come visit my garden!

"Yeah." You agree anyway, nodding against him as you try and steal another messy kiss. "Sure."

He grumbles against your lips, something vaguely resembling a protest. You drink it up, mouth slotting over his as you deepen the kiss further. 

You've been making out like this for at least two songs. You've felt the beat drop at least three times, listened to the crowd react through the thin club walls. That's just counting how long you've been in the bathroom. 

It started out on the floor. 

Like gravity pulling two planets into orbit, you slowly drifted together. Triggered with a look, a classic game of cat and mouse. 

You look at him. He looks at you. You look away, pretend to listen to your friend. You look back. He's still looking at you.

Maybe a little more intense than usual, but no less thrilling. 

Mystery man had eyed you for almost ten minutes, as if weighing a war inside his head. Dark eyes that made your stomach turn hot and your heart stutter. 

Then he joined the living, abandoning his whiskey glass on the bar and making his way into the fray.

He didn't take his eyes off of you the entire time.

Your friends- the saints they are- made themselves scarce. Throwing you one last look and waiting for a nod before disappearing into the mass of dancing bodies.

His hands are everywhere, have been ever since he first put them on your hips and you didn't bat him away. 

Over your waist, pressing into the small of your back, cupping your cheeks, tracing your ribs and right now- lifting the backs of your thighs.

You're startled to say the least, panicky hands grabbing at his shoulders for balance while your legs instinctively wrap around his hips.

He props you up on the wall, lifting you to his eye level and pressing into you even harder. 

The position is… a great improvement.

Not only can you count Mystery Man's ridiculously long eyelashes (seriously unfair), but it places gravity firmly on your side. 

The increased pressure of his chest against yours is nothing short of heavenly, same goes for the heat of his hands on your upper thighs. Those are both wonderful additions. 

There's just, something else that makes itself known like this. 

His cock nestles firmly against your covered cunt. Layers of fabric and denim doing nothing to stop the heat you feel radiating from it. 

He jerks like he's been shot, hips rutting into you as if of their own accord. "Sorry-" he flusters, giving you a look that could almost be described as sheepish. "Been a while."

Thankfully he recovers quickly, the movement evolving into a more purposeful grind of his bulge against you. It drags him over your heat with enough pressure to make your breath catch. The seam of his zipper catching on your clit.

You kiss him again for that one, grateful for the friction. Even more so for a man who knows how to use it. 

"Me too." You murmur into his lips. You lock your ankles behind his back, firmly securing your position. 

You can't stop touching his shoulders. 

It's stupid really, how broad they are. The strength behind them utterly ridiculous. He's like a gladiator, one from a movie. Equipped with rippling biceps and a chiseled jawline. He has both in spades. 

There's something intimidating about making out with the hottest man you've ever seen . An awareness of your movements, the kind of nervous energy that keeps you careful. Keeps you from making stupid decisions. 

There's also the uncontrollable urge to jump his bones.

One of Mystery Man's hands snakes between your bodies, his palm sliding up the inside of your thigh. 

"Call this a skirt?" He asks, pulling on the hem with his fingers. You can feel the smile on his lips, taste the tease on his tongue. 

"Call it my lucky skirt." You mutter. Your own hands travel, pulling his shirt out of his jeans. You lift up the bottom of it until it's free from his belt, then high enough for your hand to slide to underneath it. 

"Yeah," he shudders when you flatten your palm below his belly button. His throat bobbing as he swallows. "Why's that?" 

"It's goes with everything." You start, watching as he nods for you to continue. "It's super comfortable to dance in."

"That's very important." He agrees, letting go of the hem and sliding his hand beneath it, pushing up to the juncture of your thigh. 

This time it's your turn to swallow. 

"And it makes my ass look amazing." You finish.

"A skirt can do all that?" He asks, going a step further and starting to toy with the elastic of your underwear, crooking his fingers inside band where it meets your legs. Just above where you want him most. 

"Well, it got your attention didn't it?" It say, tone much too proud for someone who's nearly dripping from some light groping.

"No," Mystery man says, voice suddenly serious. "That was all you." 

Naturally, you had to stick your tongue down his throat.

It's quite possibly the most violent kiss of your life, teeth clicking against his. Your noses pressed together so hard it hurts. Heart is hammering in your chest, threatening to break your ribs because that might be one of the most romantic things a man has ever said to you and he did it with a hand down your pants in a club bathroom.

Thankfully, Mystery Man is not deterred. He meets your lips with just as much fervor, he also finally, finally makes contact.

It's nothing short of electricity.

His fingers are rude when they slide through your folds. Index and pointer pressed together as he uses them to gather wetness, dipping through the length of your cunt multiple times until he's pleased.

He even curls them just outside your entrance, teasing it with the tips of his fingers and taking advantage of the slick of that comes out. 

It's surprisingly, thorough. There's no mistaking the movements for inexperience, for the fumbling of geography and curious prodding. No, he's gathering research. He pulls his hand out from your underwear and skirt, brings it into the dull light where you both can see. 

He spreads them apart, watching the strings of slick bind them together and 'pop.'

"That'a girl." He says, proud smile etched on his lips as he studies his findings. "So fuckin' wet." 

Then, with the casualness of checking the weather, he sucks them into his mouth. Humming around his own digits, while his eyes fluttering shut. When he pulls them out they're nearly clean, glistening with his spit. 

"Fuckin' delicious too." He praises, and your poor cunt simply doesn't know what to do with itself, pulses around nothing so hard it damn near hurts to be empty. "Here." He says, leaning in for another kiss. "You try." 

His tongue invades your mouth without struggle, laying against yours and pressing onto your taste buds. You've never been one to kiss a after oral, the idea of your own spunk too much to bear 

Tasting yourself off him however, you don't really mind. 

The magic hand descends once more, this time pulling your panties fully to the side and exposing you to his assault completely. 

"Been a while yeah?" He checks again, leaning his forehead against yours. "Better stretch." 

The same two fingers go further this time, sliding into your cunt with one slow push. Side by side they're thicker than they have any right to be. Mind boggling like his shoulders and the rest of him.

Your cunt pulses with the sting of their intrusion, spasming around him as you try to relax. 

"Uh-sorry." You half moan, trying your best to go lax around him. Mentally curses those stupid videos that make you do kegal exercises.

"What are you sorry for?" He asks, "For being tight and perfect around my fingers?" He scoffs, pressing an open mouthed kiss into your shoulder. "Like being sorry for making the sky blue, or the flowers bloom. Fuckin' natural wonder."

His thumb pushes up, fumbling for a moment before finally finding the hood of your clit. He pushes it up, exposing the bundle of nerves and pressing the pad of his finger against the underside of it. 

You gasp, head rolling back to rest against the wall behind you. 

He presses even harder, rolling it while his fingers begin to pump in and out of you. 

It pulls a moan you've never heard before, strangled and breathy. Your hands don't know what to do, one shooting up to pull at his hair, tangling in his dark locks. The other fights for purchase on the wall behind you, nails scratching at chipped paint as he curls his fingers toward your belly button. 

"That's it." He mutters, "Just feel it pretty girl." 

Feel it you do, only a few minutes pass before your legs start to shake around his waist. It's like you can hardly think. Between the pressure inside you and the way he toys with your clit, there's no room for any other sensations. 

The music outside starts to build again, the tension in the club racketing up as the DJ prepares for another beat drop. 

Your body tenses as if on instinct, the coil in your stomach getting ready to drop with it. 

Mystery Man is staring at your cunt with so much focus it would make you embarrassed if you weren't so close to fucking cumming. 

There's a furrow between his brows, a squint in his eyes as he shifts his fingers ever so slightly and then gauges your reaction. 

"C'mon." He encourages, voice soft but demanding. "You can do it I know you can." 

You nod, half listening and half ascending to another plane. "Fuck- fuck- fuck-" the word comes out in pants, barely conscious or coherent. You don't know the last time you got fingered. 

You don't know the last time you got fingered well. 

After this you're not sure you can say you ever were before him. 

His thumb shifts, rolling over the top of your clit and applying pressure from apex of it just as his fingers curl into that soft spot inside you. 

The beat and you, drop.

Heavy bass permeates the walls, bouncing through your bones as your orgasm takes you in it's tide. It's messy and explosive and absolutely the result of so much pent up energy. 

It makes your vibrator look like a joke. Makes the coke you snorted earlier feel like baby aspirin. Stars bloom behind your eyes, your high is long gone and replaced with something even more potent. 

The come down is hard, dragged out like it got too sloppy at the bar. Mystery Man is the bouncer, pulling it by the arm and guiding it through the exit. He rides you through it, pressing kisses to your neck and collarbone and every spare inch of skin he can touch. 

"So good." He praises, "I got you." 

He undoes your legs from his waist slowly, helping you find solid floor again like a sailor coming back to land after months at sea. Your knees wobble and he catches you, a strong arm around your waist and a firm body caging you in. 

You have to blink to focus on him, on his smug smile and rosy lips. 

"You in there?" He asks, leaning his forehead against yours. 

You nod, faster than anyone trying to seem cool should be. 

"Pretty sure I just saw God." You mutter back, hands fisting into his shirt. 

The world slowly comes off its axis, tilting the entire room back into frame and helping you find center. Your touch starts to roam, reaching for his belt.

You normally hate this part, the expectation of reciprocation. It's especially off putting after you cum, your body already switching back to reality. The receding haze of lust reminding you that no matter what, a dick is ugly. 

Except tonight you're eager, he doesn't even have to push your head down, because you're already starting to bend at the knees. You wanttoo, desperate to even. Your fingers start to work his belt while desire builds heavy on your tongue. 

Then a hand stops you. 

He doesn't say anything, in-fact he looks painfully apologetic as he pulls your hand away, bringing it to his lips for a sweet kiss instead. 

"Don't need to worry about me." He says, using the moment to help straighten your skirt, pulling on the hem until it's even and then pulling it down another inch.

Offended isn't the right world for what you feel, but it's pretty close. 

"You don't want me to?" You ask, voice small. 

Mystery Man shakes his head vehemently. "No!" He rushes, "God you have no idea how badly I want that." 

You wait for more, arms crossing in front of your chest as you stare at him expectantly. 

"Look first of all I'd never make you kneel on this floor." He clarifies, tone completely serious. "Second, if I could- I'd bend you over this sink right now."

Your heart catches in your throat, unable to help the sideways glance you throw the marble counter top. The sleek stretch of stone and the wide mirror directly in-front of it. Oh what a picture the two of you would make.

"It's just that," he sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. "My dick decided he couldn't wait." 

Oh. 

Oh!

The worst part? He doesn't even look embarrassed, not an ounce of shame on his pretty face. He just owns it. 

It makes your cunt pulse. 

He wets a paper towel, wipes the inside of your thighs clean and then washes his own hands. Pressing another hot kiss to your lips in the middle of it all. 

When the steam on the mirror starts to fade, and all of your seams are sitting in their proper places, it's time to go.

Mystery Man doesn't say anything, but what is there to say?

Excuse me random stranger, I know you've already been knuckle deep inside me but I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?

Hey Handsome, if you ever want to do this again here's my number. 

Ew. No.

I've never made a guy cum in his pants before and I think I'm in love.

So instead you don't speak. You walk over and fix his hair, smoothing down where your fingers had mussed through and turned it unruly. 

"Thanks." He says, smile crooked on his lips. "Want me to go out there first?"

He nods toward the door, where reality and ringing ears await you. 

You must nod, or do something that indicates yes, because he gives you one last knee-weakening smile and then slips out into the mess. 

Not sure the proper amount of time to wait after fucking in a bathroom, you give it a few minutes. Until the end of the song and then follow suit. 

As your eyes adjust back to the strobes and dark lights, you can't help but look for him. Checking the hallway and sweeping for his distinct build. But it's no use. 

He's gone.

The second time, you're didn't even want to go out. 

It was your friends who dragged you there, badgering you to give the club another chance. 

"They have the good DJ tonight!" They'd promised. "It's been two months! Besides, what are the odds he'd be there again?"

What are the odds?

No seriously, can someone run that math? What are the odds he's there again?

What the odds he finds you before you even see him?

Apparently, really fucking high.

It was your turn to get the drinks, which is kind of fucked up because it was also technically the first round of drinks, but alas credit card in hand you trudged your way to the bar.

The wood is sticky beneath your forearms, leaving that gross, alcohol specific residue on your skin.

Nevermind getting the bartender's attention, that is it's own kind of purgatory. Perched against the edge, leaning over just enough to hopefully be in his line of sight. Awkwardly calling out as he passes and being ignored. 

Doing it three times, being ignored three times.

Then, as if the skies open he finally turns to you. 

Your order is already half off your tongue, interrupted as he sets a full drink down in front of you.

"This is for you." He says, raising his eyebrows in amusement. "This too." He puts a napkin down next to it, a note written in messy scrawl.

Then he's gone, back into the void before you can try to secure even one vodka-cran.

Obviously, you try the drink first. 

Fruity, light, familiar.

It's your fucking usual.

You snatch the note off the counter, bringing it so you can see it better in the low lights. 

Written in -of all things- cursive, it reads: You were right. 

Ah yes, very helpful. 

Your head snaps around, frantically looking around for whoever sent it over, and praying it's one of your friends thinking they're funny. 

Except when you look back they're still in the corner they've claimed, unmoved and busy with their own chatter. 

That's when a hand finds the small of your back. Large and heavy. 

Embarrassingly, you recognize it before he even whispers in your ear. 

"Your ass does look amazing in that skirt."

It's even more embarrassing how your body responds. 

Despite the suffocating heat of the club, goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your chest seizes, freezing your heart mid-beat.

His voice is the same as it is in your memory, a deep gravel that sends heat directly to your cunt. It's even sweeter than your best conjuring, the record you put on repeat every time you can't sleep and your hands start to wander. That voice.

Mystery Man.

"You."

It comes out more accusatory than you mean for it too. burning on your tongue. 

"Bucky." He clarifies. 

The reveal softens you, just as much as it humanizes him. A name, something tangible. It transforms him from a visage to a person.

"Bucky," You test it. "Coincidence seeing you here." It's meant to be funny, but he doesn't give it the chance.

"Not really." He answers, then nods to your drink. "I get it right?"

You look dumbly at the glass in your hand, than back at him.

"How did you do that?" 

Bucky shrugs, proud smile brimming on his lips. "I could taste it when I kissed you."

It's an unreasonably good answer.

You take another sip, biting the tiny black straw between your teeth. For a moment your eyes drift, back over to your friends who have finally caught on.

They're at your table watching the exchange with rapt attention, making frantic shooing motions at you. If you listened hard enough you could probably hear them telling you to go get your man!

Satisfied you're not leaving them in the lurch, you turn attention back to Myster- Bucky.

He's gone nervous in your silence, flush creeping up his neck. 

"You wanna dance?" He asks, scratching the back of his neck. 

You take the chance to appreciate his bicep, placed perfectly on display for your enjoyment, and you make a decision. 

Despite his leaving. Despite his messy pants. You really want another one of those earth-shattering orgasms. 

"I'm pretty sure you made me a promise last time." You offer instead, pulling another long sip through your straw, more so for courage than thirst. 

Although Lord knows, there is thirst. 

Bucky's eyebrows shoot up, "I did?"

You nod, sipping until your ice cubes start to rattle. Even then you give it a few more sips, just to make sure you're not wasting any before you put the glass back down on the bar behind you. 

"Something about a sink?"

The bathroom is just as you left it. Some more marker on the stall, a makeup smudge on the mirror. Thankfully, no claw marks on the wall where he pressed you against him last time.

He's just as you remember him too. 

A hot kiss laved over your neck, hungry hands roaming over your hips, only leaving to throw the door locked behind you. 

His lips are pillowy soft and dexterous. He kisses you like he's making up for something. Like he missed you. 

It does something sick to your lower belly, heat growing alongside something far more venomous. 

You have to pull away, tugging at the roots of his hair until he finally gets the signal. 

You're still hurt, still a little embarrassed. Still a lot of angry. You just don't want to get into all that with him.

If casual is what he does, than casual is what you will be.

You just can't let him kiss you like that.

You just have to keep it quick.

You turn your back to him, an impressive feat on its own. 

Bucky takes the change in stride, walking forward so his feet are on either side of yours. His hips pressed flush to the curve of your ass, his bulge already prominent as it pushes against you. 

You lean onto the counter for support, hands clutching the edge tight enough you wouldn't be surprised if the marble cracked. 

Bucky's hands come around your front, splaying over your stomach as he presses his face into your neck. 

You're vulnerable to his attack, head rolling back just as he starts to suckle on the spot just below your jaw. A small whimper escapes, unbidden and unwanted. Too late for you to swallow once you've realized it's there. 

Bucky smiles victorious against your skin.

"There she is." He murmurs, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand pushes past the waist band of your skirt, already reaching for where your body craves him most. "C'mon we can do better than that."

You want to let him, want to melt back into his arms and feel him everywhere, but you're never going to see him again, and this time you have something specific you want.

"No." You grab his hand, stopping it in its descent. Closing your fingers around his wrist you lean back and whisper something else to him. "Want your cock." 

The words feel dirty on your tongue, exactly what the moment calls for. 

Bucky gives a frustrated little huff behind you, a rumble in his chest that reverberates against your back.

He's not convinced apparently. 

Forced to take matters in your own hands, you shove your thumbs into your waistband, pushing your skirt and panties just below the curve of your ass. 

You push the naked skin back into his jeans, bending over the counter top until your cunt is properly wedged against his bulge. Then with your very best puppy-dog eyes, you look at up at him through the mirror and whisper-

"Please."

It's like something snaps inside Bucky. Tangible enough for you to see it in his reflection. 

You can only hear his zipper as he pulls it down, it's metal teeth violently ripping apart. It's only then that you realize the fatal flaw in your plan. 

You can't see it.

Easily six-foot whatever, two hundred and something pounds of pure beef, and utterly thick thighed Bucky is pulling his cock out and you can't fucking see it. 

There's the crinkle of a foil packet, the surprise of his fingers swiping through for your folds for wetness before slick sound of him fisting his cock. 

You're searching for a protest, a way to turn back around and catch a glimpse but it's too late.

Bucky notches his cock head between your folds, splitting them open around his length. 

Oh… You're so fucked.

He's not even inside yet and your stomach is twisting from his size. You're trying to visualize it against you, the ridge of his tip and the way he slightly curves up against you. Literally and metaphorically rising to the occasion. 

Bucky's hand comes over your back, running up and down the length of your spine as he lets your feel him against you. 

"You still want it?" He asks, voice thick with lust. 

You nod, eyes fixed on the corner of the mirror as you try to ground yourself. 

That's not good enough for Bucky though. 

He leans over you, cock still nestled against your cunt as he presses his chest to your back. "Need you to look at me." He commands. 

His hand snakes up along side you, palm moving to rest against your throat. There's no pressure in the gesture, he uses the angle to guide your jaw, moving it until you're meeting his eyes in the reflection.

"You still want this?" He tries again, and this time you can feel his cock twitch as he says it.

You can feel your heart beat everywhere, a heavy pounding in your bones and most potently in your cunt.

"Yes." You promise, the word coming out desperate and as undone as you already feel. "I want this. I want you." You rush, pushing back onto him, pressing his tip to the underside of your clit.

Bucky groans, forehead dropping down to your shoulder for just a minute as a he collects himself. It's like he's trying to reel something back in, and that's the absolute last thing you want.

"Please Bucky." You roll your hips again, fucking him through your folds. "Please fuck me." 

His head lolls, forehead lifting just enough for his lips to press against the skin instead. 

You expect something sweet, something saccharine and a little too rehearsed sounding. What you get is utterly feral.

The kiss becomes a bite, his canines digging in just enough to leave a possessive dent in the muscle. His hips push forward, pinning yours against the counter, utterly immobilizing you. 

"See?" Bucky says, leaning back up but pressing his hand between your shoulder blades to keep you bent. "All you had to do was ask."

He slides home with no resistance, despite the stretch your cunt opens for him like it's been waiting for his cock your whole life. It's so intense, all consuming in the way he fits inside you. He pushes in with one fast thrust, and then rests there, letting you feel him in his entirety. 

Fuck, however big he felt outside of you it's even more shocking inside. You didn't know someone could reach this deep, never thought it would honestly feel good if they did. It's like he's all the way up to your throat.

You bet you could cum like this.

Reach a hand down and play with your clit, just keep him warm inside you while you fall apart. He wouldn't even need to move, already hitting the right spots just by being still.

You clench around him at the thought and Bucky hisses, as if the sensation actually pains him.

"Jesus- fuck you're tight." He mutters, more so to himself than even to you. His hands keep roaming your back, between your shoulder blades and all the way down to the arch in your lower back. 

One reaches to massage the globe of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers like a fucking stress ball. 

Those touches nearly kill you, the ones that feel like memorization. As if he's saving a map of your body for his own exploration. Carefully noting each curve and valley, how the skin their responds to his touch. It makes your nerves prick, hair standing on edge as you watch his reverence in the mirror. 

"Please-" you resort to begging, uselessly trying to push your hips back into him. "Please fucking move."

Bucky clicks his tongue, finally bringing his eyes back to yours in the mirror. 

"That what you need?" 

You nod, all but teary. Your body is aching, muscles taut and tight from two months of trying and failing to repeat the sensation he created. 

You're ready for him to ruin you proper. 

"All you had to do was ask." 

Bucky pulls back, slowly drawing back from your cunt even as it tries desperately to suck him back in. He goes all the way to the tip, leaning back to watch as your entrance clenches around it. 

"Incredible." He whispers, once again quiet enough you're not even sure if he intended for you to hear it. 

Then he bottoms out, one harsh thrust that sends you jerking forward against the sink, hands flailing for an anchor. 

"Fuuuuuuuck." The noise it pulls from you is drawn out, moaned like its own release. You're out of breath, like he knocked all of the oxygen out of your lungs. 

He repeats it, drawing all the way out again before pressing as tight as possible.

It starts slow, building a rhythm like an orchestra. A gradual climb toward intensity. It evolves, starting like a waltz and becoming something completely discordant. Bucky keeps going until there's nothing left of the melody, until you're mewling into the marble and the room is shaking from more than just the bass outside. 

"Look at me." Bucky says, drawing you out of your haze. 

You try, honestly but the world is too hazy. Pleasure clouds every sense, you don't know what's left or right, where is up or down. The only things that exists are the countertop and his cock. 

Bucky leans back over you like before, falling into the same position he used to get your attention last time. His hand is at your jaw, with the only difference being the 'plap plap' of skin as he fucks into you. 

You find the strength to focus, eyes finding his in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged, eyeliner fleeing your waterline and the only remnants of your lipstick are on his. 

Bucky's hips jerk when you look at him, devolving into a slow rut of his hips into you. The change keeps him deep as possible, rolling his cock over places inside you that you didn't even know existed. 

"Is this what you needed pretty girl?" He asks. "Needed someone to fuck this pretty little pussy?"

You nod, nearly cross eyed with pleasure. The words tumble off your tongue without your permission. Entirely too honest. Entirely too revealing. 

"Needed you." You whimper, legs begin to shake as your orgasm starts to barrel toward you. 

Bucky lets out a tortured moan, the hand that isn't holding your jaw slips between the counter and your hips, finding your clit with a deadly precision despite the angle. 

"Say that again." He grunts, tweaking the sensitive bud between his fingers. 

Your hips jerk against his touch, both seeking out more and desperately trying to flee. Your body so overwhelmed with every sensation it has no idea where to go. 

With his arm gone nearly all of his weight is against you, somehow making him hit even deeper. 

"Needed you." You repeat, even more earnest this time. "Needed you. Needed you. Needed you."

It's like a mantra, the only words left in your vocabulary as your orgasm starts to take ahold of you. 

"Knew-" you're cut off by your own moan as Bucky pinches your clit. "-Fuck."

"Go on." He encourages, the words casual but his tone anything but. He's close too, you can see it in the clench of his jaw and the squint in his gaze as he holds yours.

"Knew," you try again, "Only you could fuck me like this."

Bucky's hips jerk, his cock twitching at your words. 

His entire face falls apart and it's enough to send you headfirst into your orgasm. 

That's just as good as you remember, better even. 

Your body collapses, all of your weight falling onto the counter as it takes ahold of you. 

There's nothing you can do but feel, no where you can run or hide. Your vision whites out and you're distantly aware of Bucky cumming too, but even that isn't enough to shake your high.

It's like your entire body goes weightless, reduced to just nerves and lust. 

Even through his own peak, Bucky fucks you through it. His fingers work your clit until your start to pant, these pathetic little sounds of overstimulation. His cock goes soft inside you, pulling out looking utterly spent. The condom is full of his cum when he ties it off and tosses it in the trashcan. You watch it from the corner of your eye, try not to imagine what it'd feel like inside you.

You ignore the voice that reminds you that you're on birth control and could find out. 

When gravity finds you again, you're honestly not sure how you're supposed to walk. 

Leaning up onto your forearms, you try to stand only for your knees to buckle.

Bucky catches you with a strong arm around your waist, helping your straighten slowly with his help. His hands pull your skirt and your underwear back into place, carefully making sure it all lies flat for your comfort. 

"Thanks." You giggle against him, leaning your weight onto his shoulder as he finishes tidying you up. 

Bucky huffs something that almost sounds like a laugh. "Sweetheart I really ought to be the one thanking you." 

You hum, sated enough to be soft. "Let's just both agree that was great and call it even."

"Deal." He whispers, pecking your lips with a kiss. "Think you can stand?" He asks.

You nod, still a little numb around the edges. It's shaky, but eventually you find your balance. You make a careful note to never wear heels after getting back shots. 

Bucky fixes his own hair this time, fingers combing through it before abandoning the task in its entirety. 

"Glad I bumped into you." He says.

Bumped into you.

It feels so small for what just transpired between you. A perfect reminder of what it actually was. 

A casual, random, never-have-to-see-you-again hookup.

"I'll go out first?" You offer, already grabbing your purse off the floor and tucking it onto your shoulder. 

Bucky nods, smile still etched on his face. You do your best to mirror it. 

The lock clicks open with a heavy thud and you slip out. 

You don't stop to watch him leave, don't wait to see him pretend to act like nothing happened. You don't have that in you.

Your friends are easy to find again, waiting for you with excited smiles and eager eyes. 

You hate to blow them off, promising a salacious voice note will be waiting in the group chat when they all get home. Something about how you need shower and bed. Really you mean takeout and The Notebook. Maybe all four.

You don't see Bucky again that night, you don't look around the room for him, lest he see that too. All of it much more needy than the version of you he's just fucked. 

With a deep exhale, you step outside and silently promise yourself that no matter what, you are not going back to that club.

The third time is just because it's your birthday.

Two months, a new vibrator, and a new lucky skirt later (the original had to be burned in a ritual ceremony, having been deemed cursed after last time).

You've healed. 

Totally.

You didn't have a breakdown and up your Hinge age range a few years just to get more likes. You didn't only go out with one of them because he had brown hair and blue eyes.

It's all very very healthy. 

That's why you decide it's okay to go back on your word, to brave the club once again and to do it on the one day of the year you get to make all the rules. 

After all, they do have the good DJ, cheap drinks, and the food truck you like is only a few blocks away. It would be silly to boycott it forever. 

Besides it's been two months since you last saw him. Four since the whole mess started. Things are different now.

Like tonight for example. Tonight you have a new dress. Something sparkly that shows off all the right pieces of skin. Tonight you rented one of those stupid V.I.P. tables and brought a cake in with you. Tonight you tried that new eyeshadow trick you keep seeing on TikTok. You know, the one everyone says is perfect for your eye shape. You even added little gem stones to the corners, determined to reflect just as much light as the disco ball above you. 

Tonight you're not going to fuck Mr. Bucky-Mystery-Man-Huge-Cock.

Right?

There's a sash, thick ribbon draped over your shoulder with 'BIRTHDAY GIRL' written in glitter across it. Utterly obnoxious, but a must. 

Two rounds of shots in you're feeling amazing. The music has been perfect, for once your thighs aren't chafing. None of your friends are so drunk you need to worry about them throwing up. Its the perfect night out. The kind of night you'll be trying to recreate for years. 

"Okay don't look now," Your friend says, dancing their way over to you. "But he's here."

Your blood runs cold. "No."

They give you a sympathetic smile, "Over at the bar."

Feigning a stretch, you shift just enough to steal a glance. 

Sure enough, there he is.

Back against the bar, leaning his weight against it. His arms are open on either side of him, the neck of a beer bottle dangling between his fingers. A thin black t-shirt that almost looks sheer when the lights hit it. Jeans that hug his thighs like sin. 

Motherfucker.

His eyes aren't on you, a small mercy. It gives you the chance to appreciate the forbidden fruit without the snake taunting you to bite.

Still, you avert your eyes. Spinning back to your friends, you give them all the most careless smile you can manage. 

"I'm gonna go have a little cake!" You yell to them. 

They share a look. 

"What us to come?"

You shake your head. They love this song, and you're a big girl. 

They throw you a thumbs up and you disappear, retreating back to your table. 

You'd forgotten utensils, cutting the cake with whatever plastic ware you could nab from the bar. The first bite tastes even sweeter than before, the sugary icing cooling the vodka burn that still lingers on the back of your tongue.

You just need a few minutes to hide here and catch your breath. A quiet corner where no one else will bother to notice you. If it weren't for the glitter on your sash, you bet you could disappear entirely. 

You're deep in your own spiral, shoveling another bite into your mouth when-

"I'd have brought a present if I'd known." 

Shit fuck shit fuck dammit shit fuck. 

You freeze mid-bite, the fork half in your mouth.

Bucky takes it as an invitation, sliding into the booth next to you. 

He scoots until he's invading all of your sense, meaty thigh pressed to yours. Close enough for you to smell his cologne. 

Slowly, you finish your bite. Abandoning your fork somewhere on the table. 

"Bucky." You manage to choke out. 

He gives you a smile, one that makes the dimple on his chin pop. It makes your heart stutter. 

He gives you an appreciative once over, eyes-crinkling when he notices the sash. 

"Birthday girl." He counters.

You wish the booth would swallow you whole. Your thighs wish he'd crawl between them. 

His hand comes up to your face, holding your chin in his palm and swiping his thumb over the corner of your mouth. 

He pulls it back and you can see the icing on tip of his finger, a little smudge that must've gotten caught there. 

He brings the digit into his mouth, his lips around it like something pornographic.

You don't remember the walk to the bathroom, or when you started kissing him. All you know is your gut is a twisted mess of regret and want.

Besides its your birthday, all girls deserve to cum on their birthday.

That's the reason spinning around your brain. The excuse you'd made when you fisted the collar of his shirt and brought his lips down to yours.

He tastes like beer and buttercream, you like it more than you'd like to admit. 

"New dress?" He asks as he takes the fabric in his hands, bunching it up your hips so the cotton of your panties peeks out. 

You nod, "Special occasion." 

He hums, pressing another hot kiss to your mouth. He parts your lips with his own, licking into your mouth with a greedy tongue. His traces your molars, sucking out your sweet spit.

When he pulls back you're breathless, chest tight from the lack of oxygen.

He spins you around, hand of your hips that turn you toward the mirror and pull you back into his chest. 

"Look at how pretty you are." He says, one hand reaching up to grope at your covered breast. "Wrapped up like you're the one givin' me a present."

You whimper, back arching into him. 

"C'mon say it." He sucks into the spot he found on your neck last time, the one that makes you shiver. "Tell me what you are."

His other hand- the one not on your breast, comes around your front. It cups your cunt over the material of your panties, giving it a possessive squeeze.

"I'm pretty." You gasp, hips rolling into his touch, desperately trying to get more. 

Bucky nods, making a noise of approval deep in his throat

"That'a girl." He mutters, pressing a wet kiss to your shoulder before turning you back around him. 

He dips, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you on the counter. 

You lift your arms to wrap around his neck, pull him in for another kiss but he drops lower instead. A kiss pressed to the top of your knee as he drops to his. 

"What are you doing?" You ask, watching carefully as Bucky kisses his way down the rest of your leg. The back of your calf, the top of your ankle. He finishes by tucking it over his shoulder, repeating the same process on the other side. 

"You ate your cake." He says, pulling you to the edge of the counter so your cunt is right at his mouth. "Now it's my turn."

Whatever regret was left curdles in your stomach, reducing down until there's nothing left to feel but white hot desire. The image of him on his knees between your legs, thighs on his broad shoulders. It's enough to have you dampening your panties even further. 

Bucky doesn't wait for your answer, pulling your panties to the side and exposing your cunt to his heavy gaze. 

His eyes are dilated, you wonder if it's from the dark lights, or some drug. Worst, you hope its from you. Light blue rings are all that remain, something almost animal about them as he dives into you. 

His tongue is dexterous as it felt in your mouth, sliding through your folds and gathering your taste on his tongue. He groans against you, the vibrations causing your legs to tighten around his head. 

Your hand shoots to his hair, knotting itself in his roots while the other braces against the counter behind your for balance. 

Of course, you think. He's good at this too.

You're beginning to believe you've hallucinated him, conjured up the perfect man after years of disappointments. Its the only thing that can explain how he eats your cunt with earnestness that could make the most devout man weep. 

"Bucky!" You cry out as he sucks your clit between his lips, suckling on the nerves as he flicks it with his tongue. "Fuck- please!"

He pulls back, just enough to murmur a question into your skin. 

"What do you need?" He asks between kitten licks. "Tell me what you need Pretty Girl."

Your cunt is weeping, drooling against him. You feel like it should be obvious what you need.

"Fingers." You breath, "Please your fingers."

Bucky obliges instantly, thrusting his index and middle finger inside of you as he takes you clit back into his mouth. 

They're just as good as you remember. No where near as thick as his cock but you doubt you'll ever find anything that matches that. 

Bucky works you over like an expert, fingers curling inside you with a target already in mind. 

He sucks harder on your clit, fingers thrusting in time with every flick of his tongue. 

Your orgasm comes without warning, slamming into you like a freight train just as his fingers brush over your g-spot.

It turns you inside-out you, soul separating from your body until it's like you can see the entire perverse scene in third person. Bucky on his knees at your altar, your hand fisted in his hair while you fall apart on his tongue. 

When you come back, Bucky's murmuring praise against you. Licking up the mess you made on his face while whispering soft nothings.

"So fucking delicious." He whispers, licking one more long stripe through your folds. "Like sugar water." 

You use your grip on his hair to pull him back up. Crashing your lips into his with a mean kiss. Your legs dangle limp off the counter. You're wrung dry, but somehow still craving more.

You hop off the sink turning to face the mirror again, but Bucky stops you before you can bend over. Turning you back around fast enough to make you dizzy.

"No." He says, voice firm as he grabs your face and turns it back to him for another kiss. "None of that this time." He whispers. 

He undoes his belt with one hand, the other still holding your head still for his lips. 

"Need to see this pretty face when I cum inside you." He murmurs, shoving his pants down just enough to free his cock. 

He's already so hard, tip painfully red and glistening with a drop of pre. Your hands twitch at your sides, eager to feel the weight of it in your palm. He pulls a condom out of his wallet, ripping it open and rolling it onto his length all in the same breath.

Bucky's lifts you back onto the counter, pushing your thighs aside for him to step between. 

"All this pretty makeup." He says, tracing the side of your face with his finger as he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance. "Hate that I'm gonna ruin it." 

He slides in slow this time, letting you flutter around him as he stretches you out. His hand drops between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as he bottoms out. 

It punches a gasp out of you anyway, the sensation enough to make you dizzy.

Your ankles lock behind his back, thighs closing in on his hips. The position makes it impossible for him to pull out more than a few inches, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.

His forehead falls into the crook of your neck, his breaths coming out in heavy puffs against your skin. 

He rolls his hips, cock rutting into you just right. Your legs tighten around him, like you're afraid he'll disappear and leave you wanting.

Bucky just fucks into you harder, enough that you need to reach back onto the mirror for balance. Your body rocks with the force of it, cunt going vice-tight around him as every thrust has him brushing against your sweet spot.

You never understood how people got a bruised cervix before. Always thought that sounded impossible, what could possibly reach?

You've found it, you may also need to call your gyno tomorrow. 

He's relentless, thumb still circling your clit as he pounds into you. His forehead lifts from your shoulder at some point, pressing into yours as he stares you down. 

You're nearly weeping from the pleasure, hot tears rolling down your cheeks, ruining your makeup just like he said. 

"So good." You babble, nipping at his lips. "So fucking big."

Bucky growls at that, pushing you even harder against the counter and changing the angle just enough to make you cry out. 

"That's right." He says, "I got you."

He turns your cheek, licking the path your tears made and than kissing you with the salt on his tongue. 

"No one else hits this deep do they?" He asks.

You shake your head, nearly feverish. 

"No one." You promise, your orgasm beginning to pull taut in your stomach. "No one else."

Bucky pushes down harder on your clit, thrusting loud enough for the sounds of your wet skin to bounce off the walls around you. 

"Prove it." He punches. "Cum for me pretty girl."

You don't cum. You shatter.

The world splinters, your vision blacking out for a moment as the first wave of it hits you. Your cunt pulls tighter than you've ever felt, a mix of overstimulation and sheer pleasure combining into something nuclear. 

Bucky's name rips from your throat, moaned over and over until it stops sounding like a word and becomes something more akin to a prayer. 

He's just as miraculous, falling apart just as you finally begin to escape the haze. 

You get to watch him this time, the way his eyes flutter shut and his brows pull together. His lips, pink and swollen from your kisses. They open in a gasp, a strangled sound escaping from between them. 

His hips falter too, burying him as deep as possible before stilling. 

You can feel the condom balloon inside you, filling with his cum and making you ache to feel him completely. A sharp sting echoes in your chest as you realize that if he asked, you'd probably let him. Despite your long standing rule of raw being a boyfriend privilege. He has the power to make you break every promise you've ever made to yourself, tonight is proof.

Its fucking terrifying. 

Bucky pulls out and ditches the condom right away, shoving himself back into his pants as you sit there sticky on the counter. 

You busy yourself, that sick hollow feeling creeping into your chest now that it's over. You know what comes next. You grab a paper towel, wetting in the sink and using it to clean the insides of your thighs. 

Bucky's quick to take it out of your hands though, not bothering to buckle his belt. He's soft about it, gingerly wiping away all of the mess. He slides your panties back into place and grabs a second one, using it to cool down your neck and face.

When he's satisfied he tosses both paper towels into the garbage, using his strength to gently set you back on the floor. He stays close for a minute after, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. 

The movement is easy, familiar like a lover. It makes your eyes burn. 

"Happy Birthday Pretty Girl." He says, giving you another one of those heart stopping smiles, then he's gone.

The door click shuts behind him and and just as fast as he appeared you're left alone once more. 

You let yourself cry after he leaves, afterall, don't all girls cry on their birthday?

Then you wipe your face, splash some cold water on your cheeks, and remember that you have friends outside waiting for you.

As you worm your way through the crowd, you find them waiting at the table, relief painting their faces when they see you.

Their bags are on their shoulders, glasses empty and cake box shut. Thankfully, they're all ready to leave.

You cut off their worried questions, shaking your head and giving them all a fake smile before you say just loud enough for them to hear over the music-

"We really need to find a new club!"

The fourth time, happens sooner than you expect. 

It's only been a week, the wound of your birthday still fresh. Only enough time has passed for you to stew on it, no peace or healing in place. The pretty birthday dress will surely be added to the 'burn' pile soon.

The fourth time, you're alone.

Even worse? You're angry. 

"He's not the only dick in New York!" Your friend had assured you as she poured you another too-full glass of wine. "Just find a different one, a dick cleanse."

So here you are, back again at the same fucking club because you couldn't be bothered to find somewhere else.

She was right though, there are other dicks in New York. 

You're bumming a cigarette off of one right now. 

It's an underrated form of foreplay. Batting your eyelashes for a smoke. The way you jut your lip out and say 'please' in that airy voice guys always fall for. Holding it between your lips and leaning in close so he can light it. 

Your victim, Sam or Steve or something. He takes every piece of bait. Eyes darting down to your cleavage when you get close. Eyes batting down to your lips when you take your first inhale. 

The smoke has barely hit your tongue when he appears. 

Your only warning is the widening of whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is eye's, sudden and palpable fear taking over his face in an instant. 

The cigarette is out of your hand before you even have the chance to turn around, plucked from your fingers and tossed onto the ground.

A heavy boot stomps it out, one fluid motion that leaves you gaping at the ground where your poor cigarette lies. 

"What the fuck-" 

"Hey Bucky!" 

You and what's-it-fuck speak at the same time, the name that spills of his tongue sends a chill down your spine.

Sure enough when you turn, there he is. 

Looming in the shadow behind you, Bucky stands at every inch of his height. It's enough to make your heart stop, protest dying on your tongue when you take in the look in his eyes. 

They're burning, blue fire raging in his pupils as he stares you down. 

"The fuck are you doing?" 

The question is aimed at you, unmistakable with how he's staring you down, but your nervous friend answers anyway.

"Hey man, wait do you guys know each other?" He asks, oblivious to the brewing tension. "We were just talking okay nothing happened-"

Bucky cuts him off, barely sparing the man a glance even though it's obvious they know each other.

"Wasn't talking to you." Bucky grunts.

The man trails off, finally taking a good look at the stare down the two of you have found yourselves in. 

"Oh shit." He says, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. "Is this her?

Bucky just nods, a small tick of his head that sends your entire world careening into free fall. 

Her? 

You must look it, or angry or something else because your almost-dick scampers like a kicked puppy, muttering another apology to Bucky as he heads back inside the club.

You wait for the door to close behind him, a sudden rush of music out onto the street before it muffles once more.

"The fuck are you doing?" Bucky asks again, his face dark as a storm.

Any chance your anger had of fading is gone, every ounce of frustration rushing back. 

How fucking dare he.

"The fuck are you doing?" You ask, taking a step even closer so you can push an accusatory finger into his chest. "And what the hell did you friend mean? Is this her?" You imitate his voice, puffing your chest in a crude caricature.

Bucky doesn't budge under your glare, if anything he doubles down.

"It means what it sounds like." 

Oh my god. 

"You're a dick." You scoff, moving to walk past him. 

Bucky doesn't let you get far, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into the alley. He spins you with ease, maneuvering your back to the wall and caging you in with his arms on either side of your head.

"I'm talking to you." he cuts, craning his neck so you're eye to eye. 

"No." You correct. "You're being jealous and weird." You cross your arms over your chest, a desperate attempt to create a little distance between you. 

"I'm not jealous." Bucky lies, all but through gritted teeth.

"No?" You ask, exaggerating your voice. "Then why did you all but piss on me in front of your friend?" 

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"How so?" You challenge.

Bucky falters. "It just is." 

Well that answer won't do. You want to hear him say it.

"So I shouldn't let him take me to the bathroom?" You prod.

"Stop it." Bucky says, voice pained.

"Why?" You challenge, "Give me one good reason I shouldn't go in there and find him?" 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, searching your eyes for any mercy. He finds none. 

"He doesn't deserve you." 

You can't help the laugh it startles out of you. "And you do?"

"I didn't say that." 

"Jesus Christ Bucky! What are you saying?" You're raising your voice now, loud enough to turn the head of anyone who walks past the alley the two of you are tucked in. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest, all sense stuck in your throat as you wait for an answer. Despite yourself there's something in your chest, glowing bright under his attention. A sliver of hope. 

Bucky's breathing heavy, obviously worked up. One of his hands rakes a mess through hair.

He looks at you hard again, eyes calculating something in your expression. 

Then he's kissing you, a different kiss than he usually gives you. This one's hungrier, meaner. He bites at your lips like he's claiming them, like he's trying to tell you something while also telling you off. 

You hate that you immediately give into it, kissing him back with just as much fervor. Your hands grab his shirt, tugging him closer like it's a punishment. 

Bucky presses himself against you, flattening your body to the brick wall behind you. 

"You're a dick." You mumble into his lips.

"I know." He accepts, kissing you again. "I know."

His hands aren't soft the way they normally are, while it's usually you who initiates anything rougher, this time it's Bucky. 

He hikes your skirt up, lifting your thighs in his hands and wrapping them around his waist. 

It's hard not to melt into his touch, it's familiar enough now for you to crave it.

"Hold on." Bucky murmurs, placing your hands on his shoulders. He uses the wall to hold you up, undoing his pants just enough to pull his cock out. He hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties, pulling them to the side in one rough movement. 

You're wetter than you have any right to be given the situation. Somehow your body got the wires crossed and anger also became arousal. Probably right around when he stomped out your cigarette. 

He fucks through your folds a few times, using your slick and heat to get him fully hard. 

Your legs try to go tighter around his waist, bring him into you but you're met with resistance. Bucky holds his position firm, making a noise of frustration at your efforts. 

"Need to get fucked that bad huh?" He asks, grabbing a condom from his back pocket. 

You don't dignify that with an answer. Instead you huff, taking the packet in your hands and ripping it open yourself this time. You roll the latex down his cock, squeezing when you get to the bottom. It's harsh and mean, enough to make him twitch against your hand. 

"Either fuck me or put me down." 

Bucky takes the first option. 

He doesn't give you any chance to adjust this time, no kind thumb on your clit or words of affirmation. Just a harsh thrust that immediately morphs you into a rough fuck.

You back scratches against the exposed brick behind you, and you can't find it in you to care. Even with the roughness your eyes are all but rolled back, the ability to form any coherent thoughts leaving you as your body reacts to him.

"Think he could fuck you like this?" Bucky bites, jealousy dripping down every word. "Think anyone could?"

You shake your head faster than you care to admit, gasping out some syllables that sound like the word 'no.'

Bucky grunts, no sign of slowing down. 

"Than why?" He asks, "Why didn't you come and find me?" 

Your head tilts back, hands grasping at his shoulders like they might help you find gravity again. 

Bucky keeps going, "Do I not give you what you need?" He asks. "Am I not taking good enough care of you Pretty Girl?"

The pet name coils in your stomach, tingling your throat like acid burn. 

"You do- you are!" You promise, trying to vain to keep your voice low. The reality of your situation all too centered in your mind. Outside, just a few measly shadows protecting you from the exposure of the streetlights. One wrong step and anyone walking by could see. 

"Than why?" Bucky bites. He's hardly even thrusting anymore, using his grip on your hips to pull you up and down his cock. "Clearly I did something wrong."

The words come out like truth serum, bursting out of you like it might grant you a little mercy. "You left!" You gasp. Even through the pleasure, you know the burning in your eyes aren't tears of want. 

Bucky doesn't stop, hardly even slows down. 

"What?"

Your thoughts are garbled, you're sure they hardly make sense as you spill your guts. 

"That first night." You remind him. "I liked you." 

The confession feels monumental, even month later, like you're giving up the best card in your deck. No other moves left to play. 

"I liked you, and I told you I didn't do what we did and you left anyway." If you had the strength you'd bang your fists on his chest, yell it all a little louder. But you're deflated, it's enough just to keep your legs locked around his waist. 

Bucky's head drops, his forehead resting against yours. He looks tortured, like he'd been stabbed, your words worse than torture. 

"Went to get you water." He says. 

You shake your head, refusing to believe him. "I came out and you were gone!"

Bucky shakes his head against yours, noses brushing. "You looked like you were gonna pass out." He explains. "I went to get you water but the line at the bar was insane and when I came back you were gone."

No. That can't be right.

You can't have built an entire situationship out of a simple miscommunication. 

"My birthday?" You ask, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "You left then too."

Bucky nods, opening his eyes and staring into yours. His pupils are almost a normal size, still blown but shrunk enough for you to make out earnestness in all the blue. 

"Thought that was what you wanted." 

Your cunt starts to pulse around him, his pace unrelenting even as you unpack the entire history of this ongoing mistake.

"What girl wants to be used like that on her fucking Birthday?"

"Use you?" Bucky asks, his voice is past offended, bordering right into hurt. "You think I was the one using you?" 

His phrasing throws you, a hard swerve right into left field. 

"You think I used you?" You counter, still pushing back to meet his thrusts.

"Yes!" Bucky says, utterly exasperated as he rolls his hips into you. "Figured that was all you needed me for." 

"You were just going to let me keep doing it?" You ask, incredulous.

Bucky nods, interrupting the argument for a kiss against yours lips. His thrusts have devolved now, resorting to slow and steady strokes that have him just barely pulling out of you. 

"Better than not having you at all." He admits. 

His hand finally drops, deft fingers finding your clit and sending you over the edge in just a few tight circles. 

His words ring in your ear, the implication that he's thought about it, weighed his options. The idea that he chose to have you in any way he could regardless of what it meant or didn't mean. 

"I'm sorry." He gasps, wretched and pained.

Your orgasm isn't like the others, it feels pulled from you like an unwilling participant, body rejecting the pleasure in the middle of something so important. Still it washes over you like waves. Ebbing and flowing in intensity as Bucky chasing his own high. 

"Me too." You whisper, carding your hands through his hair as he tries desperately to catch up. 

The words seem to do the trick, Bucky's whole world collapsing in as he cums. 

He looks hollowed out after, pulling out of you without even catching his breath. It feels like rejection, like he'd rather rip himself apart than stay close to you.

He turns away from you as he tucks himself away, face turning back to stone. 

It's humbling as you put yourself back together, refusing to meet his eyes as you pull your skirt back down. 

Silence hangs between you in the aftermath, the only noise the buzz of the street lamps and the thumping of the bass inside the club. 

When Bucky turns back to you, its like you can see something unsaid in his eyes, a wet shine like he's holding back from you. 

"What now?" He asks, voice different than you've ever heard it. Like he already knows your answer, like he's afraid of it. 

You shake your head, pulling your arms tight across your chest, feeling overexposed by every inch of skin he can see. 

"What do you mean?"

Bucky shrugs. "What do we do now?"

The tears well at your lash line, the resignation in his voice telling you everything you need to know. All the signs pointing to one single conclusion.

He's waiting for you to let him off the hook.

So you do. 

"Now, nothing." You tell him, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "C'mon Bucky look at us." 

You gesture to the space that's grown between you, already cavernous and cold. 

"Let's not pretend this is something it isn't." 

Bucky nods, his expression unchanged. 

"If that's what you want."

Hasn't he heard a word you said? Of course it isn't. 

You lie anyway

"It is." 

By the fifth time, months have passed. 

At least four, maybe five. Nearly an entire year since that very first night.

It's taken you longer to get over it than you'd like to admit.

If you're being completely honest, you're not sure you have. 

It's ridiculous, you've had actual relationships hurt you less. 

Yet here you are, however many months later. haunting the same club and hoping you see him. 

You don't know how you'll react if you do. What you expect. There's nothing there for you, you know that. Nothing good than can come from it.

Yet here you are. All alone. Watching every shadow in hopes of seeing his familiar outline. 

I won't say anything. You think to yourself. I just need to see him.

Need to know he's real, that the entire thing actually happened. It's not enough that your friends quietly switched to a dive bar across town, that they shoot you a look whenever the topic of a night out comes up.

It's all so far away now you're half convinced it was a dream.

An empty spot at the bar is easy to claim, the world moving around you in slow motion. The bartender is busy and you don't even care, distractedly scanning the dancefloor. 

Your heart skips a beat every time you see something that could be him. A leather jacket draped over a booth. Black jeans on thick thighs. Messy brown curls stuck to sweaty skin. Blue eyes that are just a little sad around the edges-

Wait.

You go back to that last one, nerves prickling across your skin.

He's on the other side of the bar, eyes cast down at the scratched wood. 

You try to ignore the tingle of satisfaction at the observation that: He looks like shit.

You take the chance to look at him, something you never really got to do before. To watch him unencumbered, uninterrupted. Without any performance on his part.

Were his lips always so down-set? Did he always look so sad?

Someone, a woman saddles up along side him. She throws her hair over her shoulder and leans into his space without asking. 

Your heart steels in your chest. 

Maybe this is what you need. To watch him with someone else, to see him give her that smile that always made you weak. 

Except he doesn't, he doesn't even look at her. He only gives a small shake of his head and continues to stare down at his bottle. 

There's a voice behind you, muttering something just loud enough for you to hear over the music. 

"He's been like this for months." 

You head spins, it's his friend, the one with the pack of Marlboro's in his pocket and a sheepish look on his face. 

"Hi." You answer dumbly. 

"Hi." He says, giving you a small smile before nodding back towards Bucky. "Seriously, I think you broke him."

You shake your head. "No, I don't think-" 

He cuts you off. "Trust me." He takes a sip of his own drink, shrugging his shoulders. "He hardly even smiles these days, especially when we go out."

"He hasn't-" You struggle to find the words, a way to ask the question without sounding insane. "No one?"

"No one." He affirms. "Before or after you."

That first part gets your attention. 

"Wait what?" The blood rushes in your ears, the tiniest bloom of hope bursting in your chest. "What do you mean before me?"

"I don't know. Bucky's just like a romantic guy, y'know? Casual hookups have never been his thing." 

You spin back around to Bucky, where he sits alone and still as dejected. Your mind flashes back to that first night, when he told you that and your own insecurity refused to believe him. 

You had it wrong. You had it all wrong.

You don't mean to brush his friend off, but right now you have to get to him. 

It's a fight to get around, shoving through the crowd and using your shoulders to make way. Slowly crawling through the maze of people toward him. 

He still doesn't see you, but you don't stop to get his reaction. 

Instead you grab his hand and keep moving. 

Through the people, down the dark corridor that takes you to the last bathroom on the left. It's open, empty like it knew you were coming. 

You hear Bucky trying to speak, some question rolling off his tongue but you can't heart him over the sound of your heart beating in your chest.

Whatever it is, you don't need to hear it. 

He's client, you walk him back until his back hits the wall, until he has nowhere to go.

He's still talking, but you can't hear it instead you push up onto your tippy toes and cut him off mid sentence with your lips.

Bucky goes still, his entire body seizing up. You can feel his heart racing under your hands, his lips frozen against yours as he processes what's happening.

You pull back just as quick, confidence faltering at his lack of reaction. You don't have the words, the right way to explain yourself, all you have is your heart in your hands. 

"I lied." You whisper, "I want more."

Bucky comes to life in front of you, a thousand emotions running across his face. Confusion, understanding, utter relief. 

Then one more that sends a chill down your spine: want. 

He doesn't waste anymore time, hands cupping your cheeks and pulling you back to him. He cranes his neck, body curling around yours as he meets you in another kiss. A better kiss.

It's deeper than it ever was before, sweetened by distance and all the wasted time. 

It's a movie kiss wasted on a club bathroom, but you can't even begin to care. All that matters is him. Is Bucky, warm and wanting you just as much as you want him.

Bucky pulls back, a smile splitting his face as he presses his forehead against yours. 

"I'm sorry." He whispers, lips brushing yours like he can't bear to part from them, even to speak.

"Me too." You hum, rubbing your nose against him. "No running this time." 

"No running." He agrees, then he's kissing you again. 

Your skin tingles with it. Not just want, but something more complicated. Like butterflies paired with absolute certainty. Dished alongside relief. 

His hands roam, curving along your back, pressing you tight against him. 

"I missed you." He says, eyes fluttering open just enough to take you in. 

It's stupid, the airy giggle it pulls from you.

"You don't even know me." You remind him. "Not yet anyway." 

"Not true." He mutters. "I know your favorite drink." 

He cups the back of your thighs, just below the curve of your ass. He groans into your mouth, squeezing the flesh before using it to lift you onto that same counter.

Hey old friend.

Bucky's hands slide up the tops of your thighs, fingertips stopping just short of the hem of your skirt.

"I know your lucky skirt." He slides just beneath where the material ends, teasing the skin there. "Rather intimately."

Yes, you pulled it out of retirement for this. 

Your thighs spread on their own accord, making room for him to step between them. 

Bucky fills the space without any other encouragement. 

"I know you spray your perfume-" he dips his nose into the dip of your neck, placing a kiss on your collarbone. "Here and-" He wraps a hand around your wrist bringing that to his lips too. "Here." 

You crook a finger under his chin, guiding his lips back to yours. 

Bucky melts into it, chest pressing to yours as you lick into his mouth. 

You only pull back for air, only when your lungs go painfully tight. 

"What else do you know?" You prod, hands reaching for his belt.

Bucky hums, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours. 

"I know what you sound like when you're trying not to be too loud." He ducks to suck on the sensitive patch of skin just below your ear, eliciting a gasp. 

You manage to undo the buckle with shaking hands, the button and zipper on his pants following suit. Your hand slides into the material, cupping his already straining bulge over the material of his briefs. 

Bucky hisses at your touch, the noise fading into something strangled. 

His hand closes over your wrist, stopping it before you can go any further. He pulls it out of his pants, pinning both to the countertop on either side of your hips. 

Bucky's voice is gravely when he continues, straining through his want. "I know how you loud you get when you stop caring." 

Heat simmers low in your stomach, the memory of how well he knows how to make you do that potent in your mind. 

He nips at your jaw, laving a wet kiss over every bite. He repeats it, over and over again until you're jello in his arms, back arching into him as you give in to his touch.

"I know how you look when you fall apart." He finishes, "How beautiful you are when you finally give into it." 

A shiver rackets up your spine, your thighs coming up to squeeze his hips. 

"Bucky." You sigh, vision hazy. 

"Yes Pretty Girl?" He asks, humming against your skin. 

"Please touch me."

His hand leaves yours, pressing it down one more time so you get the message: don't move.

His hands slide over you, across your ribs and down your torso. Until he's right at the top of your heat, playing with the elastic of your panties.

"Most of all," he mutters, slipping between your skin and the cotton. His hand drifts down until your entire cunt is in his palm. "I know I haven't stopped thinking about you. Not since that first night."

Your hips grind uselessly into his hand, desperately looking for friction. 

You can't find the tongue for a bite back, all your wit having abandoned ship in search of safer, less horny shores. 

His words leave you whimpering, the picture of him as tortured, as consumed as you were. You'll have to compare notes. 

Just as soon as he fucks you.

Bucky slides two fingers into you, taking pity of your poor weeping cunt. "Poor thing." He murmurs, "been dying for something to fill you up haven't you?" 

You nod, feverish and hungry. "I missed you." You answer, "Everywhere."

A groan climbs out of his throat, and another heated kiss finds your lips. This time it's Bucky who invades, his tongue wrestling with yours as he tries to taste every inch of you. 

You give up on listening, your obedient hands abandoning their post. They reach for his shirt, fisting in the fabric and holding him close. 

"Don't wanna rush this." He says softer than the rest. "Wanna savor you for once."

The words send a thrill though your chest, a white hot spike of anticipation. 

"You can." You promise, reaching down into his briefs and wrapping a hand around his cock. It's even thicker than you remember, pulsing and heavy in your hand. "After you fuck me." 

Bucky nods, easily convinced. 

He pushes his elastic down, tucking the band just under his cock. 

God, you think as you look down at the sight. What you would give to see it framed by those thick thighs. 

That will all come soon enough though. You have no intention of going home without him. You already know that tonight, once won't be enough. 

Bucky sighs as you pump his length, his fingers pulling out of your cunt and using the left over moisture on them to coat his cock. 

He reaches for his wallet, pulling it out of his back pocket and reaching for a familiar foil packet. 

Your hand covers his, nervous energy mixing with your undeniable eagerness. 

"I'm on the pill." You whisper. "If you're okay-" 

Bucky tosses his wallet onto the floor, condom included. His lips slam back into yours, pulling you into him with a hand at the back of your neck. 

When he pulls back his eyes are wild, unfocused and dilated. "More than okay." He agrees, cock jumping between you. 

You kick your skirt down your legs, panties with it, leaving them both to dangle off of your ankle. Once they're gone you spread your thighs wider on the counter for him. A useless effort to lessen what you already know will be an intense stretch. 

Bucky's babbling the entire time, breathless sentences falling from his lips as he lines himself up with your cunt. 

"After that first time." He says. "I came here almost every night for a month. Hoping I'd see you again." 

A chill washes over you, bewildered and wanton. 

He pushes in, an inch at a time as he continues. 

"Started carrying condoms in my wallet like an asshole-" he explains, cutting himself off with a gasp as he finally bottoms out. "Just incase." 

He rests inside you for a moment, a reprieve you're more than grateful for. A chance to get reacquainted with this part of him, the weight of his cock and how it pulses inside you. The sting of the stretch

"Bucky?" You interrupt him, eyes squeezed shut as you try to gather your patience. 

Except after four months of wanting him and not having him, now that he's inside you? There is no patience. 

"Yeah?" He answers immediately, like eager like a dog for a treat. 

"You can tell me all that later when I suck you off, okay?" The words come out more trite than you intend, bitten by your own desperation for relief. Besides, you've been dying to suck him off since you first felt his thick outline. Your tongue heavy with the craving. "Right now I need you to fuck me."

Bucky fucking whimpers, the sound rolling through you like a gunshot.

His cock twitches inside you, voice strained as he chokes. "Can't fucking say shit like that, Jesus-" he nearly doubles over, sucking in a deep breath as he tries to regain his composure. "Later." He promises, "I'll tell you fucking everything."

You want to praise him, mutter something cocky and smug. 

But Bucky finally snaps into action, and anything you had dies on your tongue.

His hips snap into yours, one of his hands holding you in place on the sink. 

He feels incredible like this, with no layer between you. Every ridge and vein defined inside you. His heat burns, the raw contact driving you crazy as he fucks into your cunt.

The words all fall away, replaced with grunts and moans that bounce off the walls and mirror behind you.

Every thrust is another inch closer to orgasm, both of you building faster than your bodies can catch up. A rapid climb to the peak as you meet each others movements. 

Your hips cant to meet Bucky's angle, curving his cock head against that soft spot inside you.

Bucky rolls his fingers over your clit, slow circles with just the right amount of pressure. He works the nerve over until you're preening into his touch. 

It's a challenge now, like the first lap of a race. It's just the beginning, like your bodies are setting the tone. Except there's no first place, no loser. 

For once, tonight, you both win. 

"Are you close Pretty Girl?" Bucky asks, his pace unrelenting. "Tell me your close." 

You nod, biting your lower lip so hard you wouldn't be surprised if iron bloomed on your tongue. Your thighs are pushed so far apart it stings, your cunt open and vulnerable to him.

"Need to hear you." He insists. "Need you to talk baby c'mon." 

You whimper, dancing on the line of pleasure and overstimulation. Your stomach is pulled tight and you still can't seem to cross the threshold, desperate to cum and stuck.

"I'm so close-" you promise him, voice uneven and borderline squeaky. "So close I can't." 

You're almost sobbing now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they are your thighs.

"I missed you so much," you admit. "Nothing felt the same. Nothing feels as good as you do." 

Bucky groans, head falling into your neck as he starts to loose his rhythm. His fingers driver harder against your clit, determined to get you there. 

"Fucking ruined me." You gasp, pulling at his hair with your free hand. "There no one else but you." 

Bucky crumbles and takes you with him. He falls apart with a curse of your name and a stutter of his hips. 

You writhe into a puddle, vision turning white and cunt locking him in place.

His own release is hot inside you, only further spiking your pleasure. 

There's a warmth that comes with it, a serenity. No panic rising to the surface or guilt trickling into your bloodstream. 

There's euphoria after instead as, replacing your orgasm with floaty limbs and giggly laughter. 

Bucky's slower to come too, his eyes unfocused as he locks them on you after. 

He doesn't rush to pull out either, softening inside you and still staying put. 

"You're incredible." He whispers after, kissing you slow. Unhurried and unbothered. "Never letting you get away again."

Your heart burns, warmth like a vampire erupting in your chest. 

Playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, your smile, watching with delight as he turns to touch like a cat.

"Hey Bucky?" You ask, soft and sweeter than you've let yourself be before.

"Anything." He answers before you can even ask, pulling another saccharine giggle from you before you can continue. 

You take a deep breath, studying the man in front of you closely. The way he smiles at you with every freckle on display. How his eyes twinkle just a little brighter than they ever did before. You can't believe you never saw it before, never took the chance. As you whisper your request, you can only hope that you'll be able to make up for the lost time.

"Take me home."

Six is really some larger, more insane number. Long after you've stopped keeping track. Long since you've stopped being strangers. 

It had been quick. At least that's what everyone keeps telling you. Too many dates, too much time together, too many sleepovers. 

It was only a week before Bucky had a drawer cleared for your his place. Another before he pressed a key into your hand and whispered something about-

"Come whenever you want. I'll always be waiting for you."

A month and you practically slept there everything.

Some called it fast, you and Bucky called it right. 

Right, like your toothbrush next to his.

Right, like sitting on the back of his motorcycle with your arms around him.

Right, like waking up tangled together. Morning breath, messy hair, and all.

Right, like his cock buried so deep you can't think straight. 

In the drivers seat of his car to be specific. Your knees pressed into the leather seat on either side of his hips. 

All these things that feel right, things that you made grow together.

Well clearly your patience isn't one of them.

In the parking garage of his apartment building Bucky Barnes guides you up and down his cock because your apartment was just too far away. 

"We can't fuck in the elevator again." You reminded him as you climbed into his laps. "I'm pretty sure they'll actually kick us out." 

Bucky groans at the memory, his hips jerking up off the seat. 

"Worth it." He insists. "Although I'll never say no to seeing you like this."

In the months you spent between the sheets, you've learned a lot of new tricks. All these positions you can try when you're not restricted to a bathroom and a dingy countertop. 

You've become a fan of prone bone. Bucky has taken to anything that puts you on top of him. The car is no exception. 

His hands slide under your shirt, even pushing below the underwire of your bra so he can cup your tits in his hands. 

"Nothing better than this view I swear." He whispers, the picture of reverence. "You're fucking magic." 

You giggle, hips rolling against him. You're pressed flush to his pelvis, grinding against him in a languid pace. Not a care in the world. 

"You're just fucking horny." You tease, leaning down to press your chest to his as you keep rolling your hips. "And happy I'm doing all the work."

Bucky barks a laugh, carefree and perfect. 

"You're everything you know that?" He asks. "Three hundred and sixty five days a year. Not a single one where you aren't the best thing in my life."

The clubs have fallen out of your routine, long forgotten and replaced with take out and movie marathons. Slow sex on his couch and savoring touches. 

"I love you too." You whisper, grinning as you feel him twitch inside you. "Three-six-five."

Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)

Main Masterlist

Bucky was going to have words with Sam. 

He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”

“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”

You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position. 

“Hey, feet down.”

You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”

Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”

Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything. 

“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him. 

"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that." 

Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add. 

The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments. 

“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you. 

Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”

“I’m a good driver!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”

Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS. 

“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”

Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.

“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio. 

It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders. 

The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement. 

You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night. 

The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”

You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.

“Sounds good.”

“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.

The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”

Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time. 

The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.” 

You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly. 

Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else. 

“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more. 

“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”

Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”

“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”

Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”

Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”

Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting. 

His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”

Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.

He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him. 

What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.

The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying. 

“Good shower?” He asks tentatively. 

You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like. 

“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”

Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”

“Go for it.” 

Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.

A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”

Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”

In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”

“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all. 

“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”

“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”

“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark. 

“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

 There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.” It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared. 

“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”

Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap. 

This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark. 

Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.

“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”

Your thighs were shaking badly enough that you could feel it in your bones. Your skin was hot, sweat gathering at your neck, between your breasts, at the crease at the back of your thighs. Your throat ached from keeping quiet for the sake of his neighbors, your thighs trembled with the strain of holding yourself up, and the place where your bodies met was slick and swollen and so sensitive that even the smallest shift made your stomach pull tight.

That had been the most overwhelming part, worse somehow than the stretch of him inside you, worse than the careful roll of his hips or the way his hands could not decide whether to hold you steady or let you move however you wanted. He watched like he was afraid to blink. Like the first time with you was something he had already convinced himself he would never get to have, and now that he had it, now that you were above him, flushed and shaking and breaking apart on him, he did not trust memory to do the moment justice later.

He had been painfully careful from the start. His palms trembled at your breast, waist, thighs. His voice kept cracking around soft check-ins, asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if you wanted more, if he could touch you there, if he could help, if he could move, if you were sure. You teased him for talking so much until he gave you one amused chuckle, and then you sank down on him again and watched the laugh die in his throat.

Now, there was nothing.

No nervous check-in. No shy smile. No attempt to joke his way out of wanting too much.

His fingers tightened at your hips, digging into the wet heat of your skin with a strength that thrilled you, and his mouth agape. His brown eyes were fixed on a point beyond you, cheeks flushed all the way down his chest. The curls at his forehead were damp, sticking in messy pieces to his skin. His chest rose once beneath your clammy palms, hard and shaky, then stopped.

You blinked down at him, still pulsing around him, still too sensitive to think clearly.

“Hm? Baby?” you frowned, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Are you okay?”

Peter swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your lips.

"Wh—what did you say?" he cleared his throat. "Just now."

You stared at him through the dark. Your hips shifted, a tiny, involuntary grind as your body tried to ride out the aftershock and offset the ache in your knees, and his cock twitched inside you so suddenly you whimpered.

"I—I said your name?" you breathed, the last word pitched higher than the rest.

His eyes snapped back to yours fully.

For one awful moment, you convinced yourself you did something wrong, offensive, forbidden. He didn't press a reassuring kiss along the crease between your furrowed brows. He didn't retort with a clever little quip. His whole body remained as unflinching as his stare, causing unease to settle low in your belly like bricks tied to your feet.

"Can you say it again?"

You licked your swollen lips and swallowed. "Peter."

He groaned, a low, filthy rumble felt beneath your fingertips, sounding nothing like the sweet, careful young man who kissed and hugged you like he was afraid of wanting too much. His hips jerked up, and you gasped, fingers curling against his chest as the movement sent a sharp, tingling pulse through your overstimulated body.

"Again, baby," he rasped. "Please. Say it again."

The plea made you clench around him.

You leaned forward until your palms pressed flatter against him, close enough to feel how fast his heart was beating. "Peter," you murmured, slower this time, letting every letter land. "You feel so good."

Peter’s head tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, Adam's apple bobbing while stifling a moan. His hands slid to the meat of your ass, dragging you down against him. Wetness smeared between your bodies with every small, shaking movement, your thighs slick against his hips, the room full of soft skin sounds and the broken mess of both your breathing.

"Peter," you tried again, quieter this time, curious to see what it would do to him. "You’re so good to me. You’ve been so sweet with me."

He shut his eyes.

"Baby," he warned, but it came out moreso pleading for mercy.

"You," you repeated, rolling your hips down in a slow circle that, and felt his hands flex against you. "I know you. I know how you try to say sorry before you even ask for something. I know how you look at the door like you’re already planning how to leave before anyone can make you. I know how your hands shake when you’re trying to be gentle."

His eyes opened.

You touched his cheek, thumb dragging over the damp heat beneath his eye.

"And now I know you like hearing me say your name in bed."

You barely had time to blink before his arms locked around you, and the room turned.

One second you were above him, trembling and dizzy, and the next your back hit the damp sheets. Peter's body covered yours, his hand braced beside your head. The motion stole the air out of your lungs. His curls fell forward and tickled your cheek. His mouth hovered over yours, open and panting, so close you could feel the heat of every breath.

You stared up at him wide-eyed and breathless.

"Too much?" he got out, stunned by himself. His hips were still pressed tight to yours, buried deep, his whole body held taut. Even like this, even frantic, Peter was careful with you. Careful enough not to hurt you. Not careful enough to hide that something in him had gone ravenous and needy all at once. "Tell me if it’s too much."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down until his mouth hovered over yours, fingers tenderly brushing the hair at his nape. "Don’t stop, Peter."

His forehead dropped to yours, then thrust into you so deeply your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Fuck!" you gasped, back arching and head falling back against the pillow.

Peter kissed the corner of your open mouth impatiently, missed, kissed your cheek instead, then your jaw, then the side of your neck like he could not decide where he needed to be. "Say it again."

"Peter."

He groaned into your mouth.

"My Peter," you added before you could think better of it.

"Shit," he choked, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing you. "Don’t call me that unless you want me to lose it."

You held his face between your hands and looked right at him beneath your lashes. "Lose it, Tiger."

He thrust again as his mouth crashed into yours, messy and greedy, swallowing the rest of your voice until you were surrendering to him. Your body dragged tight around him, too sensitive and too wet, every stroke making your stomach jump and your toes curl. His skin was hot beneath your palms, damp at the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, tense in a way that made you feel every bit of strength he was holding back. sweat gathering between you until there was no clean place to cling onto him. Your fingers pushed into his hair, and he sighed when you tugged tightly.

"D'you like—that?"

“Yes.” He confessed immediately, shoving his face into the side of your neck as if he could hide from how badly he meant it. “Liked that. God, Don't—hmm— don’t—stop saying it, too. Please. I need—”

His sentence faltered when you clenched around him.

"Need what?" you pushed, and maybe it was cruel, maybe you should've stayed soft with him, but the way he shook above you made your head swim. "Tell me."

Peter laughed, embarrassed, and completely gone.

"I need to hear it again," he mumbled, hips slowing enough to make your breath catch. "Nobody—baby, nobody says it— like you. Nobody says it like they know me."

Your heart twisted, and your eyes burned. It was then you understood.

There were only a few things Peter Parker let himself have anymore. He let himself have the raggedy apartment with the rusted window lock and the radiator that rattled all winter. He let himself have the suit, hidden in places no one would think to look. He let himself have coffee gone cold on the fire escape, cheap takeout eaten standing over the sink, bruises he pretended were not as bad as they looked, and jokes that never quite burrowed the loneliness underneath.

But his name was different.

His name was not something the world gave him anymore. Not knowingly or graciously. Not with your hands in his soft curly hair and your body warm beneath his, not with your voice trembling around each vowel and consonant like it belonged to you too. It had been so long since anyone had known him enough to say his name with familiarity, with love, with want, with worry, with need.

He was still moving, dragging the words out of you with every deep roll of his hips, still looking at you like he was two seconds away from begging on his knees if that was what it took.

So you gave it to him.

"Peter," you cried, louder this time. "My Peter."

He lost the rhythm but found it again, rough enough to make the bed knock once against the wall, then again. His hand dropped to your thigh and hitched it higher against his side, opening you up until you cried out. Your skin tingled everywhere he touched you. Your stomach pulled tight. The place between your legs was slick and swollen and loud, every thrust pushing wetness between your bodies until you could hear it, until the sound made your face burn and his hips stutter.

Peter's focus dropped where you were connected for one hot second, and the look that crossed his face almost finished you by itself.

“Geez,” he breathed, then looked back at you like he needed to watch your face or he would completely lose his mind. "You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?"

You nodded frantically. "You’re so deep. You’re so good. You’re making me feel so good."

His mouth dropped open against your temple.

"Again."

"You’re good," you stressed, softer but no less wrecked. "I love you, Peter, so much. Wish—wish you could see yourself. You look— so damn good—when you let me have you like this."

He kissed you so hard it almost hurt.

It was messy, all tongue and teeth and panting into each other’s mouths. He swallowed your moans like he needed them. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same frantic lack of patience, and your back arched so hard your chest dragged against his. The pressure was too much after already coming once. Too sharp. Too good. Your legs started shaking around him again, heels digging uselessly into the backs of his thighs as your second orgasm started to build fast and unbearable.

"Baby, I’m-I'm close close."

"Me too,” You clung to him, frantic from the steady pressure of his fingers. "I can feel it."

"Say my name— when you come," he urged, the words nearly falling over each other. "Please—Please, I need to hear it. Need to know—it’s me making you feel like this."

Your chest tightened, but there was no room to make it gentle. Not with him moving like that. Not with his fingers rubbing you in tight, desperate circles while his hips drove into you, not with the wet slap of skin against yours, not with his mouth open against your throat and his breath coming apart in hot, uneven bursts.

Your second orgasm hit hard enough to steal the room from you. You gripped him, mouth open, breath catching uselessly before sound finally broke out.

"Peter!" you sobbed, dragging both hands down his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath his slick skin, and pulled him as close as he could get. "Peter, it’s—you. It’s you! Only you!"

He came with a groan against your neck, hips shoved deep, arms wound right around you. He kept moving in shallow, helpless little rolls that made you whimper with each wave of his release.

Your body was too sensitive, still pulsing around him, thighs straining, but that didn't stop you from talking because you could feel what it did to him.

"I’ve got you," you soothed, stroking his hair while his weight settled heavier over you. His curls brushed your cheek every time he tried to breathe. "I’ve got you. You’re here with me. I know you."

A sound left him at that, quiet and exhausted, vulnerable just for your ears.

For a while, you were both content in each other's arms.

The air was hot around you. The sheets needed to be changed. Your legs felt weak where they had fallen loose around his hips, and your fingers tingled from how tightly you had been holding onto him. Peter stayed tucked against you, breathing hard into the space above your collarbone, his body still trembling in little aftershocks he could not seem to control.

You kissed his hair. "Baby?"

His arms tightened around you immediately, swallowed hard, then lifted himself just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes still dark, his mouth swollen from yours. He looked embarrassed now, a little scared by how much you had seen, but still yearning to show you more.

“I'm here,” he answered from somewhere far away, like he still couldn't believe someone called for him and meant him. "Yeah. I’m here. I love you."

"Peter Parker," you cradled his jaw, one thumb sweeping the apple of his cheek gently. "You're here, and I love you, too."

His eyes fluttered at the touch, the tenderness, and he kissed you again.

.

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

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