Bucky Fics Reblogs

The Avengers briefing room was buzzing with the usual mission energy. You sat at the long table, idly twirling a pen between your fingers while Steve laid out the details.

“Two squads,” he explained. “Barnes, you’re with Sam. Y/N, you’re with Clint.”

You nodded, jotting down a few notes. It wasn’t unusual the team often rotated partners. Clint was reliable, strategic, sharp with his arrows. No issue at all.

Except the second the words left Steve’s mouth, you felt a weighty stare burn into your side. You turned. And there he was.

Bucky. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on Steve like he’d just said the most offensive thing in the world.

“Problem?” Steve asked, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Bucky said flatly. “Big problem.”

The entire room went quiet. Natasha looked up from her tablet. Sam smirked. Clint blinked at Bucky, confused.

Steve sighed. “Care to elaborate?”

Bucky leaned forward on the table, voice low but firm. “You’re pairing her with Barton? Why?”

“Because it makes sense tactically—”

“No,” Bucky cut in, shaking his head. “No, if she’s going out there, she’s with me. End of discussion.”

Your cheeks burned as every pair of eyes in the room swung toward you.

“Buck—” you started softly.

He turned, those blue eyes wide and almost panicked, though he tried to mask it with his usual gruffness. “Doll, don’t. You know I’m right. If something goes wrong out there, it’s me or no one. I can’t just—” He clenched his jaw, cutting himself off.

Sam leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the show. “Yikes. Didn’t know Barnes had attachment issues.”

Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “It’s not attachment. It’s common sense. She’s my partner.”

Clint held up his hands. “Hey, no complaints here, man. I like keeping all my limbs intact. She can be with you.”

Nat smirked knowingly. “So protective. Almost cute, if it weren’t so obvious.”

You swallowed a laugh, trying to diffuse the tension. “Bucky, it’s fine. I’ve worked with Clint before—”

His hand found yours under the table, gripping it tight. “No. Not fine.” His voice softened, almost breaking. “You don’t understand. I need to be there. For you.”

And just like that, your heart turned into a puddle.

Steve sighed again, exasperated but clearly fighting a smile. “Alright, Barnes. Fine. Y/N stays with you. Sam, you’re with Clint.”

“Wait, why me?” Sam groaned. “Man, this is favoritism.”

“Live with it,” Bucky muttered, not even looking away from you.

The mission itself was simple infiltrate, gather intel, get out. And true to his word, Bucky never left your side. Not once.

You climbed a fence? He was right behind you, steadying your hips as you landed. You hacked into a system? He stood guard, hand brushing your back. Someone so much as looked your way? He stepped between you and them, jaw tight, eyes daring anyone to try.

By the time you both returned to the jet, your chest ached with affection. He was ridiculous. Stubborn. Overprotective. And maybe… you loved him for it.

As you buckled into your seat, Bucky sat beside you, still tense.

“You’re pouting,” you teased softly.

He scowled. “I don’t pout.”

“Mm, sure.” You nudged him. “You didn’t have to make such a big scene back there.”

“Yes, I did.” His voice was quiet now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it, doll. I can’t let anything happen to you. I couldn’t live with myself if—” He stopped, running a hand over his face. “You’re mine to protect. Always.”

Your heart did a full somersault “Bucky Barnes,” you whispered, smiling as you reached for his hand. He looked down, startled, as you laced your fingers with his. “You don’t have to prove anything. I already know.”

He blinked. “Know what?”

“That I’m safe with you.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, warmth spreading through your chest. “Always.”

For the first time that day, his shoulders relaxed. He pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring against your hair “Damn right you are.”

✦✦✦✦ ✦✦✦✦

💌 tagged babies under the cut 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @sebastians-love @lilulicious @themareverine @oscarssebastian

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.

hope you’ll enjoy!

The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.

You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.

The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face. 

Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.

But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.

You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.

If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.

Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up. 

The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.

“Oi! You.”

You turn.

Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.

“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”

You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.” 

“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”

He dives for you. But he never reaches you.

The air moves.

Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.

The third fleds immediately.

The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.

“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”

“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.

He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.

“Careful.”

He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”

You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m used to it.”

You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights. 

“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”

You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”

The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.

Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.

And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.

And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you. 

Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight.  And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength. 

James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.

He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours. 

He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.

You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.

And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.

James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.

So he watches the others instead.

He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.

He catalogues it all.

Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency. 

He listens for repetition and invention.

At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry. The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.

Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.

And James feels no guilt.

Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.

However, it is not enough.

James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.

Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.

He loathes himself for it.

James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.

He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.

What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.

That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.

James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.

For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.

James noticed.

He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.

And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.

You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.

Of course, this did not happen by accident.

James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.

And no one had ever guarded your mind before.

You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.

Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.

The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.

And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.

With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.

If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.

And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.

What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.

It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub. 

Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.

“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”

A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.

He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.” 

The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.

“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”

He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.

Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.

“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.

You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.

James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.

But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.

And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.

“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.

You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”

He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire. 

His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.

Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.

He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.

“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.

He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.

“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.

When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”

James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.

The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.

At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.

He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.

The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.

James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.

The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.

“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”

He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”

Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”

His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”

James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.

You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”

He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.

For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out. 

The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”

James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”

Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”

“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.

You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”

Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.

You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.

The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.

He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.

“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.

“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.

“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”

You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”

James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.

“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”

The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.

“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”

His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.

His hand curls unconsciously at his side.

“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.

Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”

You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”

He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.

“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”

You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”

“Yes.”

“And they said no.”

“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”

You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”

“Exactly.”

He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.

“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”

You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.

The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.

“That sounds ominous.”

“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”

“And if you say fight?”

His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly. 

“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”

Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.

If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.

Both possibilities terrify him equally.

James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.

The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.

He has imagined you bleeding before.

The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.

James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.

This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.

He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.

That belief is heavier than armor.

“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.

The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.

As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?

James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.

He loves you.

Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.

He abhors himself for it.

Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.

Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.

He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.

And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.

That trust is sacred.

James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.

He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.

If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.

The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.

The city smells different now.

Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.

He hates crowds.

Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.

He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.

You notice, of course.

“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.

You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.

“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”

James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.

“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.

“That’s the point.”

Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.

The man yelps, and the street goes still.

James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.

The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.

“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.

The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.

James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone. 

Always blood.

He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.

Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.

“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”

The words anchor him more firmly than any command.

He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.

“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”

You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.

“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”

He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.

After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.

Yet James swallows it down.

When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.

“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”

His gaze drops to the stones between you.

“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”

Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.

“Shall we continue?” He asks.

You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”

And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.

The Great Hall is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.

James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.

You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.

Not the ones reserved for him. Never. 

These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.

The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives. 

Men try their luck anyway.

One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.

He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.

No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.

James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.

The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”

Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The man bows, disappointed but powerless.

James does not look back at him.

You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing. 

And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.

“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”

The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.

Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.

“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”

“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.

You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”

“It is when they forget themselves.”

Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”

“I always watch.”

You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.

“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”

“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.

You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.

“Dance with me.”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

“No.” 

You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”

“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.

Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.

Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.

Because I will never want to let go.

“Because I am on duty.” He opts to say instead.

But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.

“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “So tonight protect me from the memory of that room, James.”

Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.

He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.

The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.

James forgets to breathe.

Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.

Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.

And yet you fit here best, in his arms.

To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.

For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.

“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”

His heart thunders.

James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.

He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.

And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.

Reality hits like cold water.

It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.

You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn. 

“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.

The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still linger in the Great Hall, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.

You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.

Every muscle in his body locks.

“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.

“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.

He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.

Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.

“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”

He freezes.

“With… ?” He asks carefully.

“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”

His mind stutters, then reels.

“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”

You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”

That is the problem.

He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.

“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.

“I will.” You promise.

He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.

His breath hitches.

The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.

“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”

You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.

“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”

You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.

“Thank you.”

He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him. The corridor feels colder without you. James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.

He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.

“I’m in bed.” You call softly.

Only then does he allows himself to exhale.

He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.

And tonight, he holds it.

Barely.

James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.

The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.

James closes his eyes.

That was the moment.

Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.

But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.

He wanted to stay.

James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.

He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.

He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.

He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.

These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.

James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.

The thought makes him sick.

He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.

Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.

If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.

James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.

It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.

Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.

But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed. 

He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.

The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.

Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then… 

His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.

James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.

His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.

Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.

Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him. 

His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes. 

In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.

“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.

He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.

Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul. 

With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.

James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.

“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.

It slams shut with finality.

The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”

Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.

Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”

James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”

Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”

He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.

“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”

The words strike him like poisoned arrows.

James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.

“How soon?” He exhales harshly.

“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”

A fortnight.

Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.

“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.

Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”

James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”

Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”

James’ answer is immediate. 

“Always.”

Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.

Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.

James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.

You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.

James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”

You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”

Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”

His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.

Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.

He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.

For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.

He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.

Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.

Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”

Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest. 

“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.

For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.

Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.

He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”

Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.

“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”

Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”

He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.

Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession. 

“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

“I have done things by myself, but…”

“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”

“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is mischievous when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.

“Your Highness—”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout. 

He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–” 

“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly. 

“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face. 

“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal. 

His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach. 

And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.

“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.  

“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.

“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks. 

You like him, you are accepting him.

Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?” 

And James is only a man.

He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.

“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.

“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.

“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”

You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head. 

“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears. 

“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.

James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.

“Gods above, sweetheart.”

You do not answer right away.

The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.

“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”

He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”

You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”

James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.

Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”

James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”

You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.

For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.

The Great Hall is shimmering in opulence once again, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.

The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.

James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.

He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.

At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.

James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.

“Have you seen the Princess?”

Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.” 

James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.

You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.

The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately. 

“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”

His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.

“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”

Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.

“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.

“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”

Your arms tighten around him. “James.”

He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.

“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”

Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”

He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling. 

“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”

He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.

You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him. 

“I love you.” You whisper.

James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”

James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.

They do not understand. They never will, not fully. 

The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”

James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”

The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”

James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?

They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.

The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?

He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.

“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”

The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”

Subtle.

That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.

He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”

The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”

Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.

He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.

“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”

James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”

You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”

“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”

Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”

James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”

The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.

The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone. 

James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.

You close the door softly behind you.

“James.”

At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain. 

“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer. 

He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.

“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”

He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.

Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.

“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”

James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.

The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.

James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret. 

“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble. 

“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”

James is certain his ears are on fire now.

“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand. 

Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–

“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.

Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.

Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.

“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”

His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”

Your hand pauses.

“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”

His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.

“And I am yours.” 

You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him. 

“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette. 

“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.” 

A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.

He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.

The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part. 

Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.

“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.

James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.

Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency. 

“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.

“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest. 

He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”

James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well. 

The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.

His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?

“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.

“I promise, my sweetness.”

You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.

“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”

James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!

Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.

The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him. 

“Sweetheart–” 

“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.

His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.

“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight. 

James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.

“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”

He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.

His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.

“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.

His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.

“Sweetheart, your mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.

He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.

Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it. 

Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!

Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock. 

A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.

Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.

Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.

“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.

“Oh Gods, your wound!”

This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.

You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.

James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.

“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes. 

James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.

Yet, it is enough for now.

Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.

You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”

“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.

It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.

“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.

You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.

And James listens, because your every word matters.

Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.

James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness. 

With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.

You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?

The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.

“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”

Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.

“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy. 

“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.

His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.

You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.

His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again. 

“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–” 

Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard. 

“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.

When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.

It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.

“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”

You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.

Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”

He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.

He is in the practice yard when he hears your steps. Not the measured ones you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven. Your skirts are hitched too high, and your breath breaks. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.

“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.

He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.

“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”

You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”

The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.

For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face. 

He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.

“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.

Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the Western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.” 

Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.

But he says none of it.

“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.

James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”

Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.

“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”

His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.

James would not allow it.

You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.

“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”

Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.

“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”

He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.

Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.

“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”

“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”

“My love, what are you suggesting—”

“Take me.”

“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”

“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”

“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”

“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”

James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”

Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”

“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”

Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”

His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.

“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”

For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.

The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps. 

With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion. 

“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.

“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”

You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.

You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.

Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.

James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.

He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”

You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.

“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.

To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.

“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off. 

“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”

James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine. 

“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response. 

“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more. 

“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.

“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.

“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.

“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.” 

“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.

“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”

And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.

A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth attached to your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you. 

Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.

“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.

“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.

Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.

James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.

He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.

Not even his armor.

He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.

When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.

“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”

Your breath hitches at those hushed words, yet they outshout every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.

“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”

He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08

He had a system at home.

A good system.

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

Peace.

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

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

“She likes me.”

“She bites everyone else.”

“That sounds like a them problem.”

Steve hides a smile.

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

“It’s Morgan’s birthday,” Steve says.

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

Bucky flips him off without looking.

The car goes quiet for a minute.

Not awkward quiet. Just familiar.

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

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

Rich people territory.

Bucky already hates it.

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

Bucky stares at him like he personally insulted his ancestors.

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

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

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

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

Music drifts faintly through the air.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

He already wants to leave.

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

“I never do that.”

“You vanished through a bathroom window last time.”

“It was efficient.”

“You’re impossible.”

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

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

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

“I could bench press you into traffic.”

“But you won’t.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

Mostly because Steve opens the front doors right then—

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

— 15 minutes earlier —

The dressing room is chaos.

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

And Dylan is pacing.

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

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

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

“Yes,” you say carefully.

“It’s the Starks.”

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

“That’s worse.”

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

For one stupid second, you almost feel like Belle.

Dylan doesn’t.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“You’re not gonna throw up.”

“What if the Avengers are there?”

You stop.

Okay. Fair point.

The knot in your stomach tightens instantly.

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

So you grab Dylan by the shoulders.

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

“Yes, but—”

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

That earns a weak laugh.

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

“Then I’ll wait.”

Another laugh. Better this time.

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

A knock hits the door before he can answer.

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

Your stomach flips.

Dylan immediately pales again.

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

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

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

Everything gleams.

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

And near the center of it all—

“Mama! Belle’s here!”

Morgan Stark barrels toward you at full speed.

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

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

Her gasp is immediate. “Really?”

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

She beams.

And just like that, the nerves disappear.

Because this part—you know this part.

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

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

“Belle, can you sing?”

“Can you dance?”

“Where’s Beast?”

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

A chorus of screams answers you.

Then you start singing.

And the entire party quiets.

Not because you’re loud.

Because you’re good.

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

Across the lawn, Bucky looks up almost by accident.

And immediately regrets it.

Because now he’s looking at you.

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

And for one strange second—

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

You look like one.

Then your eyes lift suddenly.

Find his across the crowd.

Bucky expects the usual reaction instantly.

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

Instead, your expression softens.

Just slightly.

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

And the smile you give him—

God.

It’s small.

Almost shy.

But warm enough that he actually feels it.

Like sunlight slipping through something cracked open.

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

But now your heartbeat feels different too.

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

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

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

You don’t even flinch.

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

Something in his chest shifts unpleasantly.

Or pleasantly.

He hasn’t decided yet.

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

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

None of it feels fake.

Which is exactly the problem.

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

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

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Your stomach drops instantly.

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

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

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

Morgan gasps. “You eat nuggets?”

“In alarming quantities.”

The children dissolve into laughter.

Your phone buzzes again.

Definitely Dylan.

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

Morgan grabs your skirt dramatically. “By who?”

You glance at the phone screen.

Dylan: I THINK IM DYING

“…the French.”

You slip away before the kids can ask further questions.

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

“What happened?”

“I threw up.”

You stop walking. “What?”

“I told you I was gonna throw up.”

“Oh my God.”

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

You press your fingers to your forehead.

Of course he does.

Of course this happens at Tony Stark’s house.

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

A miserable pause.

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

“Great.”

“I’m so sorry.”

And the worst part?

He genuinely sounds devastated.

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

“That’s fair.”

You hang up.

Then immediately turn and nearly collide with Pepper Potts.

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

You try to smile professionally.

It must fail horribly.

“The Beast actor is sick.”

Pepper blinks once.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

“He can’t come out at all?”

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

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

Because unfortunately, the timing is terrible.

Kids are already gathering near the photo backdrop.

Morgan keeps asking when Beast is coming.

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

Pepper turns sharply. “No.”

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

“You have an ego.”

“I can roar.”

“You have to greet people.”

“I can greet people as Beast.”

Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose.

You almost laugh despite yourself.

Then another voice joins in.

“…Tony’s right, though.”

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

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

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

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

This cannot be your life.

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

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

The same man from earlier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pepper looks between them hopefully. “Wait.”

Sam grins.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

Bucky straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re tall,” Sam says helpfully.

“So is Steve.”

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

“UNCLE AMERICA!”

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

“There he is,” Bucky mutters.

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

And Steve actually lets himself get dragged away.

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

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

Bucky looks deeply betrayed.

Sam looks delighted.

“You were saying?” Sam asks.

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

Pepper is visibly trying not to laugh now.

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

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

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

Guilt hits instantly.

Bucky notices.

And unfortunately for him, Sam notices Bucky noticing.

Which means it’s over.

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

“No.”

“You’d just stand there looking grumpy.”

“No.”

“You already do that recreationally.”

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

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

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“See? Beast energy.”

Bucky looks at you then.

Really looks at you for the first time up close.

The gold dress.

The nervous expression you’re trying to hide.

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

You look exhausted.

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

And that annoying feeling in his chest returns.

Stronger this time.

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

He exhales slowly.

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

Then back at you.

“…I hate all of you,” he mutters.

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

“It should be.”

Pepper smiles hopefully. “Bucky?”

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

“…fine.”

The room goes silent.

You blink. “Wait. Really?”

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

Sam nearly folds in half laughing.

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

The costume department clearly did not account for super soldiers.

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

Bucky notices you staring immediately.

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

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

Bucky huffs quietly.

“That’s one way to say it.”

Up close, he’s unfairly intimidating.

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

Even the ridiculous Beast mask somehow makes him look dangerous.

Which feels deeply unfair for a Disney prince.

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

Bucky looks down at you.

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

“…yeah,” he says quietly.

A pause.

“I kinda do.”

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

“BEAST!”

The little girl launches herself directly at Bucky.

Every muscle in his body visibly locks.

You almost panic for him.

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

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

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

You grin. “That’s Beast.”

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

Bucky looks down at her.

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

You snort so suddenly you choke on air.

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

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

But it’s harder now for some reason.

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

You barely know him.

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

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

Which is doing unfortunate things to your brain.

The backyard erupts the second Morgan reappears with him.

“BEAST!”

Children swarm immediately.

Bucky freezes.

Again.

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

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

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

You hide another smile.

The next twenty minutes become complete chaos.

Children asking Bucky impossible questions.

“Do you live in the castle?”

“Can you roar?”

“Why are your hands so big?”

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

You nearly inhale your own tongue trying not to laugh.

Bucky looks ready to walk directly into the ocean.

But somehow he stays.

He does the photos.

Lets kids hold his hands.

Even growls once after Morgan begs him to.

The children lose their minds.

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

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

Probably from laughing.

Probably.

Then the music changes.

Soft piano drifting through the speakers.

Your stomach drops instantly.

The dance scene.

Morgan gasps dramatically. “NOW!”

Bucky goes still beside you.

“No.”

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

“I don’t dance.”

“You’re literally a prince.”

“I’m literally not.”

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

And suddenly—

Oh.

Your gloved hand lands against his.

His hand settles carefully at your waist.

The other wraps around your fingers.

You feel him hesitate.

Not because he doesn’t know how to dance.

Because he’s trying not to hurt you.

The realization hits instantly.

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

His gaze flicks down to yours through the mask.

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

The warmth of his hand.

The carefulness in the way he’s holding you.

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

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

You blink.

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

“You didn’t answer.”

You should probably make a joke.

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

Gentle despite the strength behind them.

Then Morgan yells, “KISS HER!”

Both of you jump apart instantly.

“Nope,” Bucky says immediately.

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

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

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

Too carefully.

Like he’s afraid to press too hard.

Like he’s constantly aware of himself.

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

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

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

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

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

The question catches you completely off guard.

Because he sounds genuinely unsure.

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

“That wasn’t the question.”

Something warm twists painfully in your chest.

His grip tightens slightly at your waist.

“Don’t wanna mess this up.”

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

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

That pulls a laugh out of you.

Bucky’s gaze lifts at the sound immediately.

Not to the children.

Not to the crowd.

Just you.

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

Then, quieter this time:

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

Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.

“No,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”

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

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

“Morgan!” you call brightly.

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

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

Morgan screams.

Actually screams.

Bucky looks at you immediately.

You give him your most innocent Belle smile.

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

“I would never.”

“You literally are right now.”

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

“C’MON BEAST!”

Bucky looks at you one last time over her head.

“You’re trouble,” he says flatly.

Your pulse jumps embarrassingly hard.

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

The second he’s gone, you exhale.

Hard.

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

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

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

The Beast mask should make him look ridiculous.

Instead, somehow, it only makes the contrast worse.

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

Yet impossibly gentle with her.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

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

You nearly jump.

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

“I am not.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“That’s never stopped anybody before.”

You glare at him.

He grins wider.

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan giggles.

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

“I’m old,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

Morgan gasps.

You gasp louder. “Beast!”

Sam nearly collapses laughing.

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

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

Honestly?

You do too.

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

And suddenly the silence feels… different.

Not awkward exactly.

Just noticeable.

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

Which turns out to be a mistake.

Because he’s unfairly handsome.

You look away immediately.

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

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

Your eyes flick back to him.

“Morgan?”

“Morgan,” he confirms.

A beat passes.

Then, quieter:

“…you too, I guess.”

Your heart does something deeply irritating.

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

You smile before you can stop yourself.

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

“That’s the mask.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“The fur changes a man.”

That earns another laugh out of you.

And again, that look crosses his face.

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

You notice it this time.

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

“You surviving?” he asks.

The Beast sighs. “Barely.”

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

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

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

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

He snorts softly.

“First time.”

“You seemed pretty experienced.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You handled the kids well.”

For a second, he doesn’t answer.

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

Then he shrugs slightly.

“They’re easier than adults.”

You blink.

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

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

But you saw it.

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

“Cake!” Morgan announces like a war cry.

The children erupt instantly.

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

“C’mon!”

Bucky visibly braces himself.

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

Bucky stops walking immediately.

“No.”

Morgan gasps. “What?”

“I can’t fit in that.”

“You have to sit with Belle!”

Children nearby immediately begin chanting:

“BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!”

Bucky looks personally betrayed by every child present.

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“That’s not very princely.”

“That’s because I’m not a prince.”

Morgan points dramatically at the seat.

Bucky sighs like a man moments from death.

Then lowers himself carefully into the tiny chair.

The plastic creaks ominously.

Every child at the table gasps.

You fully choke on a laugh.

Bucky turns toward you slowly through the Beast mask.

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

And honestly?

It’s cute.

Ridiculously cute.

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

Then Morgan accidentally gets blue frosting across her own cheek.

“Oh no!” she gasps.

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

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

Bucky notices immediately.

And unfortunately—

Now he can’t stop looking at it.

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

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

And somehow that feels more distracting than the dress.

Than the dancing.

Than literally anything else tonight.

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

You blink. “What?”

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

“…there.”

You try wiping it away blindly.

“Did I get it?”

“No.”

“Great.”

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

Then, carefully, he reaches across the tiny table.

His claw brushes softly against your cheek.

Warm despite the gloves.

You stop breathing entirely.

He tries wiping the frosting away—

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

You stare at him.

He stares at the disaster he just created.

Then, very flatly:

“…I made it worse.”

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

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Soft at first.

Then brighter.

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

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

“There,” you murmur.

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

The second you touch him—

He freezes.

Completely.

Your smile falters just slightly.

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

How still.

How carefully he’s looking at you now.

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

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

“…you guys are weird.”

Sam immediately loses his mind laughing somewhere behind the table.

And Bucky?

Bucky can’t even argue with her.

The party finally begins to quiet down sometime after cake.

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

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

It happens slowly.

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

Out cold.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

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

The Beast gloves are gone now.

The mask too.

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

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

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

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

Bucky huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

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

For a second, Morgan stirs slightly against him.

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

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

Your heart actually hurts.

Bucky goes very still.

Pepper looks dangerously close to emotional already.

And after a tiny pause, Bucky murmurs:

“Alright. I’m stayin’.”

Morgan settles instantly.

You swear Pepper might love him a little for that.

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

And then—

The silence.

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

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

Bucky looks at you for a second too long.

Then looks away.

Then back again.

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

Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.

Because he says it like it slipped out accidentally.

Like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Heat crawls up your neck immediately.

So naturally, you deflect.

“Good thing the costume covered your face then.”

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Then his gaze shifts briefly past you.

Toward the tables scattered across the backyard.

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

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

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

You blink, caught off guard by the comment.

Then laugh softly. “You know the story?”

He gives you a look.

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

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

“It absolutely is.”

“You poor thing.”

“I survived.”

“Barely.”

You laugh again.

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

And without ceremony he pulls it free.

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

His fingers brush yours for half a second.

Warm.

Gentle.

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

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

“He’ll survive.”

“You’re a criminal.”

“I’ve been told.”

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

And suddenly the air feels too warm.

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

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

Not like Belle.

Not like part of the performance.

Like you.

And the worst part?

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

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

“I was physically offended.”

“You’re doing better now.”

“That’s debatable.”

You smile.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.

And there it is.

That terrible, dangerous pause.

The kind that changes things.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

One more inch and—

Bucky steps back first.

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

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

Not after everything.

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

Someone like you should probably meet someone normal.

Someone uncomplicated.

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

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

“You should get home. It’s late.”

The words hit harder than they should.

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

Neither of you move right away.

Then finally, you step back.

“Goodnight,” you say gently.

Bucky nods once.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

The nickname lands directly in your chest.

And then you leave.

Just like that.

No number exchanged.

No big moment.

Bucky watches until your taillights disappear through the gates.

And something in his chest feels suddenly, violently empty.

“…you are the dumbest man alive.”

Bucky closes his eyes immediately.

Of course Sam Wilson is still here.

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You didn’t even ask for her number!”

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

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

Bucky glares at him. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m devastated for you.”

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

Sam blinks once.

“…that’s your argument?”

“She deserves someone normal.”

“None of us are normal.”

“That’s different.”

Sam opens his mouth—

Then pauses suddenly.

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

“…hold on.”

Bucky frowns. “What.”

Sam points dramatically.

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

Tiny.

Definitely not his.

Bucky stares at them for a second.

Then something in his expression shifts almost immediately.

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

A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Sam looks deeply offended by the existence of this emotion.

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

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

They’re ridiculously delicate in his hands.

Sam watches the whole thing with growing horror.

“You are gone,” he says.

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

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

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

Sam stares at him for a long moment.

Then slowly reaches into his pocket.

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

Without answering, Sam holds out a small business card.

The princess company logo printed across the front.

Bucky looks at it.

Then at Sam.

Then back at the card.

“…you stole this?”

“I networked.”

“That’s not what networking is.”

Sam grins.

And after a long, dangerous pause—

"I mean, it was fine. I guess I just don't get why you thought we'd click." In front of you, Bucky has to press his lips together to stifle the laugh that bubbles out of his mouth. You raise a finger to your lips, reminding him to stay quiet. Your phone remains pressed into the crook of your neck as Bucky places his hand on the small of your back to guide you to the other end of the pick-up counter. "It just- I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? I mean, I know he's a little... rough around the edges, but he's a good guy once you get to know him."

"Yeah, I know," you dramatically sigh, winking at Bucky. "We just didn't have anything to talk about."

"Where are you?" Sam abruptly questions. "It sounds like there's people screaming in the background."

You look at the several dozens of people packed into the small hole in the wall and then to the actual employees behind the counter who, like Bucky promised, had to scream your order back at you to be heard over the hoards of people walking in and out. "I'm at some pizza dive in Brooklyn."

"You went all the way down to Brooklyn by yourself?"

"Yes, Mother," you scoff. "I'm perfectly capable of going to Brooklyn by myself."

"I know, but you hate driving in traffic," Sam continues, clearly sensing something is off with your story.

"And that's why I didn't drive," you easily reply.

"You took the train all the way down to Brooklyn? For pizza?" Sam chortles.

You look outside the shop window at Bucky's bike parked on the street, the same one Bucky had picked you up on earlier in the day. "Yeah, let's go with that."

"You're being weird. Why are you being weird?"

"Oh, right here!" Bucky calls, waving down the server that just screamed your order number.

You can practically hear the gasp of realization leave Sam's mouth at the sound of Bucky's familiar voice. "Was that Bucky? Are you with Bucky right now?"

"Oh, sorry, gotta go Sam! Bye!" you blurt.

"Wait-" he starts, before you quickly hang up the phone.

You and Bucky both share an amused look before you share a fit of laughter.

He hands you your plate, before taking your free hand in his and gently steering you through the crowd.

He guides you outside, to the large patio with rickety metal chairs that lines the sidewalk.

You place your phone on the table, watching as your phone screen lights up with text after text from Sam. Bucky winces apologetically, "That was my bad."

"Eh," you shrug. "We had our fun messing with Sam."

"You know, I really should've thought that one through, I'm supposed to head down to the VA with Sam and Steve tomorrow."

"Ouch," you playfully wince, taking your first bite. "Sam's definitely not going to let this go."

"No probably not," he laughs. He watches you purposefully maintain a neutral expression on your face as you eat your slice. "So, do I know the best pizza place or do I know the best pizza place?" he urges, waiting a moment before he takes a bite out of his slice.

"Okay, this is pretty good," you hum, a hand over your semi-full mouth, nodding your head.

"Good enough for a third date?"

You playfully scoff. "You had a third date when you agreed to help me mess with Sam."

Begin Again (Part 1)

You also remind yourself that you're just going to see Sam for a coffee. 

He's the kind of friend that'll give you a pep-talk when you need it. He'll tell you don't look ridiculous and that the extra few inches don't make you stick out like a sore thumb. 

You pat yourself down one more time, going through your mental checklist before you leave the house: phone, keys, wallet. You've never forgotten them before, but the idea that you might was always a little unnerving to you. Actually, living on your own had been a little unnerving. It had been an entirely new adjustment from sharing an apartment with your ex for more than two years. 

With one last deep breath, you turn the lock and walk out of your apartment. 

Though your car sits just outside your apartment and your car keys are already in hand, you suddenly find yourself walking past your car, opting to walk the few short blocks to the cafe to enjoy the beautiful day. 

You pop in your headphones, and the song that immediately starts playing is one that your ex told you many times he just didn't get. You push the thought out of your head, reminding yourself that you like this song. And that's what matters to you now. 

You smile to yourself as the crisp fall air blows right in your face, the slight chill a nice reprieve from the muggy New York summers. You've always had a certain affinity for fall, particularly the beginning of the season, you watch as the leaves begin to change color, some already on the ground as you round the corner to your destination. 

In spite of your leisurely walk, you still make it a few minutes earlier than you expected. You shrugged it off, after all Sam was a stickler about being early and now you could tease him about the fact that you made it before he did.

The small bell rings above you as you walk into the small coffee shop as the scent of ground up coffee beans overwhelms your senses. You take a few steps in, noting how quiet it is just after the morning rush. 

You stare up at the board, deciding to just go ahead and order before Sam got here.

"Sorry, are you in line?" a familiar male voice asks from behind you. 

"Oh, no, you go ahead," You shake your head turning around to allow the man to pass you. As you turn around, you realize why it's a familiar voice. "Oh, hey, Bucky, right?"

"Oh, hey!" he jovially greets. He internally curses his excited greeting, reminding himself to at least try to play it cool. Though he remembers you well from Sam's many get-togethers over the years, he doesn't you to think that he's some overzealous stalker. He also figures that the tiny crush he had on you was probably causing him to overthink something as simple as a hello. He clears his throat, hoping you didn't notice his momentary internal meltdown. "I haven't seen you around in a while."

"Yeah," you awkwardly chuckle, letting that line of questioning die. You quickly redirect the conversation because you don't really want to talk about how a messy breakup, apartment hunting, and then actually moving had taken up most of your time these last few months. Okay, maybe it was more than just a few months. "But I didn't know you lived around here."

"No," he shakes his head. "I'm up in Brooklyn. Just meeting Sam."

"Wait," you suddenly falter. "You're meeting Sam. Here?" 

Bucky's head tilts, wondering what was so odd about him meeting Sam here. "Yeah, why?"

"I'm meeting Sam here," you dumbly explain, pointing to the ground. "Sam doesn't even live around here."

"Shit," Bucky hisses under his breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he puts two and two together. The very specifically laid out, concrete plans with Sam, Sam asking Bucky to meet him in a neighborhood neither of them resided in. He sort of feels like an idiot for not putting two and two together earlier. "I'm just- I'm gonna call him."

"Okay," you chuckle, watching as he shuffles out of the cafe to call Sam. He stands in front of the large glass window, pulling his phone from his back pocket. You decide to turn around to give him a little privacy, and to make sure you don't seem like a weirdo staring at him as he tries to make a phone call. 

Though you already know what you're going to order, you stare up at the chalkboard menu like it's the most interesting chalkboard menu you've ever seen. You carefully examine every single stroke of colorful chalk, each fuzzy swirl behind the letters that show a corrected mistake.

You keep reading the board until, after a couple long minutes have passed, you hear the bell above the cafe door ring behind you, prompting you to turn around to hopefully get to the bottom of Sam's meddling antics.

You look at Bucky with an anxious smile and raised eyebrow. "So?"

"No," Bucky awkwardly chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "He, uh, didn't answer."

You shake your head, rolling your eyes as a scoff of mild amusement leaves your mouth. "Of course he didn't."

"I mean, we both came all this way, unless your boyfriend wouldn't be okay with that," Bucky offers, gesturing to the small table overlooking the large bay window.  

"Well, that's very considerate of you, but we, uh, we broke up. Like 8 months ago," you meekly explain. 

"Oh," he frowns, though you sort of get the sense that he already knew that. 

"It's alright. He was an ass." You look at the table seated right in front of the large window, giving a perfect view of the slow Wednesday morning for a moment before deciding to forgo your usual reservations and anxieties. "Yeah, we're both here. I'd- I'd like that."

"Great," Bucky smiles, gesturing to the same table you'd been eyeing. You pull your bag over your head as you shuffle to the table. You're about to reach for the chair when Bucky stops you. He pulls out the chair for you. "Oh, here let me."

It takes you a split second to recover from the surprising chivalry before you slide into the chair with Bucky's assistance, "Thank you."

You briefly wonder if he knows how nice that is.

"You're welcome." He slides into the chair across from you, before looking up at the chalkboard menu for himself. "You ever been here before?"

"Yeah, actually. And now that I think about it, I told Sam that this place had the best apple pie, which is probably how he knows about this place at all. I'm sorry about him by the way, he's..." you trail off, trying to find the right word to articulate Sam Wilson's eager meddling in his friends' lives.

"Involved?" Bucky finishes. 

"Involved? Is that your polite way of calling him a meddling asshole?" you joke, your voice a sarcastic mutter at the thought of Sam's 'involvement'.

A laugh abruptly leaves his mouth at your brazen joke. He looks back up at the menu, offhandedly remarking, "You're funny."

Hearing that compliment is a little strange to you, you can't remember the last time someone told you that. Your ex used to roll his eyes at your jokes, sometimes even making apologies for your sense of humor when you were in a group settings. "You think so?"

"Yeah. I do."

"What can I get for you today?" the barista suddenly asks, interrupting your conversation with a particularly ambivalent expression painting their face. 

When the two of you are settled with a hot beverage in front of the both of you and an assortment of pasties in the center of the table, the awkward undertone of the pseudo blind date has long since faded. It's still mostly quiet. Bucky asks you what you've liked from this place, you give him your best descriptors. 

You will concede that don't know Bucky that well. You've been introduced and shared a few conversations, but it always felt a little stilted under your ex's judgmental gaze. Every time Bucky was at a party or gathering, he'd tell you that there was something wrong with Bucky, that it was strange that he kept to himself or with Sam and Steve. 

You couldn't lie and say that you hadn't noticed it yourself, but you didn't find it odd. And you found Bucky's wallflower tendencies endearing, not that you'd ever told anyone that. 

So you really hated that. Hated it enough that you stopped inviting your ex-boyfriend to those gatherings. But that created a jealous side of him that marked the beginning of the end for the two of you.

"He means well," you offer, taking a sip of your tea. "Sam, I mean."

"You know, I don't think I ever heard that story," Bucky prompts, taking the spoon out of his mug and placing it on the table. 

"And what story is that?"

"How you and Sam met," he clarifies, taking a drink of his coffee. 

You wrinkle your nose, shaking your head slightly. "It's not that good of a story."

"Really?" His eyebrows furrow as he puts the mug back down on the table. "Seems like the two of you've known each other forever."

"Certainly feels like it," you wryly agree. You take a large gulp of air before finally answering Bucky's question. "Sam knew my brother. They served together."

"Your brother? Do I know him?"

"Um, no," you breathlessly laugh, a remorseful smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "My brother was his partner, Riley."

"Oh," Bucky exhales. He remembers seeing the picture of Riley in Sam's apartment. He also remembers how he'd asked Sam about the man and then the following story about the loss of Sam's partner. "I'm sorry, I didn't- I didn't know."

"It's alright," you assure him. "Sam's always sort of looked out for me, especially when I told him I was moving to New York. Which is probably why he lured us both here under false pretenses."

"Ah," Bucky audibly nods. "Makes sense."

"So what about you?"

"My friend, Steve, introduced the two of us," Bucky explains. "They met at the VA and now they drag me down there a few times a month. I tend to keep to myself. They don't let me."

"Yeah, that sounds like Sam," you chuckle. "And how did you meet Steve?"

From there the conversation flowed with a natural ease as though you'd been life-long friends rather than two people duped into being here by a mutual friend.

And even though both of your mugs are mostly empty and cold, the plates only left with crumbs and pastry scraps, neither of you want or are ready to leave. 

"Any pets?" you ask, finally your turn in your little game of twenty questions.

"1, actually," he beams, showing you the picture on his phone's lock screen of a tiny little white cat. You coo, turning your head in adoration at the adorable cat. "Alpine, rescued her off the street."

"And an animal lover," you praise. "Anything else I should know? Do you read to the elderly in your spare time too?"

"Hmm..." Bucky hums, a light blush painting his cheeks, unused to the feeling of someone speaking his praises so easily. "I'd answer, but it's actually my turn."

"Better make it a good one," you tease.

"Pineapple on pizza?" Bucky prompts with a smirk and raised eyebrow. "I'm a New Yorker, this is a deal breaker to me."

"I think," you start, pausing for a moment for dramatic effect, "We should be more worried about the people that put anchovies on pizza."

Bucky throws his head back laughing like a little kid. He nods, a wide grin on his face. "That's a very good answer."

"Music?" you quickly ask.

"Mhh..." he hums, visibly mulling over your question with pursed lips. "Little bit of everything."

"No!" you playfully exclaim, leaning closer to him over the table. "That's a cop out."

"It's not a cop out! I do listen to a little bit of everything," he humorously insists, now resting both his elbows on the table. 

"Yeah, okay," you scoff, teasingly rolling your eyes. "What'd you listen to last?"

He leans closer to you over the table as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, the first time he's actually unlocked it since he called Sam earlier. He looks down at the screen, then back at you, then back at the screen. His eyes flicker back to you over the screen with a crooked grin. "You sure you want to know?"

"Try me."

"James Taylor."

"No shit," you laugh. He scoffs with an indignant look on his face. You shake your head, pulling your phone out of your bag to show him the screen of your last played song. Coincidentally, also James Taylor. "I've got an entire collection of records at home."

"Impressive," he praises with a commending nod. "My Ma has this crazy bookshelf filled with records, so many hidden gems in there. I may or may not have smuggled a few into my apartment."

You chuckle at his joke, clearing your throat before asking him another question, "Are you close with your family?"

He enthusiastically nods. "With my mom and sister mostly. She's still down in Brooklyn, so I see her pretty often. You?"

You remorsefully shrug. "After Riley died, we all sort of went our own ways, you know?"

"Oh." Bucky offers an apologetic smile. The entire time you'd been sitting with Bucky, your fingers had slowly creeped closer to the center of the wooden table. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky's hand had slowly inched his way to the center too. Without his typical hesitation, his warm fingers slightly graze yours in comfort. "I'm sorry."

You smile at the feeling of his fingers interlocking with yours. You nod, fully resting your hand in Bucky's."It's alright. They're all still back home, and I see them when we can, you know?"

"What about your worst date?" he asks, changing the subject to something that feels more appropriate for the afternoon you're sharing. 

"Oh!" you immediately respond, silently thanking Bucky for not lingering on such a somber topic. "That's easy, it was actually the first date I went on when I moved to New York. This guy in my building asked me out and told me he knew where to find the best pizza in the city."

"And you believed him?" Bucky guffaws. 

"It gets worse. We go on this date. And it's going fine, he takes me to this really nice Italian restaurant when I'm in like a dress and jean jacket. Waiter comes out and he orders for me!" Bucky dramatically winces, and you continue recounting the story, "I take one bite of this pizza and to this day, I swear there was cardboard underneath that cheese."

"Oh my God!" Bucky snickers. "That's awful."

"But it gets worse!" you humorously exclaim. "I choke down a few bites while this guy goes to town like he's never eaten before. End of the night, he pulls the 'I forgot my wallet' routine. I never spoke to him again."

"Would this be a bad time to tell you I forgot my wallet?" Bucky teases. 

"Very funny," you sarcastically laugh.

"Lucky for you, I do actually know where to get the best slice in the city," he proudly informs you. 

You raise a challenging eyebrow at him. "Do you now?"

"I do. Trick is to avoid any fancy places and go straight to a hole in the wall where they yell your order back at you. I'll take you some time. It'll be our second date."

You coyly smile, looking down at the empty coffee mug in front of you. "There's going to be a second date?"

"I really hope so."

"I'll tell you what, if the pizza's good, there'll be a third one too."

A wide grins grows on Bucky's face. "You've got yourself a deal."

But anymore plans can be made or flirty quips exchanged, the same barista from earlier approaches your table, their bored expression now morphed into seething annoyance. "We're going to have to ask you two to leave. We're closed."

You're slightly startled, you both were supposed to meet Sam at 10:00. You both also arrived almost 10 minutes early. Surely, you didn't just spend 6 hours getting lost in conversation with Bucky? "I thought you guys closed at 4:00?" 

"Yeah, it's 4:15, ma'am," the barista drolls, eyes flickering up to the clock sitting on the back wall.  

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" you begin to profusely apologize, reaching behind you for your purse.

Bucky stops you, standing up and pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. "I got it."

"No, you don't have to-"

"Please?" he asks, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. 

Instead of arguing with him, you smile, "Thank you."

His wallet in hand, he pauses to look at you with a warm smile. Though you were frantic only moments ago, you can feel yourself getting lost in his blue eyes. "You're welcome."

"Ahem," the barista pointedly clears their throat. 

"Right," Bucky jolts, tearing his eyes away from you. 

You quickly grab your jacket and your bag off the chair, shrugging it on. By the time you've buttoned your coat, Bucky's pulling on his own jacket as the two of you are shooed outside. 

"I can't believe we just got kicked out," you laugh, the cold breezing darkening your cheeks even more. 

"I can actually say that has never happened to me," he laughs, the two of you stopping on the sidewalk in front of the cafe.  

"I'm gonna have to find a new coffee shop now," you joke, nudging your head toward the disgruntled worker aggressively flipping the open sign over. "Or come back and leave them one hell of a tip."

And then it's quiet. 

You've always liked this neighborhood, scenic, quaint, and quiet. It feels a bit like a sappy Hallmark movie, the orange leaves slowly filter down. Bucky's flushed face watching you as you watch him. Aside from the few stray pedestrians, it feels like it's just you and him. 

A million questions run through your head. And though you know you've got a particular penchant for overthinking, you can't bring yourself to stop because you really don't want to mess this up. 

The lapse in conversation is slightly awkward, not an uncomfortable awkward, but a first date, getting butterflies in your stomach awkward. You both wait a moment, trying to discern if the other is going to make the next move, or if you should part ways now.

You decide to be brave and take that first step. 

"I'm just a few blocks that way," you tell him, jutting your thumb in the direction of your apartment. "Would you maybe want to walk-"

"Okay, I'm sorry, I have to confess," Bucky abruptly interrupts, a guilty expression painting his face.

And your stomach drops when you hear those words. This entire time, he seemed like such a good guy, but of course there's a catch. He's probably married and will swear to you that he's leaving his wife. Or maybe he wants you to join his cult or something.

And then he begins his long rambling confession, "Sam did answer the phone earlier. I'm sorry- I just, I felt weird lying about it, but he sort of admitted to trying to set us up. He's been telling me for months that I needed to get out there and I saw you and Sam knew that I sort of had a crush on you, but you were with someone and then he told me when you guys broke up that I should go for it, but I said no that I should wait, and you were here and I just-"

He falters mid-sentence when he sees an unreadable expression on your face. Your eyes are a little wide, head slightly ajar as you wait for him to finish.

Though you feared he was going to divulge a terrible, dark secret. His rambling, apologetic confession makes him just a little bit more charming. You look at his endearingly flustered expression and his frantic gestures as he tries to explain away his actions with a raised eyebrow. "You?"

"I am so sorry. You probably think I some creep who lured you here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. When he speaks again this time, it's with an apologetic tone directed at you, "I should probably go now. Again, I'm really sorry."

And for the first time in a long time, you don't find yourself overthinking your words. After spending eight months thinking all love did was break, burn, and end, for once, you simply act. As he turns to walk away, you call after him. "But how will I know where to meet you next time?"

He falters, turning around with a confused, furrowed look on his face. "Next time?"

"Best pizza in New York remember?"

His mouth slightly opens in shock. It takes him a second to remind himself to close him mouth before a warm smile slowly grows on his face. 

But on a Wednesday in a cafe, you watched it begin again...

And that’s when he knows you’ll just sit here all damn night until he settles the way he’s supposed to. You’re the one in control, you hold the power as long as he lets you. And boy, will he let you.

The funny part, you realize a moment later, is that he can’t actually respond. Not with that ball gag in his mouth. He’s blinking and groaning, thrusting his groin up like a bitch in heat. It’s sort of amusing.

You let him fight it for another few minutes. The ropes strain against the knots around the headboard, but as usual - they hold just fine. You liked these new ones, they weren’t as rough as your previous set. Little smoother, better made; less prone to splitting. And your ropework was only getting better and better with time. Maybe next session you would hogtie him - get his arms and legs really secured together, and just have your way with him.

With a final huff of desperation, Bucky collapses back onto the sheets, an angry look in his eyes that he directs towards you.

Letting your fingers drift from the ropes, down his inner thigh - but just a hair too far from where he really wants to be touched, you chuckle.

“Glare at me all you want, sweetheart. I’ll just add it to your count.”

He blinks twice before shaking his head. Those pretty pleading noises drawn from his throat are quickly muffled by the gag.

“It’s okay though,” you lean down close to his head, lips ghosting over his sensitive skin. “We both know how much you like it. How much you need it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down.

Gripping the leash in your hand, you give it a good tug - making him jerk his head upward as it pulls on the leather collar around his neck. You settle in his lap, letting his face come so close to your chest it’s almost unfair.

“Look at you,” purring, you let your other hand grip his stubbled chin, swiping some of the spittle from the corner of his mouth where the gag meets his flushed lips.

Chuckling softly, you release your grip on the leash abruptly, letting his head fall back onto the pillows with a muffled gasp.

“You’d let me do whatever I want right now, wouldn’t you?”

He nods, groaning. Hips thrusting desperately up towards you, but you’re sitting just high enough above him that he just can’t quite reach what he wants.

Tossing the leash to the side, near his neck, you lean forward. Letting your hands caress his bare skin and the bumps of the ropework. Something about the pale tones made him look especially angelic. Baby blue rope to match his pleading eyes. Rose blush collar to match his plump lips - straining around that obscene gag.

Pushing your hands into his sides, forcing the rope further against his skin, “You’re gonna look so pretty when I’m finished with you, baby. Be my perfect work of art.”

Bucky whines, high and needy as his body tries to curl up into yours.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Your lips finally make contact with his sternum in the faintest of touches. “Want my marks all over your body for everyone to see?”

You can feel his cock now, straining hard where it's trapped between your body and his stomach. Thick and heavy, it twitches slightly against the bare skin of your inner thigh.

“All that for me, baby boy?” you nearly coo.

He moans, nodding furiously. Thrusting his hips upwards, seeking your attention - wanting you to touch him the way he needed to be touched. But where was the fun in that?

Gripping the center diamond of your rope work, you let your nails scratch against his chest - digging in just enough to make a point.

“Are you going to be good for me tonight, James?”

Those lust-dazed eyes look up towards you and you can see the minute he sinks into the role, nodding slowly. His lips hollow out as he sucks on the gag, his teeth probably leaving another deep indent.

Lifting your leg up, you remove yourself from his lap - settling down on the side of the bed once again.

“Then… turn over.”

His eyes go blissfully wide.

And you love every second of his struggle. Fighting against the binds that forced his arms into a stuck position at his sides. He has to rely entirely on his thighs and core strength as he rises up on his knees before flipping himself over and falling back into the sheets with a bounce of the bed.

He groans the minute his body forces the ropes around his chest to dig into his skin as he sinks further against them.

You take a second to appreciate the reddening skin on his back from where the binds had already begun to leave their mark. Your gaze sweeps from his neck, down his spine, before landing on his pert bottom.

Humming thoughtfully, you let your hand reach out and caress his bare cheek, “Don’t think we need this.”

Giving a hard slap to his bottom, he grunts. Immediately rising up on his knees - head forced down into the pillow - to allow you enough space to pull the toy out. Bucky shudders and shakes, hips rocking as you gently ease the black plug in and out - teasing his sensitive hole - before finally pulling it out with a wet squelching sound.

He groans, low and rumbly in his chest, his head pressed right down into the mattress as his thighs quiver. With a press of your hand, he settles back down to a lying position.

“You held that in for so long, sweetheart. Do you feel empty now? Oh, is there something you need?” teasing, you let your finger caress his hole, slipping some of the spilled lube back inside.

Bucky whines helplessly, shoving his face into the pillows, rocking his hips desperately, body shaking at the loss of contact when you pull your hand away.

"What a mess you are, hmm? Can't even hold it all in, can you?"

He makes a noise around the gag that sounds very much like a challenging fuck you and that has you raising your head right up.

"Oh. So you want to ignore the rules now?"

Looking down at his back for a long moment, you let your hand drop to his inner calf, rubbing the pale skin with the point of your finger.

Your voice is alarmingly soft when you do finally speak.

"Show me your safe signal, James."

There's a beat of silence, where you can see his head turn to the side in question, but you just continue rubbing calm circles on his leg until he responds.

And then you feel it, the gentle tap tap tap of his ankle against your hand. And that's all you need.

"Good," you respond coolly before bringing your hand down across his backside, your palm hitting his hole at just the perfect angle.

He howls, grunting and slobbering on the gag as he arches his back, his ass pushed up towards you - inviting more.

Examining the blooming red mark on his bare cheek, you grind your hand down onto the rope wrapped around his thigh, “How many was it again, baby?”

Bucky just groans at the dual sensation of pleasure and pain.

“Lemme think,” you rise from the bed, stripping your shirt off and taking the time to methodically fold it and your skirt. Walking across the room to place the garments on the dresser, you continue, “That was ten for the half-assed jump you did on the mission last Thursday, another four for that smart-ass remark to Sam about our bedroom habits yesterday, and one at the start of the scene. Does that sound right?”

By this point, you’re back at his side. Looming over his prone and vulnerable body on the bed. With his head turned to the side, he looks up at you with pleasure-blown eyes - the blue of his irises turned fully black by his desire.

And there’s a moment, when you lock eyes, that a little bit of the scene fades away and you can see into his unsaid wishes. He holds your gaze firmly, making his point very clear despite the lack of any actual conversation taking place. You nod in affirmation - giving him a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder that seems out of place in the setting, but it wasn’t always about the play.

“You know,” you’re already walking back across the room to the closet and you can see him pushing up and twisting his body to watch you - you’re gonna let it slide this time.

“I think you’ve been getting too lenient of punishments lately.”

You can hear him moan in agreement, as you dig past the clothes lined up on the plastic hangers, searching for the hidden shelf behind all of the hoodies and jackets. And you can definitely hear the muffled fuck when you find what you’re looking for and return to the bed with the riding crop in full view.

“Maybe this will teach you a lesson finally.”

And you don’t even have to ask because he’s already rising up on his knees, exposing himself entirely for you of his own volition.

“Hmm, guess you feel like you deserve this then? Good, it’ll make what's about to happen that much easier.”

You let the moment hang in the air as you adjust your grip around the braided handle, giving a few practice swings beside the bed. Nothing hard enough to make the telltale sound, but just the right speed to let the gentle whoosh of air being sliced audible for your anxious partner.

And then you let the tip of the crop drag across his inner thigh, “Gonna be good for me, James?”

Bucky shivers, slowly nodding his head as he turns his face back towards the pillow, taking a deep shaky breath as he readies himself for the initial blow.

The crop draws a line down between his cheeks, resting over his puckered hole for a brief moment.

“Of course you are. Because you never want to disappoint me, do you?”

Before he can make a muffled pleading reply, the crop strikes down on his unmarked cheek with a sharp slicing sound.

He groans around the gag, his knees bunching up as he tries to curl into his torso.

You watch with a smirk, bringing the riding crop back up to your side.

“That’s one.”

The second, third, and fourth strikes come just as easily. Slowly painting his skin in bright pink blooms.

“Come on,” you urge with a playful tone. “We both know how much you can handle.”

A deep belly groan follows the fifth strike and you can see his fingers straining to grab onto something - anything. But with his palms forced up, there’s nothing to hold onto, so he just shifts his weight from knee to knee, stretching upwards and grinding down lightly against the mattress.

The following five land on his inner thighs and those nearly have him arching all the way up to the headboard, recoiling at the hot burning sensation of the strikes against his sensitive skin. Only five more to go and you really take your time with those five.

As sweat beads on your brow, you change your footing, giving you more room to really bring the crop down hard. And once the eleventh and twelfth make their brutal contact, you can hear him howling around the gag. But with a quick glance to his feet, you see he’s making no move to stop the scene.

“Three more, baby. You’ve been so good for me.”

He nods tiredly, slowly bringing his bottom up for you one more time. And you take mercy on him, letting the final three land on the center of his right cheek in quick succession.

You can see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks as you carefully place the crop off to the side, within his line of sight so he knows, before you gently rub your hands against his abused flesh. The marks are already forming in brilliant bright reds. He’d be lucky if he could sit at all for the rest of the night.

Bucky hiccups, shying away from your touch as it’s all just too much. So, you let your hand graze down his side, gently sliding your fingers into his open palm.

“What a good boy. Good boys deserve rewards, don’t you think?” your voice is soft, cooingly sweet as you reach around to the nightstand.

At the sight of what you pull out of the drawer, Bucky lets out a shameful high-pitched whine. Already switching gears to raise his bottom up - presenting his fluttering hole for you.

The bright pink vibrator is perfectly shaped for his pleasure, with vibrating pads situated on the exterior curve for his perineum. Flicking the button on, you let him hear the noises it makes before it even touches his body and it has him moaning wantonly, grinding his groin down into the bed and his ass up towards you.

“Huh. Looks like you’re still wet for me, baby.”

Your finger reaches out, tracing the tender pink hole where the lube from the plug is still dripping out. Bringing the vibrator up, you let the tip rest right there, letting the vibrations drive him wild as he frantically bucks his hips back - demanding more.

“What an impatient little slut,” you tease, letting the toy slip inside just a fraction.

Bucky moans, dropping his head and shoulders down into the pillows.

“But, you did take those hits like a champ. Guess you deserve this then,” and that’s when you shove the toy fully inside him with one quick stroke.

You watch his thighs tremble and quake as he groans over and over again. Desperate, deep moans of desire thanks to you. He rocks his body back onto the toy, almost moving to a straddle position just so he can get a deeper angle, but you stop him with a telling hand on his sore bottom. Your thumb presses against the base of the vibrator, pushing it a final hair more.

He could be so good for you in moments like this.

And you could be exactly what he needed.

Using the remote, you stop the vibrations entirely much to his whiny pleas of discontent.

But you have a purpose, as you lean over his back, bringing your lips down close to his ear. Letting your tongue reach out and lick a warm stripe up the shell of his tender skin.

“James. Do you want a real reward tonight?”

That has him lifting his head up, twisting his neck to a painful angle so he can lock eyes with you. His beautiful blue eyes are red and puffy with shed tears as they meet your warm embrace.

When he doesn’t answer, probably floating a few miles above the lower atmosphere right now, you repeat, “Do you want a reward?”

And it takes a second, but then he’s nodding frantically, lifting his chin up to try to engage your touch. But you’re already moving off his back, urging his body with your hands to turn over. He struggles for a moment, nearly screaming when his sensitive bottom makes contact with the sheets, but you have him up on his hands and knees in no time. It’s a little awkward, with the way his wrists are bound to sides, but you loosen up enough slack to give him proper balance on the bed.

“You deserve this,” you reiterate, as you slowly undo the latch on the back of his head for the gag.

A glob of slobber falls to the bed as he takes in three deep shaky breaths. You take a moment to ruffle your fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, giving him a chance to gather his bearings.

Licking his lips, he raises his head up to look at you. His eyes are still a little puffy, but they’re so focused and determined now as his gaze rakes across your body.

Using your hand, you force his head down, making him lock in on your underwear which you slowly, teasingly, slide down your legs.

“Please,” he pleads with a broken croak.

Tilting his chin with your crooked finger, you smile, “I told you, James; you deserve this.”

He gulps, stretching his neck until his mouth can finally latch onto your wet hot desire. Groaning at the contact, Bucky sucks your clit right into his mouth. Slurping prettily as he nudges his body closer towards you. His nose is shoved right into your mound as his tongue escapes to swipe long hot licks to your sweet lips.

You have to settle one hand on the top of his head and the other on the mattress behind you as your eyes close in a mad rush of pleasure.

Bucky moans as he dives in, licking and sucking, his own eyes screwed shut in absolute bliss. The tip of his tongue teases your hole, barely able to dip inside of your fluttering cunt. But it’s enough to make you grab hold of his hair and pull sharply.

“G-good boy,” you manage around your own moan of desire.

Because he knows how to take you apart with the greatest of ease. He sucks in your nub with long desperate groans, tongue swirling around your clit in quickening touches. And then you do the unthinkable, flicking the button on the remote once more - making him gag with a sudden rush of his own pleasure. But then he’s right back to latching himself onto your body, moans deep and broken as he devours you.

It doesn’t take long at all until you’re spilling your slick all over your thighs and his chin with a stretched-out groan of his name.

When he pulls back, his face is soaked and you nearly want to tackle him to the bed and devour his mouth.

Panting, chest heaving, you look a mess. But he waits - waits for you to regain control because this isn't over yet. Even as the vibrator continues its torturous assault on his aching body.

Lazily, your hand cups his cheek as you finally meet his gaze with your heavy expression. Your thumb drags your own cum across his lips from where it rests on his chin.

“What a pretty sight you are, baby boy. Well,” you groan, leaning forward on your sore knees. “I think you finally deserve what is yours.”

Reaching down, you methodically undo the binds around his weeping cock.

“Oh, God,” he groans in relief as he settles back on his haunches, letting his aching member twitch against his stomach with sad little spurts of precum.

It wouldn’t take much at all, to make him fall apart.

The palm of your hand rubs over your quivering lips, gathering more of your own juices before you wrap your fingers around him.

He sighs, neck arching back as far as it can against the restraints, eyes squeezed closed.

“Please, oh god, baby, please.”

It takes exactly four long strokes with your grip tight around his shaft before he spills his entire load all over your waiting hand.

His body trembles with the orgasmic quakes of pleasure as his cock twitches with each painful spurt of cum. He’s crying, silent, blissful tears down his pretty pale face as you gently ease him back on the bed, stretching his legs out as you lay down next to him, your hand resting comfortably over his heart as you turn off the toy deep inside of him.

You wait out the quivers of overwhelming emotions with soft shushing noises and promises of you were so good, baby - you were perfect, so good for me - Jamie, you were amazing - look at you, baby, so good.

And with his pleasure-dazed expression and easy breathing, you begin the tedious process of undoing all the ties and knots. Savoring the deep thread marks that remain on his skin in bright red blooms against his soft pale body. Gently pulling the collar free from his tender neck and finally the toy from his hole with a grunt of mixed discomfort and pleasure.

Then you’re right back down, leaving the ropes on the floor for later, as you curl your body around him, easing your hands down his sides. He’s still at a loss for words as he sloppily trails kisses along your jaw, trying to show his thanks as his body remains a puddle of pleasure on the bed.

“You were perfect, baby,” you promise with a lingering kiss to his forehead.

And he was, he always was for you.

Kinktober 2021 Tag List: @dilf-vader | @stardust-galaxies

Permanent Bucky Tag List: @blackberrybucky | @justreadingficsdontmindme | @leyannrae | @livvy-barnes

. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.

The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.

Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.

It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.

There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.

You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.

“You good?” You ask simply.

Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.

He was doomed from the very start.

———

After your first encounter, he kept running into you.

In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.

Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.

This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.

“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.

He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.

And to his surprise? You say okay.

He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"

You shrug, "Sure, why not."

His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."

Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.

The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.

You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.

"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."

"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"

Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.

———

Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.

Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.

Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't. 

You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.

You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.

And he. . . doesn’t do anything.

Brain short circuits.

Bucky.exe has stopped working.

What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.

“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.

“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”

You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”

Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”

You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.

Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.

All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?

He’ll never win.

———

You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.

“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”

Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.

A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”

“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”

Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones. 

"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.

"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"He's annoying."

"Aggravatingly so."

You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.

"Bucky?" You say softly.

That tone of voice is never good.

That tone of voice means he's in trouble. 

He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting. 

Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"

You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"

His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"

You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"

Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes. 

He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."

You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"

Bucky doesn't say a word.

You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.

The look on your face says he's fucked up.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.

"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?" 

He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."

You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.

"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."

At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.

"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."

Bucky nods solemnly.

"I did."

"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"

"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"

You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"

"I just— I missed the red sock!"

"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"

"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"

You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.

You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.

He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.

Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there. 

Love.

And it's for him.

And isn't that something special in itself?

"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."

You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.

"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”

"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.

He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt. 

Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.

Everything the two of you deserved to be.

"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.

"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."

"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."

You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."

You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight. 

If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.

He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.

Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.

But for right now? You can settle for this.

———

Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.

Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.

Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.

In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.

It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour. 

Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.

Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.

"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.

That alone could've made him melt.

His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep. 

Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more. 

He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.

———

You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.

He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.

Bucky sighs wistfully.

Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.

“She’s doing her job, Buck.”

Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”

“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.

Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.

You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side. 

He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.

"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.

You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."

"What about me?"

"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.

"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.

And that's for him.

When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."

Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.

There's no place he'd rather be.

His attention is pulled to you when you come bounding out of the building, your ray of sunshine directed at him, although only temporary. “Hi Bucky!” You greet your boyfriend's best friend with a hug, and he inhales your scent deeply, his cock twitching behind his perfectly tailored pants.

“Hi Doll,” Bucky ushers you to his passenger side door, making sure you’re safely tucked inside his car. “Steve has some business to attend to, so I’m taking you home.

“Sounds good!” You scroll through your phone, liking pictures on your social media. Bucky chuckles to himself as he shuts the door. So trusting. He’s not going to say innocent. Steve’s told him the things you allow him to do to your body behind closed doors, and the things out in the open. You’re a good little slut.

He steers the car into traffic as your prattle on about your day. He steals glances sideways when he can, watching your lips move as you speak. He shifts in the driver's seat as his cock strains against his zipper, visions of your pretty lips wrapped around his girth clouding his mind.

“Bucky?” You watch as your exit whips by you on the highway. “Bucky, you missed the off-ramp.” He smirks at you, reaching out to pat your knee before shifting gears.

“I’m sorry doll, I forgot. Steve’s doing business at home. He said he’d pick you up from my place. It’s fine. I’ll make you some tea or whatever you want.”

There’s an uneasiness in your stomach, a lump of despair settling in your throat the further you get away from where you called home. You’re being silly, this is Steve’s best friend, you know him well and Steve trusts Bucky with his life and with yours. Still, you can’t shake the nagging that was pulling at the base of your skull.

Bucky’s house looms ahead as dark storm clouds roll in, the clap of thunder sounding in the distance. Parking in the garage he cuts the engine, hitting the button on the opener before husting to open your door for you. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” He lightly grabs your elbow to lead you into the house, the garage door closing with a light “thud” behind you.

You follow Bucky as he turns on various lights, illuminating his decor of dark mahogany. He offers you a seat at his kitchen table while he rummages through some cabinets. “I have black, chamomile, and rose hips as far as tea goes.” He pauses pulling a bottle off a rack in the corner. “Unless you want something a little stronger?” His eyebrows raise in question, holding out a bottle of The Macallan scotch in your direction.

“I’ll just have some tea please. Uh, rose hips please.”

Bucky grabs a cup from the cabinet, opening a tea bag and placing it into the mug. Filling his kettle with water and putting it on the burner as the fire roared to life.

“So what time did Steve say he was coming?” You don’t mean to sound as nervous as you do but you can’t help it. The feeling that crept up the back of your neck in the car is lingering, and you can’t seem to shake it. You don’t want to be rude, but all you wanted to do was go home and lay in Steve’s arms.

“I’m not sure, you know how long these meetings can take.” He shrugs his shoulders, pouring himself some scotch and taking a huge gulp while he waits for the water to boil. “What’s the matter? You seem a little on edge.”

“I’m fine,” you squeak, picking at your fingers. “I just don’t wanna be in your way. I’m sure you have so many other things to take care of than keep me company.”

“I don’t.” He states matter of factly as the kettle begins to whistle. Bucky grabs the kettle pouring hot liquid into the mug. He saunters to where you’re sitting at the table, placing the steaming cup in front of you. “I don’t mind keeping you company at all.”

Bucky leans against the kitchen island across from you, his blue eyes held steady on your figure. Squirming in your seat you focus on the beverage in front of you, growing more uncomfortable under his gaze. Steve looked at you the same way, with an insatiable hunger right before he took you, his cock so deep you could feel him within your belly. Bucky wasn’t an unattractive man, quite the opposite. But he wasn’t yours and you weren’t his. He made you want to run, much like a rabbit trying to escape a coyote.

“Penny for your thoughts doll,” Bucky leans against the table, his face inches from yours. It’s almost time for him to strike.

“Let me try and call Steve,” your voice is small and trembling despite your efforts to keep it even. Bucky grabs your phone as you slide it from your bag, tossing it on the counter behind him.

“There’s no rush doll. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want a little taste.” He goes to grab your wrist but you spring to your feet, running from the room in the direction you came. Even with the lights Bucky turned on, his house was dark, and you’re easily disoriented in your panic to get away. Your hesitation was your demise, Bucky enveloping you in his arms lifting you off the floor.

“Let me go!” You scream, lighting flashing through the large windows, the following thunder making the windows quake. “Bucky! Let me go! Steve is going to kill you if he finds out!”

“Doll, we’re best friends. We share… everything.”

You’re kicking and screaming, your efforts futile as he drags you through the house to his room. You feel his cock pulsing against your ass before he tosses you on his bed. He squeezes his bulge through his pants, grunting at his firm touch. “Been hard for you all day, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky please,” you plead, looking around for a way out. “If you let me go, I won’t tell Steve a thing. Just let me go, please!”

“Oh doll I wish I could, but I have a problem that I need you to help me with. Steve’s told me all about your tight little cunt and how she milks his cock until his balls are empty. I need that. I need her. I need you.”

You’ve got nowhere to go, your back hitting the headboard of his bed as you scramble backwards. His large hand gripping your ankle and sliding you to him, his silk sheets caressing your skin as you meet your demise.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Bucky coos as you tremble in his hands. Reaching for the hem of your sundress, he flips up your skirt, a low grunt floating to your ears when he sees your white cotton panties. “Look at you. Trying to be so innocent when we both know you’re a slut.”

You close your eyes. Maybe if you pretend this won’t be as bad. Bucky roughly grabs your chin, his deep voice tickling the shell of your ear. “Eyes on me doll. I want you to watch me take you apart.”

He pushes your legs apart, his rough palms smoothing over your inner thighs. He ghosts his fingers over your panty covered cunt. His eyes grow dark as the pad of his thumb rubs your slit, finally setting on your clit. He hums as a wet patch spreads along the cloth, your musk overtaking his senses. His mouth waters in anticipation of tasting your nectar for the first time. He’s been waiting for this for a long time, and his prize is finally in his face.

Whimpering you squirm at his touch as he teases his tongue along the edge of your panties at the apex of your thigh. You can’t fight the slick that’s pooling into the fabric making it stick to your lips. Bucky pulls your panties taught moving up and down, your clit craving more attention than the slight movement she’s being given. “You have a beautiful pussy doll. I can see why Steve is addicted.”

Your panties become a tattered mess beside the bed, your bare cunt pulsing when Bucky blows a cool stream over your heated skin. “Mind over matter,” you repeat to yourself, willing yourself to feel anything but pleasure. All of that falls by the wayside when he parts your lips gently with his fingers, flattening his tongue and licking a stripe from your hole to your clit.

Gasping, you buck into his face, your body moving of its own volition. Bucky snakes an arm across your lower abdomen holding you to the mattress while he goes to work. Slurping, sucking, licking he eats noisily, wet sounds reverberating off the walls and into your ears. His tongue focuses on your clit, swirling around your pearl before sucking it into his mouth.

“Oh my… Bucky!” You cry out as you arch off the bed while he tongue fucks you through your orgasm. Your entire being goes rigid then slack, sinking back into his bed riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm. When your eyes flutter open you see Bucky in front of you fully naked, his cock at attention, pre-cum seeping from the tip.

“Bucky. I..”

“Oh doll, we’re not close to being done,” the bed dips under his weight as he crawls up your body, buttons flying in every direction as he rips the top of your dress open. His cock is sliding in between your folds, teasing your entrance, his hands pulling your breasts free from the confines of your bra.

“Bucky, I can’t… please…” you’re no match for him, one of his hands pinning both of yours by your wrists above your head. One thrust and he sheaths himself inside you to the hilt, his heavy sack resting against your ass. He starts to move, your tight cunt pulsing around him, gripping him so tightly he almost unloads his seed within the first few thrusts.

This is wrong, you know it’s wrong, but your bodies together feel so right. But your mind goes to Steve.

“Steve…” his name is on your lips as Bucky thrusts into you deeply, your eyes going wide and your breath hitching in your throat when he answers.

“Hi Sweetheart,” he pushes off from where he was watching from the doorframe, his eyes blown wide with want as he watches you being split open by his best friend’s cock. “I see you started without me.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Bucky huffs, keeping his rhythm steady while Steve undresses. He fists his cock, pumping his hand along his length. He smiles down at you, Bucky giving it to you so good it’s hard for you to form words.

“Steve, I’m sor…”

“Hush sweetheart,” he tenderly runs his hand down your cheek, tracing his thumb along your lips before pushing the digit into your mouth. “There’s no need to apologize. Bucky and I share everything. It was only a matter of time before we shared you.” Pulling his thumb from your mouth he immediately replaces it with his cock, pushing until he hits the back of your throat. Bucky hisses as you gag and sputter around Steve’s girth, your cunt clenching around him as Steve slowly starts to fuck your face.

“Now be a good little whore for us sweetheart. We’re going to fucking ruin all of your holes until they’re overflowing with our cream.”