#kingsfics

"I'm not doin' anymore of these things, doll," Bucky says. "M'telling Valentina she can put Walker up there from now on."

"You tell her, love," you encourage, though you're a bit distracted wrapping the next strand of hair around the thermal brush. You've never met your husband's "boss," but you've heard enough to get a sense of her character. You doubted Bucky was going to be able to get himself out of press conferences.

"After this hairstyle, though? You'll be first in line for any media coverage," you tease.

This time, Bucky can't hold back a grumble at the thought. You giggle, but it's quickly stifled by a yawn. Bucky softens at the sight of your sleepiness.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he says sheepishly.

Valentina is a blur as she rushes past Bucky. But she pauses abruptly, taking a few steps back until she's planted in front of him. Bucky does his best to ignore her, staring straight ahead, but he eventually puts down his sandwich and slowly meets her eyes.

"This won't do," Valentina says, gesturing at his head. Bucky doesn't care much about what "won't do," but he has a meeting with Agent Taylor in twenty minutes. He very much likes the idea of enjoying his sandwich on the couch, sans the Contessa.

"What, Valentina?" Bucky says slowly.

"This hair," she responds, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I have been telling him that!" Alexei declares. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose as the Red Guardian emerges from the kitchen. "I told him, my sponsorship with Drybar is at risk if--"

"Oh, Drybar? That's pretty good. Listen, Bucky, if there's one thing I know, it's hair. Wish you could ask that guy, am I right?" Valentina gestures in Bob's general direction in the next room.

"No," Bucky responds.

"I tell him, so flat," Alexei continues, "so lifeless! Bucky, hair care is so important--"

"Great talk, everybody," Bucky declares, scooping up his sandwich and taking it into the other room.

When Bucky recalled the conversation to you, he thought you'd laugh it off with him. Instead, he saw a glint in your eye that made him worried. Afterwards, he came home one too many times to you binge watching hair tutorials. Foolishly, he held out hope that you would lose interest, but then packages of hair tools started arriving at your door.

"You know," you said, holding back another yawn, "if we lived closer to the Tower, we wouldn't have to wake up so early."

"Not yet, doll," is Bucky's gruff response. Living far away meant that it would be harder for people to link you two. It wasn't that he would get relentlessly teased by his coworkers about being married--that was a given. But if they were on a mission, and one of them became compromised? He couldn't imagine what would happen if the wrong people found out about his life. About you. He already had to live with the fact that Sam helped you both find this house, and now--

"He's our friend, Buck." You recognize the distraught look on your husband's face, and you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his spell. "He would never do anything to hurt us."

Bucky moves to place a kiss on your hand, grateful that he doesn't always have to talk for you to understand him. He opens his mouth to express his appreciation, but you interrupt him.

"All done," you say proudly. The wide grin on your face is almost enough to make Bucky forget that he is going to be sitting in a room full of journalists in a few hours. You comb your fingers through his hair to loosen the curls, then apply hairspray. Bucky makes a show of sputtering. He never makes a show of anything, but he loves the way you giggle at his antics.

He turns to face you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You wrap your hands around his neck, trying your best to avoid your hard work.

"My wife," he says, a phrase he will never get tired of saying. He plants a kiss on your lips before you respond:

Natasha bites into an apple. Her elbows rest against the granite countertop as she watches Bucky through her lashes. He’s staring at her incredulously, waiting for her to clarify. She bides her time, chewing and savoring the fruit. The lackadaisical way Nat sways on her heels ignites Bucky’s rage. It takes every ounce of willpower to not grab the apple and pitch it to the wall.

“On a date,” Nat says dismissively, rotating the apple in her hand, trying to find the next perfect bite. She waits patiently for whatever emotion is bubbling beyond the cold stare to reach the surface.

“She didn’t tell me that,” Bucky says bitterly.

She cocks an eyebrow.

“She’s supposed to tell her ex when she’s going out?”

Bucky huffs. He hates the title.

“Because we all live in the same building. Could be a safety thing,” he grumbles, though they both know he’s full of shit.

The elevator dings, drawing the two operatives’ attention. You step out, clutch held tightly in your hand.

“Tell her yourself then,” Nat tells Bucky, pushing herself off of the counter. She passes you, squeezing your forearm. “Talk later?”

You can only respond with a nod as you approach the kitchen, slamming your bag onto the countertop.

“Hi,” Bucky greets gingerly, unsure if you’re aware of his presence. You turn to him briefly, a scowl still adorning your face.

“H-Hi,” you respond before turning to glare at your fingers. The rings glint in the overhead lighting, an ornate reminder that you actually got dressed up for some asshole. You practically rip the jewelry off of you.

“Wanna tell me about it?” he says, watching the rings clatter onto the granite.

You look at him in disbelief. He was the last person you would want to tell about a failed date. But your discontentment is begging to pour out, bubbling inside you like magma in a volcano. You take a deep breath.

“I w-w-w-went on a–”

You feel your emotions impacting your speech, and you stop yourself. You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, and start again.

“I w-went on a d-d-d–FUCK!”

You grab the closest thing to you–a knife block set–and throw it against the wall. The impact echoes through the tower kitchen, sending blades flying in all directions. As the empty block hits the floor, you slide down against the side of the countertop. Angry tears are filling your eyes, but you stare unblinking, refusing to let them fall.

Bucky says nothing as he swiftly collects the mess you've made before moving beside you. He slides down onto the floor, his even gaze on you. Your knees are to your chest, and you have a handful of your dress gripped in your fist. Your breathing is the only sound in the room, heavy and uneven with the effort of keeping your tears inside.

Even completely silent, Bucky is still one of the most comforting people you have ever met. His stoic gaze and quiet stares can be interpreted as robotic, intimidating, unnerving; to you, it has always felt calming, unjudging, a serene haven in a world that was often too loud.

And he was definitely a much better presence than the asswipe you just spent the past couple hours with.

“I didn’t know you had a–” your date gestures at his mouth with his fork “–thing. You know, my cousin stuttered, like, her whole life. It was so fucking annoying.”

He chuckles, then continues, “Not you, though. But she went to therapy and, swear, hasn’t stuttered since. It’s crazy. But, like, you know, it’s cool for you.”

You shoot him a smile too sweet to be genuine.

“Thanks. M-Means a lot.”

“W-What if,” you tell Bucky, “I don’t want to get r-rid of it? What i-if I like it? DId he e-ever think about t-th-that?”

“I don’t think he did, love,” he tells you softly.

But you hang your head, your face obscured for a moment. When you look back up, resting your chin on your knees, your tears flow freely. Bucky wants nothing more than to pull you to his chest, to wrap his arms around you, to comfort you, but he can’t. Not anymore.

“I h-h-hate this fucking st-stutter, Bucky,” you admit through gritted teeth.

“Hey,” he says, as if he should be offended for you. “Don’t say that.” He presses his palms on the ground, pushing himself forward, planting himself in front of you.

“But I d-d-d–” You get caught repeating the sound, and you press your lips together, your nostrils flaring.

“B-But I d-do,” you complete scornfully. “I d-didn’t even want to g-go on this d-d-date. I kn-knew this would h-happen. I-I knew I would g-get judged. It always happens.”

Not with me, Bucky thinks. He can’t help himself now, and he reaches out, pressing his hands on the sides of your head. The gesture surprises you, and you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Every part of you is absolutely incredible, you know that?”

Under Bucky’s earnest gaze, you feel the heat flooding your face. He brushes away a piece of your hair before pulling away.

“You’re one of the most skilled agents to walk through this door,” he begins. You shake your head.

“No, really,” he insists, pointing his thumb behind him. “I’ll tell Steve right now.”

You shake your head again, this time with a laugh, as you wipe your tears with your fingers.

“But despite being an absolute force in the field, you’re still the kindest person I know.”

You huff in disbelief. You can’t help yourself:

“Yeah, k-kind enough to still be t-talking to my ex."

This time, it’s Bucky who hangs his head. His nonsensical babble of excuses comes back to him: You both seemed too busy. He wanted to work on himself. This was more of a break than a break-up, really, if you think about it. Oh, and don’t forget: it’s not you, it’s him.

Now is as good a time as ever to tell you the truth: “You were too good for me. You are too good for me.”

He earns another laugh from you, but this time it’s devoid of any mirth.

“Yeah. Okay, B-Bucky.”

“No, angel, I’m serious,” he says, shifting closer to you. You cock your head as he doubles down.

“R-Really?” you say dryly. “T-The new girl with t-the fucking s-sp-speech impediment is too good for Bucky B-Barnes.”

He scoots himself even closer to you, his legs now on either side of yours. Your arms are drooped across your knees, and the bottom part of your face is obscured behind your forearms. He drops his head to meet your eyes.

“Yes,” he confirms, “the new girl with a heart full of gold, talents that blew us out of the water, and a speech impediment is too good for this idiot.

“I realize it now, doll. And I can’t believe I was too fucking dense to see it before. You’re too good for me, and I won’t argue about that. But I fuckin’ let you go, instead of staying by your side, making myself better for you. I’m stupid, doll, so stupid, you mean the world to me–”

You swallow Bucky’s words with a kiss, your hands moving to caress his face. He practically melts under your touch, and you feel his body shift with your lips on his. He’s leaning, leaning, leaning, desperate to be as close to you as possible, but the countertop against your back is proving it to be an impossible feat. He pulls away for a second, smiling as you whine at the separation, and hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you onto the granite. He chuckles at the way you yelp and wrap your hands around his neck, yet he wastes no time capturing your lips in his again.

Your hands move from his neck into his hair, giving his brunette locks a slight tug. He stifles a groan, his ears perking at a noise down the hallway. He brings your hands to his lips for a kiss before he steps away, listening intently.

“It’s t-twelve, Barnes,” you say. “S-Sam’s going to be c-c-coming out soon for his–”

“–midnight snack,” he finishes with a huff. He gathers your bag and your rings, offering a hand as you hop off of the counter. “C’mon, love. You must be tired, anyway.”

You wrap your hand around his arm as he leads you to the elevator. He presses the button to your floor.

“Everyone else says I don’t say a word,” he teases, “yet you won’t even let me finish a sentence.”

You let out an embarrassed chuckle, thinking of how you punctuated the middle of Bucky’s rant with a kiss.

“I-I just knew th-that you meant it, Bucky,” you say. “I-I know you.”

As you watch the floor numbers change above the elevator doors, Bucky keeps his half-lidded gaze on you.

“I know you do.”

In the comforts of your room, Bucky kneels in front of you to ease your shoes off of your feet. You release a relieved sigh. He steps behind you, and you feel his warm breath on your skin before he leaves slow kisses along your neck. He moves the strap of your dress before continuing his trail of kisses along your shoulder.

“B-Bucky…”

His fingers ghost over your other shoulder before gently slipping the other strap off. Your dress falls to the ground. You tilt your head back with a sigh as large hands run over your bare stomach and breasts. Your relaxed breaths turn into a sharp inhale as his fingers find your nipple, giving it a slight pinch.

“Let me take care of you, doll,” he mutters. You turn to face him, slotting your lips against his. He walks forward until you feel the bedframe behind your knees. You yelp, but his hands find your head and your back, lowering you until you feel the plush mattress underneath you. Bucky plants a kiss on your lips before moving to your neck and decolletage. His mouth takes it time on both of your breasts, swirling slow circles on your nipples, before kissing down your stomach.

Bucky murmurs a swear under his breath as he removes your underwear. He runs his thumb along your folds, nearly hypnotized by the arousal he now spreads to your clit. He listens to your soft whimpers as he draws agonizing circles.

He meant to take his time, but he can’t help himself. He missed you so damn much, and he’s more than eager to prove it. He moves his hand to his hardening cock, pumping as he licks a stripe along your folds.

Can’t waste a single drop.

His cock twitches in his hand at your gasp. You sound so needy, all for him. His mouth envelops your pearl, sucking and licking like he’ll never be satiated.

“Oh–f-fuck–Bu-Bucky.”

You lift your head to peer at Bucky, your hands moving to his hair. He releases you with a pop, meeting your eyes through the darkness.

“I’ve missed you, doll,” he murmurs, savoring your taste on his tongue.

“I m-missed–shit!”

Bucky has pushed a finger into you, curling and pressing against your g-spot. Your head falls back onto the mattress, your back arching as his mouth returns to your clit. He groans as your hands on his head push him closer. He adds another finger, quickening his pace. He feels you clenching around his fingers.

That’s it, doll.

He looks up at you, your head thrown back in pure pleasure, your breasts rising and falling with your erratic breaths.

“B-Buck, you’re–you’re gonna–”

A flurry of swears fill the air as you release. Bucky groans at the feeling of you coming around his fingers. Your fingers loosen around his locks, and he rests his head lazily on your thigh, pumping his fingers slowly as your orgasm subsides.

He brings his fingers to his mouth as he rises. He smiles as you watch him hazily.

He rests beside you, eyes closed, expecting you to nuzzle yourself into his chest like you always did. Instead, he opens an eye at the feeling of your fingers hooking into his waistband. His hands move to your hips as you shift on top of him.

You rush out, eyes darting wildly between personnel and patients. You spot Jentorra slumped in a seat, looking dangerously pale.

You make your way over to her, wiping at the damp sweat that has formed a film on her face. She sports numerous cuts and bruises all over her body, but she manages a smile at the sight of you.

"Hi, treasure."

"Jentorra, we're all perfectly capable here," you scold her, gesturing towards the chaos behind you as your coworkers tend to other patients.

"Why?" Alarm is suddenly painted on her face. "Were you with a patient? Go back to them, come back for me later—"

"No, you pillock, I just don't want you to bleed out because you're picky."

Blood pools around the hand she's using as a makeshift bandage; gingerly, you lift her hand and move it aside. The gash is deep and shows no sign of clotting anytime soon. A surge of anger rushes through you; Jentorra carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and this is how the Conquerer thanks her? Day in and day out, she leads a broken group of people who have nothing left, yet his vicious attacks come unrelenting, providing no reprieve for Jentorra or her people.

Clenching your jaw, you place your hand on her back, coaxing her out of the seat. She grabs your wrist with a clammy hand.

"No, treasure," she hisses, "not enough rooms—save them for the others—"

"Jentorra—"

"We won't argue about this. Either you help me right here, or you take me to the morgue." Jentorra doesn't enjoy painting these nasty pictures in your brain, but she must think of the others. It wasn't her idea to ambush a nearby Conquerer station, but she had signed off on it; now, too many of them were suffering the consequences.

You sigh, dropping your head as you weigh your options, though Jentorra has left you with virtually none. She takes the opportunity to snake her fingers in your hair, rubbing gently.

"Okay," you give in. "Okay."

You slip your coat off your shoulders, moving it between her wound and her hand. She hisses at the sensation. You leave her as you quickly grab all of the supplies you need. You return, kneeling in front of her, looking behind you for your teammate with powers that dull pain.

"Zerelda!" you call as you move your now-crimson coat away from Jentorra's wound. You swear she was just behind you.

"No—don't need her," Jentorra says through gritted teeth. "Just you, treasure—just you." She leans her head back as you clean her wound.

Jentorra's eyes are squeezed shut the entire time, banging her fist on the chair to distract herself from the pain. You can't work when her gestures shake her whole body, and you move her hand to hold your shoulder instead. She seems to relax with her hand on your skin, sinking into her seat. Your skilled fingers make quick work of the wound, suturing the deep gash closed within a matter of minutes. You place a bandage over the top of the stitches, indicating that you were finished.

"There," you say with a relieved sigh, sitting on your heels.

Jentorra sits up slowly. She looks at you as you wipe your brow, discarding your tools beside you. Your eyes are cautiously watching her wound. Should she tell you that you look somehow more attractive with blood and sweat caking you, or—?

"Need anything else?" you sass, placing your hands on your hips, trying to mask your fatigue.

She stifles a wince as she leans forward, cupping your chin. The muscles in her abdomen tense with the strain of holding herself up.

"I can think of a few things," she murmurs, sage eyes dropping to your lips. The pain nearly melts from her body as she watches your lips part ever so slightly for her.

She chooses to plant a kiss on your forehead instead before rising and moving nimbly towards the exit. As long as her fighters are out there, there's no way she can sit around and wait for her wound to heal.

"Jentorra!" you call after her exasperatedly.