no longer wish to choose me… then I will let you go.”

His thumb loosens almost imperceptibly at your wrist, his grip easing just enough to prove he means it.

“Right now,” he adds softly. “Without protest. Without pursuit. Without another word.”

The garden is silent around you but for your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You stare at him, mouth parted, the world tilting beneath your feet.

He waits, motionless, every line of him taut with dread, the proud, untouchable duke’s son reduced to a man awaiting judgment.

Tears rise hot and sudden, spilling over before you can dash them away. You press your hands to your lips to stifle the sound that wants to escape—a sob, or a laugh.

But you’re overwhelmed, and so you gather your skirts and turn, fleeing down the gravel path as though the hounds of hell are at your heels. You do not look back. You cannot. If you see his face again tonight you will either slap him once more or fall apart entirely, and you refuse to give him either.

× × × ×

A week later.

You sit at the upstairs window of the morning room, a piece of untouched embroidery in your lap, fingers idly twisting the pale blue ribbons that trim your simple muslin gown. The estate spreads green and serene below, but you see none of it. 

Your mother occupies the chair by the fireplace, sorting letters; your three younger sisters are bent over their embroidery frames, though their needles have been still for some minutes. They keep exchanging glances over your head, meaningful and exasperated.

At last Clara, ever the boldest, sets her frame aside with a dramatic sigh.

“I confess I do not understand why you are sulking,” she says. “Lord Barnes has confessed his heart to you. The handsomest man in three counties, and a future duke besides, and you sit there pulling ribbons to pieces as though he had insulted you.”

Victoria snickers behind her hand. Sophie only looks curious.

You do not raise your eyes from the ribbons. “You do not understand,” you say quietly.

“Evidently not,” Clara retorts. “Pray enlighten us.”

You lift your gaze at last, throat tight. “If he is so afraid to show his feelings that it takes years and a slapped face to wring them from him, can you imagine what marriage to such a man would be? Should I have to beg for every kindness? Coax every declaration from him as though it were a favour?”

Your mother sets down her letters with a soft rustle. “My dear,” she says gently, “you are perhaps too harsh. He has recognised his error, has he not? At considerable cost to his pride. A man who can do that may yet learn to speak more plainly. Why not give him the chance to prove it?”

Before you can answer, Clara grins wickedly. “Well, if you are determined not to have him, I am most happy to volunteer as tribute. I should not mind coaxing declarations from Mr. Barnes in the least.”

Victoria dissolves into giggles; even Sophie smirks.

You open your mouth to retort—something sharp about Clara’s forwardness—when the sound of hoofbeats reaches the open window. A single rider, coming fast down the drive.

Your breath catches.

He sits astride the great black hunter he has ridden since he was seventeen—coat flying, dark hair wind-tossed, every inch the impatient, determined duke’s son. 

You rise without thinking, pressing closer to the window, hands flat against the glass. Your sisters crowd beside you in an instant, Clara actually elbowing you for space.

Bucky looks up.

Even across the distance his eyes find yours unerringly. A slow, crooked smile curves his mouth and he lifts one gloved hand in a brief, deliberate wave meant solely for you.

Your heart skips.

Below, the front doors open; footmen spill out. Muffled voices drift upward—his, low and courteous; the butler’s deferential reply. You catch only fragments: “…if His Lordship is at home…wish to speak with him…matter of some importance…”

Clara and Victoria squeal in unison like girls at their first assembly. Sophie claps her hands over her mouth to stifle her own excitement.

The butler bows and gestures toward the house. James dismounts with fluid grace, tossing the reins to a groom. As he strides up the steps, he glances up once more—directly at you—and the look in his eyes is resolute.

Then he disappears beneath the portico.

Clara and Victoria bolt for the door without a word, skirts flying, clearly determined to eavesdrop from the gallery above the hall. Sophie hesitates, looking at you.

You remain frozen at the window, ribbons twisted hopelessly around your fingers, watching the empty drive as though it might offer some explanation for the sudden thunder of your pulse.

From the corridor below comes the measured tread of boots, the butler’s murmured directions, and then the firm click of your father’s study door closing behind James Barnes.

× × × × 

Your mother’s voice had been firm when Clara and Victoria returned, flushed and giggling, from their attempted dash to the gallery. 

“You will not eavesdrop,” she had declared, her tone brooking no argument. “A gentleman’s business with your father is private, and young ladies do not skulk about corridors like housemaids.” So you had all been marched back to the morning room, the door firmly shut, and there you remained—trapped in a polite prison of embroidery frames and uneasy silence.

The clock on the mantel ticks with agonising slowness. Sunlight has shifted across the carpet; the tea tray has gone cold. Little Sophie keeps stealing glances at you, Clara fidgets with her needle, and Victoria has abandoned all pretence of stitching, staring instead at the closed door as though willpower alone might open it.

At last Clara throws her frame onto the sofa with a huff. “It has been a full hour,” she complains. “What on earth can they be talking about? Papa’s hunts? The price of corn? Or is Mr. Barnes cataloguing every fox he has ever chased from here to Scotland?”

Victoria snickers. Sophie bites her lip to hide a smile.

Your mother sets aside her letters and regards you all with that calm, knowing look that has quieted you since childhood. She folds her hands in her lap.

“When a gentleman rides across the county to speak to a young lady’s father, it is seldom about hounds or harvests.”

Clara’s eyes widened. Victoria leans forward eagerly.

Your mother continues, voice gentle but pointed, her gaze resting on you a fraction longer than on your sisters. “Pride is a cold companion. It keeps us warm in the moment, but it leaves us alone in the end. I have seen many a woman cling to it too fiercely—refusing to bend, refusing to believe she might be mistaken—and spend years regretting the silence she mistook for strength. A good man, when he recognises his errors and seeks to mend them, deserves at least the grace of a hearing. Otherwise we risk losing what might have been the greatest happiness of our lives to the stubborn conviction that we were right to suffer.”

The words land softly, but they strike true.

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. You do not argue—you cannot, not when every syllable feels aimed straight at the raw wound you have carried since the garden. Instead you look down at the mangled ribbons in your lap and side-eye your mother, a silent acknowledgement that she has scored her point.

Clara opens her mouth, doubtless to tease, but the door opens before she can speak.

The butler stands there, impeccable as ever. “Lord James Barnes,” he announces, and steps aside.

Bucky fills the doorway, the riding coat and boots still dusted from the road, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. His eyes find yours instantly, the crooked half-smile nowhere in evidence today.

He bows politely to your mother. “My Lady.” Then, to you alone: “Might I speak with you for a moment? If it is convenient.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Your heart is suddenly too large for your chest.

Your mother rises with remarkable swiftness.

“Of course,” she says smoothly, as though she has been waiting for precisely this. “Girls, come along. We shall see if Cook has those lemon biscuits you like.”

Clara protests with a small, wounded sound; Victoria looks positively betrayed. Sophie merely looks delighted. Your mother herds them out with the efficiency of long practice, her hand firm on Clara’s elbow.

You stand there, the morning room suddenly too small, the air too thick, as James closes the door with a soft click. 

He does not advance immediately; he lingers by the threshold, hat in hand, those blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the fluttering of your stomach misbehave. The silence stretches, heavy with the memory of the garden—of tears and accusations and the raw confession that has haunted your every waking moment since.

At last you find your voice, though it emerges sharper than you intend. 

“Why have you come, Bucky? Have I not made myself clear enough? I thought— I believed—if I turned away from you that night, you would leave me in peace. Are you not a man of your word?”

He inclines his head, a faint, rueful curve touching his mouth. He steps forward then, slowly, and you hate how your heart leaps at the nearness of him.

“I am a man of my word,” he says quietly, laced with that unshakeable conviction. “I promised that if you turned away from me in the garden, I would go—I would not follow you back to the ballroom, nor importune you with letters, nor impose my presence upon you these past seven days. I left you undisturbed, as you wished.”

He takes another step closer, close enough now that you catch the faint scent of fresh air clinging to his coat, the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave yours.

“But I made no vow,” he continues, softer still, “to exile myself from your life forever. Not when the matter between us remains so grievously unsettled.” A glint of mischief flickers in his gaze then, teasing, almost boyish—the Bucky of your childhood peeking through the man. “Tell me, little stormcloud—are you still angry with me?”

Angry? The word is laughable. You lift your chin, meeting his challenge. “Angry does not begin to describe it.”

His brows arch, inviting more, but you press on, voice trembling despite your efforts. “Then pray tell me…why did you speak with my father? What business could possibly require an hour of his time?”

Bucky’s expression shifts; serious now. He closes the remaining distance, guiding you gently back until you perch on the wide window seat where you had been sitting moments before. He does not take the opposite chair; instead, he sits sideways beside you, one booted leg bent, facing you fully. The proximity is dizzying—his knee nearly brushing yours, his broad frame angled toward you as though you are the only thing in his world.

He reaches for your hand then, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles, and the touch sends sparks racing up your arm.

“I spoke to your father,” he says, voice roughened with emotion, “because I asked for your hand. Without reservation or caveat.”

He pauses, as though steadying himself, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I told him that I have loved you for years,” he continues quietly, “that I was a fool and a coward to hide it, and that I wish to spend the rest of my days proving myself worthy of you, if you will have me.”

A faint, wry curve touches his mouth.

“I also told him,” he adds, more softly, “that I am well aware of what the ton will say. That they will whisper about Lady Romanoff. That they will speculate, and sneer, and assume I have led you on after parading another woman through half the season.”

His thumb stills briefly against your hand.

“And that I do not care.”

The words are simple yet the conviction is obvious.

“I told him that if choosing you means enduring gossip, suspicion, and every unkind rumour London can devise, then I will bear it gladly,” he says steadily. “Because none of it compares to the regret of letting you believe, for another moment, that you were anything less than my first and only choice.”

He leans closer, voice dropping.

“I asked his permission to court you properly. Openly. Honourably. With no ambiguity and no rivals. And if you will allow it, to marry you when you are ready.”

Your breath catches. 

The words hang between you, the sort that would make any woman’s knees weaken. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers—lingering, apologetic.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes searching yours. “Sorrier than I can say—for the pain I caused, for the years I wasted in silence. Forgive me.”

You stare at him, this proud, beautiful man humbled before you, holding your hand as though it is the most precious thing he has ever touched. The thought of him leaving for good is suddenly unbearable, a void you cannot contemplate.

You hesitate deliberately.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him beneath your lashes, lips curving just enough to suggest mischief rather than dismissal.

“That,” you say softly, “was very thorough.”

Hope flickers in his eyes.

“And?” he prompts quietly.

You glance toward the window, pretending sudden fascination with the landscape, even as warmth floods your cheeks.

“I am… inclined,” you admit carefully, “to consider accepting it.”

His mouth twitches.

“Consider,” he repeats.

You nod solemnly. “It is, after all, a grave decision.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest—warm, relieved, utterly undone by you.

“As it should be,” he agrees. Then his grip tightens just a little, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “Might I inquire what would persuade you?”

You risk a glance at him then, and immediately regret it, because he is looking at you as though you are every answer he has ever sought.

“I may,” you say lightly, “require… evidence of sincerity.”

His brows lift.

“Evidence,” he echoes.

“Mm,” you confirm. “I have been misled before.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“You are cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Then his gaze grows intent, earnest beneath the teasing. “Very well. What form might this… evidence take?”

You pretend to think, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his hand.

“Well,” you begin, still not quite meeting his eyes, “I have heard it said that a gentleman who truly regrets his errors is willing to make certain… amends.”

His lips part slightly.

“Amends,” he repeats, voice rough.

You finally look at him then, eyes bright, daring.

“For instance,” you add softly, “he might demonstrate his remorse by requesting permission to do something he has evidently wanted to do for an unreasonable number of years.”

Understanding dawns slowly.

Then completely, causing a smile to break over his face

“Are you telling me,” he asks quietly, “that after pining for you since I was a teen and too terrified to act upon it, I am now being made to formally apply for the privilege?”

You lift one brow. “I should hate for you to abandon tradition now.”

He laughs softly, forehead resting briefly against yours.

“Very well,” he murmurs. Then he straightens, eyes serious despite the humour. “May I kiss you?”

You pretend composure.

“I suppose,” you say with elaborate nonchalance, “that would suffice.”

His breath hitches.

As the laugh fades, his grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

“God help me,” he whispers, smiling helplessly, “I am never going to recover from you.”

The words are barely out before something in you snaps. You cannot wait, not another heartbeat. You lean in first, pressing your lips to his, strong and firm, quick and utterly unplanned. All the blood in your body rushes to the point of contact; it is heady, intoxicating, the fulfilment of every secret dream you have harboured since you were fifteen.

You pull back a fraction, breathless, but he does not allow it. His free hand cups your cheek, drawing you back in, fusing his mouth to yours with a fervour that feels like lightning striking—blinding, brilliant and burning. It consumes you, filling every sense until nothing exists beyond him: the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingles with yours.

You are going to burn the room down around you.

He pauses for a breathless second, forehead resting against yours, voice low and strangled. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” you manage, the word barely coherent. Speech is unnecessary; you yank him back to you instead.

He groans—a deep, rumbling thunder in his chest—and surrenders to it. His kisses shift like a storm: hot and insistent one moment, soft and tender the next, as though he cannot decide which he craves more or perhaps he is savouring every variation, testing them all on you and you are more than willing to be his experiment.

Why, oh why, have you denied yourself this for so long? What a foolish woman you have been.

You move closer, needing more—needing everything. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers drifting up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair. He responds in kind, mouth slanting against yours, demanding your full attention. You abandon his hair to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly nearer, as though closer is even possible.

His kiss is devastatingly thorough, primitive yet refined, fiery and shivery all at once. He draws back again—just enough to breathe—and you both pant, foreheads touching. “I need you to know that this is true,” he rasps. “I’m real.”

You rest your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the tremor in him. “Yes, I can feel how real you are.”

“That’s not what I—” he starts, but you silence him with another kiss, moving your mouth against his until he shakes against you. Every response is yours to command: the murmured words lost against your lips, the growl in his throat, the thunder of his heart beneath your palm. The power of affecting him is dizzying.

His kisses grow exquisitely intense, overheating you, making the world spin. You are dizzy, floating, tethered only by his hands in your hair, his lips on yours. Oxygen seems utterly overrated.

Sensing your need—or perhaps his own—he trails his mouth to your cheek, feathering soft kisses along your cheekbone. You keep your eyes closed, lost in the spirals of sensation radiating through you, down to your quivering stomach, into your limbs.

“You are exquisite,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with wonder. “So soft, so perfectly lovely. I fear I shall never have enough of you—not in all the years granted to me.”

“The feeling,” you manage to whisper, the words scarcely more than a breath, for he has quite robbed you of coherent thought, “is mutual.”

He cradles your face, and your lips ache for his return. When you open your eyes at last, hazy and drugged, his gaze meets yours. There is something new in it—deeper than affection, fiercer than tenderness.

It is devotion. Utter, unwavering devotion. And it is yours.

He leans in again, slowly this time, as though savouring the permission in your eyes. His lips brush yours once, then again, deeper, and you melt into him, fingers tightening at his nape when a pointed, deliberate cough echoes from the doorway.

You both startle apart as though scorched—Bucky springing to his feet with undignified haste, you pressing a hand to your racing heart, cheeks aflame. 

Your father stands upon the threshold, one brow arched in mild enquiry, the picture of paternal innocence. He has clearly been there long enough to assess the situation, yet he affects perfect oblivion.

“I beg your pardon,” he says gravely, though a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I merely wished to enquire whether the young people have reached an understanding.” His gaze moves from your shy countenance to James’s rather dishevelled cravat and back again. “It appears the matter is well in hand—literally, perhaps.”

James clears his throat, colour high along his cheekbones, and executes a creditable bow despite the circumstances. “Sir—”

Your father waves a hand, magnanimous. 

“No need for explanations, my boy. I am not quite in my dotage yet. The question remains: shall we observe the usual proprieties with a courtship, or—” his eyes twinkle with shameless mischief—“might we dispense with such formalities and proceed directly to reading the marriage banns? I confess I should not object to skipping the interminable calls and posies if the pair of you are so… eager.”

You make a small, mortified sound and hide your burning face in your hands.

James lets out a low, rueful laugh, raking a hand through his hair.

“I believe, sir,” he says, voice still husky, eyes slanting toward you with lingering heat, “that the lady’s wishes must take precedence. Though I confess I am not averse to expediency.”

Your father chuckles. “Wise answer. Very wise.” He steps fully into the room, closing the door once more—with deliberate care this time. “Then perhaps we had best summon your mother and father and settle the details before the entire household descends upon us in a frenzy of speculation.”

You peek through your fingers, heart still thundering, and find Bucky watching you with that same devoted gaze—now softened with helpless amusement.

The future, it seems, has arrived rather sooner than expected.

And you discover you do not mind in the least.

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But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.