a dreamer's solace

"Yeah, I know," you rolled your eyes. "Bucky? Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he decided.

You looked around the room quickly. "Pick up... that!" you instructed as you pointed at the heavy-looking sofa chair in the corner.

"That's all you want me to do? Redecorate?" he rolled his eyes.

"Bet you can't hold it over your head with one hand," you challenged with a smile.

He took a sip of his drink, meaning he was refusing to take the dare, and Sam groaned in disappointment. "He totally could, he's just too lazy to get up!" Sam accused.

"Fine, fine," Bucky relented, setting his drink down. Standing up and approaching it, he turned back to look at you first. "Vibranium arm or--?"

"Surprise me," you shrugged playfully, though you were honestly surprised already that he could apparently do it with either. He did choose the metal one, though, and only struggled to balance the massive thing properly as he lifted it rather than the actual weight.

You and Sam cheered and clapped proudly and he took a little joking bow as he set it down and returned to his seat.

"My turn," he announced, looking over at Sam intently. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he replied.

Bucky leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees and narrowing his eyes as he stared at Sam; you straightened slightly where you were sitting on the couch, worried what he was so serious about asking. "Did you take a fifty out of my wallet that time I left it in your car?"

"Dude, that was like, two years ago!" Sam whined.

"So you did!" Bucky accused with a pointed finger.

"I'm not saying that, I just can't believe you're bringing it up--" Sam began.

"Just admit it, man, I know you did it!" Bucky talked over him.

"You're a hundred, nobody would blame you for forgetting where you spent it," Sam continued.

"Guys, guys!" you interrupted until they both looked at you. "Sam, are you officially answering the question? Yes or no?"

Pausing for a second, he quickly took a shot out of his glass. "You sneaky little shit," Bucky frowned.

"Whatever, truth or dare," Sam turned to you quickly to change the subject.

"Truth," you offered this time, and Sam paused for a second before a devious smile filled his face. You leaned back as if creating some distance would protect you from whatever idea he'd just had.

"Alright," he began, "if you had to pick... which one of us would you, you know..."

You figured you knew what he meant, but you still made a confused face. Bucky coughed nervously into his fist.

To illustrate his point, Sam moved his fist back and forth and made an ee-ee sound to, apparently, imitate a squeaking mattress. "I get it, I get it, Christ," you grimaced, instantly reaching for your glass.

"Come onnnn," Sam whined.

"Nope, too weird," you decided, shaking your head as you tossed back the last of your drink.

The drinks didn't hit you too hard, but you still had to turn in for the night eventually. A knock on your door startled you when you were laying down and procrastinating sleep on your phone; a wave of dizziness surprised you when you stood up too quickly-- apparently you were still a little more tipsy than you realized.

You opened the door to find Bucky on the other side, looking at you with a sort of sparkle in his eye, and you let him in without a word. "You could've said Sam," he said to you suddenly.

"Huh?" you mumbled in confusion.

"You know, when he asked you earlier, in the game," Bucky clarified, "about which one of us--"

"Oh, right," you nodded, not sure why he was randomly bringing this up now.

"You could've said you'd rather hook up with him," he offered again.

You raised an eyebrow.

"To throw him off the trail, I mean," he added, stepping closer to you and resting a hand on your waist. "And give him a little ego boost."

"Don't think he needs much more ego," you smirked, putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder in return, "or a red herring to throw him off the trail. I really don't think he suspects anything."

"Well, then maybe we should give him something to be suspicious of," Bucky offered in a lower voice, leaning in to kiss your neck.

"Buuuck," you whined in playful annoyance, pushing him back slightly. "He's just down the hall..."

"Then try to be quiet," he offered, before he smiled against your skin in a way you could already tell was triggered by a mischievous idea. "How about I dare you to be quiet?"

Your breath caught a bit, equally due to his kisses on your pulse and the titillating idea of being forced to keep quiet while he--

"No seriously, I dare you," he decided before dropping to his knees and starting to pull down your pajama bottoms. "Don't be too loud or he'll hear you..."

Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.

“They are primitive.”

“Cars are cool.”

“Cars are slow.”

“They have music.”

That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.

Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”

Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.

From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”

You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.

Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.

You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).

Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true. 

Why would you even think that? You looked so different.

By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.

Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.

You and Peter were… batteries.

And then Yondu died.

What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?

That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.

For a while, neither of you joked about anything. 

Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,

But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.

The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter. 

And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.

Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.

The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals. 

You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.

For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.

Then came Thanos, and Titan.

Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.

The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.

You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.

But it was not enough.

The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning. 

Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.

You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would. 

Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together. 

But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless. 

Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.

Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.

At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it. 

You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.

Peter saw it happen.

One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you. 

“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”

You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there. 

That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.

You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.

Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too. 

Then you were both dust.

—

And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.

One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you. 

There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.

So you fought him again, and this time, you won.

Earth, as it turned out, was not boring. 

Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.

Earth also had Bucky Barnes.

Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.

Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories. 

“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.

“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.

Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.

“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”

You looked up.

And fuck.

Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.

He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh. 

Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”

The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”

You blinked. “Bucky?”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”

From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”

You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.

“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.

You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”

Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”

“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.

Bucky actually smiled then.

And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.

—

You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.

It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.

Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.

Your fingers moved absently over your arm.

The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home. 

Behind you, the roof access door creaked.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”

You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”

Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.

He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.

“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.

You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”

You blinked. “About what?”

“That was pretty much my response.”

You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.

“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”

“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”

“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”

You stared at him. “Do you?”

“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.

He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”

You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”

“Not sure that means much.”

“No?”

“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.

So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing. 

You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.

Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.

You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”

“What is it?”

You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”

Bucky turned his head toward you.

You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”

Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”

His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”

You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”

“Usually no.”

“Usually?”

“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”

While I was gone. 

Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had

So you pushed your door open first.

You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.

You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.

You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.

Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.

Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.

You looked down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.

People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.

You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”

Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”

And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.

Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.

He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold. 

You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing. 

You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”

Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.

“Are they dead?” you asked.

That made him look at you.

You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”

Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”

“Most is not all.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“Do you want help?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.

Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.

Bucky seemed aware of it too.

“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”

You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”

“One-night stands.”

You stared.

He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”

“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”

“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”

“No.”

“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”

His smile lingered, and so did yours.

The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.

Maybe it did.

Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.

“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”

His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”

“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”

That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.

“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”

You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.

You leaned closer anyway.

“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”

“No?”

“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”

Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”

“Yes.”

You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and  the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.

“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.

Instead, it was recognition.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.

His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt.  His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.

It was infuriatingly sweet.

So you fixed it.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.

Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.

You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.

This did not feel like that.

Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.

He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.

Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”

You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.

“You don’t have rust.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”

You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”

His eyes dropped to your hand.

It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.

By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you. 

It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.

You were.

So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon. 

You just made each other feel good.

—

In the morning, someone knocked on your door.

It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.

You opened your eyes slowly.

For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.

Oh.

Right.

The knocking came again.

Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before. 

“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”

“He okay?”

“He’s asking about breakfast.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.

You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”

Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.

It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.

“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.

You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.

Oh, shit.

Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.

You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.

Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”

Your entire body went hot.

“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.

Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”

From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”

You dropped your face into your hands.

Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.

“I am Groot,” Groot said again.

“I know,” Rocket said. “We’re going to IHOP. Quill’s handling it.”

“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.

“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.

Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”

“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.

Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.

Peter.

“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .

Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”

You froze. Bucky froze.

You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”

Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”

Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”

Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”

“Oh my god,” you said.

“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.

Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”

You turned to him in alarm. “No.”

Bucky looked between you and the doorway.

“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”

“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.

Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.

Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.

“I’ll see you around?” you said.

“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.

“Big fan,” Peter said.

“Pete!” you groaned.

Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”

Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.

Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.

Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.

By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.

It had one number saved: Bucky. 

—

You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.

It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra  week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.

Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.

Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.

So one week became five months.

And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.

Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.

The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.

It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual. 

It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted. 

Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.

Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.

There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.

But there he was.

Things happened.

There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive. 

There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”

You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.

It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.

That was what you kept saying, anyway.

Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.

Casual meant you could leave when you had to.

Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.

“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.

Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.

“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”

Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”

“Pete loves that song.”

“Of course he does.”

You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”

He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”

“No. Music.”

He looked so offended you had to kiss him.

That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.

The Benatar was fixed eventually.

Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly. 

Bucky didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.

—

The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.

It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.

His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode  him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”

You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.

When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.

His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.

You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.

You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.

Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”

It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.

You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”

You had kicked Drax under the table.

Bucky had not laughed much after that.

Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.

After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.

“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out

“Bucky...”

“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”

You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”

His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.

“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”

“You don’t blend in anywhere.”

“That’s fair.”

You tried to smile. 

Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.

“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”

You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.

You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.

How could you ask him to leave that?

And how could he ask you to stay?

Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians. 

Earth had Bucky.

Space had everyone else.

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.

His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”

He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.

He kissed them off your cheeks.

You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.

Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.

For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.

His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.

You blinked up at him.

Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.

Your lips parted.

He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”

You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”

He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made  your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.

Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.

But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.

He laughed too, quieter.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”

You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.

It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.

You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Bucky opened his eyes.

You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”

He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.

He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at.  It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.

This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.

Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.

“Don’t,” you gasped.

He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hold back.”

His eyes darkened.

Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”

Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.

You let yourself have it.

For once, you didn’t try to make it funny. 

You just let him have you.

And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

Good.

You wanted it to fucking ache. 

For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.

The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.

Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”

His hand stilled in your hair.

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.

You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.

You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”

You placed it in Bucky’s hand.

He looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“A communicator.”

His brows lifted. “This works in space?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”

Bucky stared at you.

You sniffed. “But it works.”

His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”

“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”

Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.

“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”

“From time to time,” he repeated.

You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”

Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.

He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.

You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.

“What is this?”

“My dog tags.”

You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”

He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”

“Then why are they called that?”

“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”

You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up. 

His smiled.

Oh.

“They’re important,” you realised.

Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”

And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”

You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”

“You gave me a space phone that might explode."

You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.

You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.

Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.

You went very still.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you said.

He looked at you.

You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.

“Good,” you whispered.

Then you kissed him again.

By morning, your body ached everywhere.

When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.

Stay.

Come with me.

Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.

You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.

—

You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.

Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between. 

Still, you messaged him when you could.

Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.

Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.

Still alive?

That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.

You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?

Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.

Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.

Then he looked out of his window.

Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.

He wondered where you were.

He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.

—

The first time you came back, it was only for two days.

You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once. 

He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.

You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.

“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”

He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket. 

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”

“I know.”

“It’s not enough time.”

“I know,” he said again.

His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.

You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.

“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.

He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”

“Terrans love boxes.”

He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood. 

That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.

Bucky stayed awake.

He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.

“You still wear them,” he murmured.

You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”

“To me.”

“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”

He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”

“Yes.”

“Where would you misplace me?”

“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”

A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.

After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”

You turned your head slightly. “What does?”

“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”

You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”

“Yeah.”

“And what are you?”

You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”

You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”

“Every few months, apparently.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.

—

The second time you came back, it was for five days.

Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.

Also because Bucky was there.

Not that you said that.

You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”

You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.

This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.

Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.

Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.

“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.

He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”

He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.

Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”

He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.

You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”

“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.

You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”

“Nice is good.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty?”

He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”

Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.

You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”

“I know.”

“You can date.”

“I know.”

“Then how was it?”

“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”

Oh.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him. 

Instead, you reached for his hand.

He let you take it.

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked at him. “But?”

Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”

—

The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week

That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.

Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”

You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”

“Yes.”

“What do they know?”

He looked uncomfortable.

You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Oh, now it’s the full name?”

“What do they know?”

“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”

So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.

The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air. 

You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.

Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.

“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”

Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.

You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.

“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”

Sam choked.

One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”

“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.

Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”

You wanted to take it back.

You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him. 

But you didn’t say any of that.

Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.

You mouthed, stop.

He smiled faintly.

Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.

Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.

“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.

“That makes it worse.”

“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”

Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Your face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. But I want something.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”

Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”

Oh.

He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.

Soon.

As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.

“Bucky…”

“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”

You swallowed.

“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”

You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…

You reached across the table and took his hand.

“I’ll try,” you said.

—

The fourth time, you came back two months later.

He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here. 

You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”

His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.

You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”

He let you in.

The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.

You told him about Mantis on the second night.

You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.

So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.

“Mantis is my sister,” you said.

Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”

You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”

“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.

“Yes.”

He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”

You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”

Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”

You believed him.

And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.

But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.

Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.

And what did Earth have?

One soldier in Brooklyn. 

And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window. 

He wondered where you would be in a month.

He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.

He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.

Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.

—

Months later…

Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either. 

Rocket actually almost died.

You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon. 

For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow. 

Then he came back.

Against all odds, Rocket lived.

The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces. 

Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights. 

And now, your family was changing.

Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck. 

Which was fair 

But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.

Then Peter said he was leaving, too.

He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.

Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.

He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.

And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too. 

“I could come with you,” you said.

Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”

You smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”

Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.

His eyes changed.

“Ohhh,” he said.

You looked away at once. “Don’t.”

Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”

“Peter.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”

Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”

Your face went hot.

Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”

“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”

The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it. 

Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.

You turned. “What?”

He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.

Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”

You looked at Groot in betrayal.

Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.

Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”

“I don’t.”

“You are touching them now.”

You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.

“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”

“He’s not old.”

Nebula finally looked up.

Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It means old.”

“He looks fine.”

Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything”

Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”

“They are called dog tags.”

“You are not a dog.”

“That is what I said!”

Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”

Well, when she said it like that…

Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”

Finally, everybody shut the hell up. 

Because yes. He did.

Right. 

Rocket looked away first.

He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.

Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.

Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”

Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”

“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”

Rocket didn’t look at you.

He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.

“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”

You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.

The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay. 

“I am groot,” Groot said, finally. 

I love you guys. 

—

Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.

He should have been, probably. 

That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM. 

He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.

So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.

He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up. 

He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.

Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.

You were standing in his hallway.

You.

You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.

Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet. 

Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.

You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.

“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.

“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”

For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or  space. Just you.

Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.

You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.

Bucky closed his eyes.

His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.

“How long?” he asked.

Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”

Oh.

Oh, stars.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.

“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”

Bucky kissed you.

He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.

Yes.

Yes, stay.

Yes, here.

Yes, with me.

You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.

When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”

Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”

You sighed then. 

Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.

—

And then life kept going.

You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.

Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.

He won anyway.

By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.

The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines: 

Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.

James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.

Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.

That one was your favourite.

You framed it.

Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.

You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.

He stared at the headline.

“You framed it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”

“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”

Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.

The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.

You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and  monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.

Bucky said the place made sense for security.

When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”

“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use. 

“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.

“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”

Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.

And slowly, it became yours.

You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair. 

When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.

He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”

Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.

“Your sister likes windows,” he said.

He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.

Mantis smiled.

Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.

Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”

You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.

And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.

Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.

“I like Earth,” she said.

You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.

“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”

—end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of which is you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

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

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

“I want you here.”

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

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

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

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

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

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.

It was the same wretched sound all over again.

From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.

There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.

“Keep it down, Barnes!”

But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.

Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…

“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”

He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.

With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.

It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.

Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.

“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.

I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—

“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”

I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.

Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.

“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.

You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.

“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.

Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.

He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.

“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”

Bucky didn’t react.

He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.

But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.

“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.

You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.

“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”

“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”

You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.

“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”

Bucky flinched, looking offended.

“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”

Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”

You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.

“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”

“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”

Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”

The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.

Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.

In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.

You grimaced, facing the door again.

“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.

Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.

You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.

You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.

“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”

“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”

“I know. But you like it.”

The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.

“—surfing….”

Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”

You gripped your hands tighter.

If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.

“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.

The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”

“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”

Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.

The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.

“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”

Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.

Well, almost silence.

Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.

Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.

Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.

“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.

She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.

“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.

Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”

Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.

You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”

“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”

The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”

“Yes!” you snapped.

“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”

“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”

You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.

You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.

“Honey? Are you here?”

Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.

Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.

“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.

You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.

“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.

“Wow, you look terrible.”

Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.

“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”

“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”

You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”

“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”

You felt utterly and completely defeated.

Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.

“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.

He frowned. “Well…?”

You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”

“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”

“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.

Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.

“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”

You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.

John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”

Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.

“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.

“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”

“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”

“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”

“What’s going on here?”

You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.

Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.

You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.

“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”

Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.

She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.

The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”

You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”

Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”

The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.

No.

He couldn’t have…

You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.

But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.

“John…?” you whimpered.

And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.

“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”

“Get the hell out.”

John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”

“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.

“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.

“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”

Slip up?

Was this what he thought this was?

Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?

You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.

Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.

“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”

Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.

“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.

“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”

John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.

He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”

“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”

If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.

John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.

“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”

You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.

Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.

If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.

“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”

John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.

When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.

He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”

He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.

You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.

Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.

Bucky didn’t know what to say.

There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.

“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”

“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.

“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”

Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.

For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.

He felt terrible.

He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.

“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”

As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.

One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.

He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.

“Bucky, turn down your music!”

“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”

“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”

Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.

Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.

“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”

“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”

Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.

“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.

But of course, they don’t.

Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”

“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.

Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”

“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”

Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.

Bucky grimaced at the memory.

Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.

Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.

He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.

How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.

“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”

Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”

Bucky frowned.

They had no idea what you were going through at all.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”

Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”

“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”

Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”

Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”

“Eeeeek!”

Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.

Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”

But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.

Had John returned to threaten you?

Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?

Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.

“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”

“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.

Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.

Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.

Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.

“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”

“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”

“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”

Bucky sighed heavily.

He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.

Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.

He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.

“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”

The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.

“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”

You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.

Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.

He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.

He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.

“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.

You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”

“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”

Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.

But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.

There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.

“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.

“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.

Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”

Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.

“Sam, I swear to God—”

Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.

“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.

“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.

Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”

With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.

Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.

Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.

“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.

Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.

They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.

You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.

“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.

Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”

“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”

He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.

“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.

Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.

The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.

Are you free this Friday night?

Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.

I actually named one of my tracks after you.

But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”

Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”

“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.

“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.

“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.

You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”

“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”

Without even realizing it, he started rambling.

“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”

You hummed in thought.

For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.

You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.

“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”

You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.

“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”

“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”

You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.

Bucky… helping you?

This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.

“I don’t know, Bucky—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”

You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.

You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.

So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.

“Whatever you say, Barnes.”

To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.

He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.

It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.

“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.

“You’re already working on the window panels?”

Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.

“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”

He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.

“How… how do you like it?”

You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.

“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”

Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.

“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.

“Oh? You mean like this?”

You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.

Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.

“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.

“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”

From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.

Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.

During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.

Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”

Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.

“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”

He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.

“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”

Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”

“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?

“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.

You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.

“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.

Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.

Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.

“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

You hated him. You really did.

“Bucky, I swear to God—”

Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.

“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”

You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.

“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.

You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.

“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”

“God, no.” You laughed.

Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…

“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.

You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.

“Bucky, I…”

“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”

You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.

Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.

“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.

Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.

Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.

He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.

Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.

You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.

You?

Kissing Bucky?

You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.

“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.

Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.

He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.

Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.

His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.

Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.

Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.

He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.

“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.

He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.

It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.

But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.

“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.

“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”

He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.

In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.

When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.

He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.

“Eager little thing, are you?”

You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.

You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”

Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”

His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.

“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”

You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.

“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”

You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”

“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”

Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.

He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.

He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.

“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”

He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.

You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.

“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.

Bucky had no intention of stopping.

He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.

Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”

Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.

“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.

Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.

“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.

Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.

“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”

Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.

“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”

You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.

He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.

You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.

“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”

“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.

“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”

Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.

You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.

You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.

“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.

Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.

He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”

Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.

Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.

“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”

Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.

“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”

Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.

“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.

That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.

His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.

“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.

The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.

While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.

“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”

Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?

Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.

A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.

“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”

Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”

He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.

“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”

You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.

“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.

Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.

When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”

You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.

You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.

Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.

And of course, Bucky was right behind it.

He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.

You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.

Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.

A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.

“Hey,” you shouted over the music.

“What’ll it be, miss?”

“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.

The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”

You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.

With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.

After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.

“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.

“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”

“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.

With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.

You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.

“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”

“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”

You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.

During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.

But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.

A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.

You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.

You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”

Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.

You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.

You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.

It was a horrible, familiar feeling.

It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.

And yet, here you were.

You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?

Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.

You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”

And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”

He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.

You weren’t special.

You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.

“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”

You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.

You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.

“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”

Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.

You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.

The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.

The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”

Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.

“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”

You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.

“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”

You were going to find his lease.

You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.

The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.

He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.

“Why did you come back here?” He panted.

“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.

He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”

“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.

When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with that?!”

You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”

Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.

“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”

You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”

You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.

“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.

You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.

“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”

What the hell were you saying?

None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.

Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.

Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.

With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”

You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.

Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.

You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.

One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”

You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.

He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.

“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”

He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.

“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.

“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”

You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.

You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.

Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.

“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”

Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.

Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.

The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.

But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.

Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.

Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.

Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.

“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”

Bucky kept his word and left you alone.

Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.

He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.

Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.

He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.

“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”

“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”

You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.

He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?

Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.

The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.

It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.

It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.

For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.

You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.

But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.

Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.

You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”

You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.

You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.

“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”

Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.

“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.

“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.

Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.

He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.

A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.

With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.

Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.

The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.

Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.

Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.

“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”

You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.

He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?

He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?

“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”

You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.

Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.

And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.

“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.

Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.

You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.

“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”

The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.

“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”

You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.

“Where is she?” you hissed.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.

“Where’s who?”

Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”

Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”

“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”

Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”

“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.

“That’s you.”

Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.

“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”

Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”

Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”

Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.

“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.

He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”

Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.

“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.

Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.

“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”

Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.

“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”

He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.

“No,” you lied.

“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”

You scoffed. “What are you on about?”

His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.

“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.

You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.

“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”

“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”

You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”

You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.

God, you missed him.

You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.

You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.

Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”

Bucky’s smile widened.

“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”

Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.

“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”

Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.

It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.

Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.

“I’ll try.”

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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He had to be in his line of work. Being a flight surgeon meant he took care of others, making sure the crew members were healthy, fit, and able to perform their duties safely. He did his job well. He always had. 

But when the opportunity for a new mission came up, he turned it down.

Because he had a new responsibility now. 

He smiled gently as he stood in the nursery doorway, watching you hold your son as you rocked in the chair. The sight warmed his heart.  Being away from you would’ve been tortuous enough. Being away from you and his son? He couldn’t do it. 

He was needed here. 

“How’s CJ doing?” he asked when you looked up. 

You thought CJ would be a cute nickname for Chris Jr., and he agreed. 

“Needy for attention, like his father,” you teased. 

He laughed and walked over, crouching down to give his son a kiss on the top of his head. “Of course, we’re needy for your attention. You’re my wife. You’re his mother.”

You smiled at him. “Well, we love having your attention, too,” you said, your smile fading just a touch. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“You sure you don’t regret turning that mission down?”

His brows furrowed before his lips touched your forehead. “I will never regret it,” he promised. 

The stars reminded him how vast and wondrous the universe could be, but he had his entire world right in front of him. 

Every night’s another reason why I left it all.

You blinked away the mist in your eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, giving his sleepy son a tender smile when he wrapped his small hand around his finger. “Love you, too, son.”

May I give him a family, please? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

His ears had gone pink. “Oh.”

Still, he was curious enough to try, and trusted you to be the one to do it to him. 

That was how he ended up like this, shaking under you, breath punching out of his chest every time your hips met his. It was too much and not enough at once. Too intimate, too filthy, too vulnerable. It was a new kind of pleasure for him; a new sensation he couldn’t grit his teeth through.

Fuck, it made him melt.

You leaned over him, one hand braced beside his head, the other sliding up his chest to feel the frantic beat of his heart.

“Still with me?” you whispered.

Bucky nodded, frantic and wrecked.

His voice barely worked. “Yeah.”

You kissed his jawline  and moved again, slow and deep, watching his mouth fall open to give way to a silent gasp.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s it. Taking it so well, baby.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Nuh-uh,” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hide from me now.”

He opened them again, glassy now, and the sight went down to your core. Big, dangerous Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, your overprotective stubborn boyfriend, laid out beneath you and trembling because you had a strap-on in him and he liked it.

He liked it so much it almost startled him.

You could see it in the way his brow pinched, in the way his throat worked around words he couldn’t get out. His hips kept lifting to meet you even when his face burned with embarrassment.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you breathed.

He made a broken gasp and turned his face into your palm when you cupped his cheek.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

“Don’t what?”

His lashes fluttered. “Say stuff like that.”

You smiled and rolled your hips harder.

Bucky choked.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because it makes you needier?”

His metal hand twisted in the sheet until the fabric tore.

You kissed him before he could be embarrassed by it.

It was messy and filthy, his mouth open under yours, breath shaky against your tongue. You kept the rhythm steady while you kissed him, fucking him slow enough that he had to feel every slick drag, every deep grind. 

Then your hand slid down between you and wrapped around him.

“Oh—fuck.”

There he was. A real word at last, torn out of him like a confession.

You hummed against his mouth, stroking him in time with your hips.

His head tipped back into the pillow.

“Too much?” you asked softly.

He shook his head immediately, almost panicked.

“No. No, don’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Don’t stop.”

You kissed his throat. And you weren’t planning on stopping till you finished the job.

You kept him pinned under your weight, kept the strap buried deep while your hand worked him, dragging every last bit of pride out of him. Bucky stopped trying to be quiet as pretty sounds started slipping out of him anyway: rough gasps, breathless little groans, your name broken into a million pieces.

He looked ruined and flushed and sweaty and shaking, mouth wet from your kisses, hair stuck to his forehead, body helplessly chasing both your hips and your hand. He held onto your waist like he needed you more than oxygen, 

“You’re okay,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes found yours.

“Feels…” He stopped, teeth chattering.

“I know.”

He shook his head, desperate now, trying again. “Feels so—”

You pushed in deep, and the rest of the sentence disappeared.

His body bowed under you, thighs tightening hard around your hips. You kissed him through it, swallowed the helpless noise that left him, kept moving until he shattered completely beneath you.

Bucky came apart with your name in his mouth and his hands locked on you, shaking so hard the bed creaked under both of you. You slowed your hips but didn’t pull away, working him through it until he was trembling too much to take anymore, streaks of white painting his stomach and yours. 

Only then did you stop.

You kissed his cheek, his nose, then the corner of his mouth.

“There you go,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

For a long moment, he couldn’t answer.

He just dragged you down against him, arms wrapping around you, face buried against your neck. His body was hot and wrecked and utterly surrendered beneath you.

You stroked his hair away from his damp forehead.

“You okay?”

Bucky nodded against your shoulder.

Then, barely audible, ruined beyond repair, Bucky whispered, “Wanna do that again.”

You laughed a little. “This is a Ouija board. You don’t get premonitions from that.”

You weren’t sure how your friend, Beth, convinced you to do this in your new home. It was a little older and needed some work, but it was still nice. A perfect place to make a home. 

Though for the few days you had been there, the rooms felt inexplicably cold at times. It felt like someone was watching you, especially when you were in the bathroom or bedroom. And you swore someone was whispering your name before you went to sleep. 

But it had to be jitters since you lived alone. 

No one was there except for you. 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun,” she joked, closing her eyes. “Is there someone here with us?”

“I don’t think-”

The planchette began to move, Beth’s eyes going wide when it landed on “YES.”

“That…” She swallowed hard. “That wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t me either,” you said, your heart racing faster. “What’s your name?”

The planchette moved again, slowly stopping at five letters. 

“Bucky,” you whispered. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Beth asked. 

You shrugged because you had no idea. “Are you the one watching me?”

“Watching you?” she questioned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The planchette went back to the word “YES.”

You both froze. Beth had a terrible poker face, so you knew she wasn’t doing this. But spirits didn’t exist. 

Right?

“What do you want?” you asked. 

Y. O. U.

Your heart stopped. 

“I think we’re done.” Beth practically shoved the board away, laughing nervously. “Old houses, huh?”

You tried to laugh. Play it off like a joke. But you couldn’t. 

Because someone named Bucky was watching you. 

And what would he do to have you?

Ooh. What will he do? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

But Bucky knew better than to argue with you. Especially when you were sprawled under the umbrella in your swimsuit, sunglasses slipping down your nose, one hand thrown over your forehead like a woman in a tragic period drama.

“Buckyyy,” you said weakly.

He looked over from where he was helping Jamie dig a sandcastle with the yellow shovel. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m dying.”

Jamie gasped. “Mommy?”

“She’s not dying,” Bucky said calmly.

“I am,” you insisted with a sigh, beads of sweat rolling down your skin that Bucky was really trying not to pay attention to, not while he was building sandcastles with your son. “The sun has chosen me as tribute.”

“Mmm,” Bucky’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you frowned, “I need your arm.”

He glanced down at the vibranium arm, then back at you.

Jamie looked between the two of you, very interested. “Daddy’s cold arm?” 

“Daddy’s cold arm,” you confirmed. Jamie knew because when he sprained his ankle last month, Bucky used his arm to “ice” the bruise. 

Bucky huffed a laugh.

Then, without making a big deal out of it, he reached up and detached the arm.

Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses. “Wait. I was joking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

You considered you answer for a second. “I was joking a little.”

“No, you weren’t,” he repeated, because apparently being the love of your life meant that he knew you better than you knew yourself.

He walked over and gently set the vibranium arm beside you on the towel, cooling function already humming faintly through the vibranium.

You immediately wrapped your arm around it.

“Oh my God,” you sighed, pressing your cheek against the cool surface. “I love you.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow and chuckled. “Me or the arm?”

“At this exact moment,” You tilted your head, “I need you to be emotionally secure enough not to ask that.”

Jamie toddled over and patted the arm with both little hands. His eyes went huge. “Cold!”

“Very cold,” you said reverently at his adorable little face, blue eyes not unlike Bucky’s own. 

Jamie turned to Bucky, delighted. “Daddy, mommy has your arm.”

“I know, buddy.”

“You only have one hand now.”

Bucky looked down at himself, then at Jamie. “Yeah. Looks like I’m gonna need help with the castle.”

Oh. Daddy needs me! He seemed to think. 

Jamie straightened like he had just been promoted to general.

You watched the exact second your six-year-old became the most important construction worker on the beach.

“I can help,” Jamie said, very solemnly.

“I was hoping you would.”

Bucky went back to the sandcastle one-handed. To be fair, he could still do most things better than most people with one hand. 

He packed sand with his right palm, dragged the shovel toward him, smoothed down walls with his fingers. But every time one of Jamie’s little structures needed steadying, every time a bucket had to be tipped or a shell had to be placed or the moat needed “more water but not too much water,” he looked to Jamie.

“Can you hold this side for me?”

Jamie rushed in. “I got it, daddy!”

“Good job,” he smiled, “Don’t let it fall.”

Jamie’s little face went slightly pink with concentration. “I won’t.”

You hugged the cold arm closer, your heart melting for an entirely different reason.

Bucky could have done it faster on his own. You knew that. He knew that. But Jamie absolutely did not know that.

To Jamie, his father needed him.

To Jamie, he was not just watching the castle happen. He was making it happen.

He held the bucket while Bucky packed wet sand inside. He pressed both hands against one crooked wall while Bucky reinforced the other side. He selected shells with the concentration of a professional jeweller. He added one piece of seaweed to the top and declared it a flag.

Bucky squinted at it. “Looks like kelp.”

Jamie gave him a look.

“I mean,” Bucky corrected himself immediately. “Strong flag, buddy.”

Jamie nodded. “It means no bad guys.”

“Good rule.”

“And no stepping on mommy.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, curled shamelessly around his detached arm like a sun-drunk cat. “Definitely no stepping on your mom.”

You lifted one hand lazily. “This kingdom has great laws, baby.”

Jamie beamed.

The castle got bigger. As it got bigger, it got stranger. Then, Jamie insisted it had a garage, because Jamie insisted all castles needed garages, and Bucky, being a better father than anyone had any right to be, didn’t argue with the logic.

“For what kind of car?” Bucky asked.

Jamie frowned like the answer was obvious. “A fast one.”

“Right. Of course.”

“A blue one.”

“Blue fast car. Got it.”

“And it flies.”

Bucky paused. “A flying car?”

Jamie nodded.

So Bucky built the garage one handed. 

The left side collapsed twice, and Jamie gasped both times like there had been casualties.

“I need you,” Bucky said seriously. “This wall’s no good without you.”

Jamie dropped to his knees beside him. “I fix it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You hold it, Daddy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky held the wall while Jamie patted wet sand onto the side with tiny, clumsy, determined hands. Half of it stuck, and half of it slid down. But none of it mattered, because Bucky looked at your son like he had just watched him solve cold fusion.

“There,” Jamie said, sitting back on his heels. “I did it!”

Bucky smiled proudly. “You did.”

Jamie looked down at the castle, then back at him. “You needed me.”

Bucky went very still.

It was brief, but you saw that little pause he got sometimes when love hit a wound he forgot he still had.

Then he reached out and brushed sand from Jamie’s cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “I did.”

Jamie accepted that like it was simple. Because to him, it was.

His daddy needed help. He helped. Because of both their efforts, the castle stood.

The world was very easy at six years old.

By the time the tide started creeping closer, the castle had three towers, a moat, one flying-car garage, sixteen shells, a kelp flag, and Jamie’s full emotional investment.

When the first little wave reached the edge of the moat, Jamie gasped. “No!”

Bucky turned immediately. “You want me to move it?”

You lifted your head. “Bucky, you cannot move a sandcastle.”

He looked at you. You looked at him.

He looked back at the castle like he was genuinely considering whether he could get a big enough shovel to move a sandcastle.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Jamie, thankfully, solved the crisis by flinging himself into Bucky’s side.

“It’s okay,” he said, though he sounded heartbroken. “Ocean can have it.”

Bucky wrapped his one arm around him and pulled him close. “That’s generous.”

Jamie sniffed. “But not the garage.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “That part’s between us and the ocean.”

You laughed into the vibranium arm.

Bucky glanced back at you, sun-flushed, hair messy from the wind, one arm missing and the other full of your son.

He looked perfect.

Eventually Jamie wore himself out completely. He crawled into Bucky’s lap, sandy and buzzing with sleep, mumbling something about blue flying cars against his father’s chest.

Bucky sat under the umbrella with him, broad shoulder curved protectively around Jamie’s small one.

You scooted closer, still holding the detached arm. “Do you want this back?” you asked.

Bucky looked at you, then at Jamie asleep against him, then at the arm tucked against your cheek.

“Keep it,” he said softly. 

You chuckled and kissed his cheek, “It was made for dangerous missions.”

“It’s on one.”

You smiled. “Taking care of me is a dangerous mission?”

“Keeping you comfortable is my life’s work.”

You laughed, and he only smiled wider. Jamie shifted in his sleep, one small hand fisting in Bucky’s sleeveless shirt.

Bucky looked down at him, and there it was again. That disbelief and gratitude all the same.

He had been made into a weapon once.

Now his metal arm was keeping his wife cool, his only hand was holding his sleeping son, and a crooked sandcastle with a flying-car garage was being swallowed by the sea in front of him.

Shuri’s desert-grade cooling system had probably not been built for this.

But it was hard to imagine a better use.

—

"I'm not sparring with you." Your voice is flat as you say it, sprawled out contentedly on the couch with your nose buried in your book.

"Please." Bucky nudges your head gently from beside you.

"No." 

"Why?!" He whines.

Yes, the big bad Winter Soldier, the ghost story, one of the most feared assassin's of your time. . . is whining.

You sigh exasperatedly, your withering gaze turning to him.

". . . Because."

"Because what?"

"You never focus when you spar with me."

Bucky's head reels, offended, "Yes, I do."

"No, you don't." You shoot back, eyes narrowed, "Last time we sparred, you literally malfunctioned."

Bucky blinks, eyebrows furrowed, and then nods slowly, ". . . that was one time."

You groan, "That's all of the time!"

"You had your legs wrapped around my head," He defends, "I got a little distracted!"

You dog-ear your book and chuck it haphazardly onto the coffee table, sitting up properly with your legs curled under you, "That's not my fault!"

"They're your legs!"

"It's not my fault you think sparring is some weird equivalent to foreplay!"

"Who do you feel more sorry for?" Clint murmurs to Natasha as they sit atop the kitchen counter, watching them squabble.

"Me," Sam interjects, coming up behind them, sipping his coffee, "You think this just happens here? Bucky practically drools at the sight of her during a mission, and I always seem to get wedged between them."

"There's worse people to be wedged between." Natasha wiggles her eyebrows, "Could be Cap and Tony."

"Or Tony and Bruce, trying sitting with them when they're speaking their special science language." Clint rolls his eyes at the thought of it.

Sam shakes his head tiredly, taking a long sip of his coffee, "Y'all are crazy. . . That's a whole different ballpark I don't even wanna think about."

He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.

“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”

Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”

His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”

You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.

“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”

Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down. 

Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship. 

You might have an even higher sex drive.

You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.

But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.

That look.

Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.

“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.

And he’d groan like a man already defeated.

“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.

You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”

His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”

You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.

Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.

Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.

You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.

You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.

“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”

His laugh came out broken. “I do.”

“Then keep up.”

His eyes went dark.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”

You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back. 

Every time, that was your favourite part.

That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.

“Still think the serum makes you special?”

Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.

“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.

“You love it.”

His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”

Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive. 

He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.

He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”

One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.

And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.

Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.

He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:

Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours. 

He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.

—

❝ 360 ❞ by @houseofhyde — Sat, June 28, 2026

fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you?

❝ Club classics ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 1, 2026

If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.

❝ Sympathy is a knife ❞ by @tw1sters — Sun, July 5, 2026

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

❝ I might say something stupid ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 8, 2026

While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.

❝ Talk talk ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, July 11, 2026

What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. There are plenty of ways to talk.

❝ Von dutch ❞ by @houseofhyde — Wed, July 15, 2026

one brand campaign. two models who hate each other’s guts. three months of torture, bickering, and looks that linger. bucky barnes might have a pretty face, but his heart is rotten to the core and his ego is larger than life. his need to make his dislike of you know is borderline obsessive, never failing to keep your name in his mouth... so maybe it’s time he just confess it: you’re his #1.

❝ Everything is romantic ❞ by @heldbybarnes — Sat, July 18, 2026

when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.

❝ Rewind ❞ by @tw1sters — Wed, July 22, 2026

Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.

❝ So I ❞ by @firingstars — Sat, July 25, 2026

notorious for a reputation he worked so hard for, bucky barnes is certain the world is his. he has it all- money, good looks, a fraternity that hangs on his every word; what more could he possibly need? ah, that's right. the pretty girl he met back in freshman year of university that refuses to give him time of day.

❝ Girl, so confusing ❞ by @danysdaughter — Wed, July 29, 2026

bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

❝ Apple ❞ by @54nboo — Sat, August 1, 2026

after hundreds of years of corrupt ruling and tyranny your family had wrought upon your kingdom, a disease wipes out half of the continent. as the last remaining royal in your family, the crown finally falls into your hands. with your council plotting your deposition, you are left with only your knight to support your claim to the throne. can you fix the years of ruin your ancestors had left to you, or does the apple not fall far from the tree?

❝ B2b ❞ by @barnesonly — Wed, August 5, 2026

as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star.

❝ Mean girls ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — Sat, August 8, 2026

it seems as though everything is finally falling into place for you: you’ve just won your first Oscar academy award for your film *Rendezvous*, and you’ve just scored your first deal with the world-renowned film studio, Piston Pictures. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. that is, until the leading actor in your new film, the up-and-coming Bucky Barnes, makes a grave mistake that completely destroys your carefully crafted reputation overnight. except the mean girls of Hollywood can’t stop you from honing your craft, and they certainly can’t keep Bucky Barnes away from you, no matter how hard they try.

❝ I think about it all the time ❞ by @unificsation — Wed, August 12, 2026

bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.

❝ 365 ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, August 15, 2026

There are eight million people in New York City. Statistically, you shouldn’t keep running into the same man. You definitely shouldn’t keep fucking him.

── .✦ due to outside circumstances, our beloved @/spdrveil & @/artficlly cannot take a part in the collab. but don't worry, they're out there bumpin' that .ᐟ

Yet here you stood, off to the corner dismissing any man that tried to ask, while watching Rebecca laugh after a particularly dramatic dip from the fifth man that asked her to dance. You took a slow drag from the cigarette that was currently keeping you company, blowing out a ring of smoke, and watched it drift to the ceiling.

"Ya know that's bad for ya," Bucky Barnes, Rebecca's older - very much off limits to you - brother chided. A charming grin pulling at his lips while he plucked the cigarette from your fingers, while you rolled your eyes.

He placed it back in your hand after taking a long puff, nodding out to the dance floor. "Don't wanna get out there?"

You huffed, shaking your head. "I can't seem to stand on my own two feet on a good day, much less when I'm being spun around."

"Alright, come on, I'll teach ya." Bucky gently tugged on your sleeve, pulling you onto the dance floor.

You barely had time to register where he was leading you. Just that he had flicked your cigarette into an ashtray, and currently had his arm wrapping around your waist - holding you in much closer proximity than you had ever allowed yourself to be.

"You're gonna teach me how to dance?" you managed to stutter out as he swayed, nudging your feet with his shoes to get you to follow his lead.

Bucky nodded like it was his most important task tonight. "Can't let a pretty face like yours waste away in the shadows. Besides, I don't trust any other guy here with you."

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain @larissareidbarnes @castielscaplan @juniebjonesin @angelryex

You’ve never been athletic; your stamina isn’t the one thing you were praised for growing up. There’s a reason why you work the kind of occupation that has you hunched over a laptop with bad posture for hours on end, fingers chipping away at a keyboard until you feel the ache in your joints. You were meant to be bundled up in a blanket indoors, not outside in the sweltering summer heat in your sneakers that have seen one too many days. 

“It’s really not that bad,” Bucky smirks, “it’s a cooler day today, plus it’ll get nicer when we gain more elevation.”

You — being the stubborn hardass that you are — swallow the urge to say, “We’re still going higher?”

Thirty minutes into this hike and you’re starting to regret caving to your need to prove Bucky wrong. It was a small, offhanded comment about how you haven’t seen the light of day in weeks. You’ve been trapped in your room, glaring at a computer screen to meet your deadlines — glaring mainly because your vision has gotten so blurry that you can’t tell whether to squint or open your eyes wider to get the letters to stop moving on the page. 

He told you all about the great outdoors.

You told him that you don’t need it.

He teased you that you probably couldn’t handle it, being a city girl and all.

That was where you drew the line. You slammed your laptop closed and announced that the two of you were going on a hike. In the great outdoors. 

That was this morning.

Hours later and you’re now hunched over one of the hillier areas that you’ve climbed into. You’re standing on a slope and you’re half-tempted to let gravity roll you all the way back down. You’ve had kids run past you and elderly people zoom by. Bucky doesn’t say anything, knowing that any word that comes out of his mouth would be counterproductive to lifting your mood. 

Though, sometimes, he can’t help himself; he likes seeing you a little riled up.

“I could carry you.”

A gasp wrenches out of your throat. “Absolutely the fuck not. I can get myself to the top.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been working out — you know, outside.” 

Sometimes you can’t tell if this man truly loves you when all he does is cause your suffering. “I am an independent woman and I will make it to the top on my own.”

Fueled by sheer determination and pure petty rage, you somehow do make it to the top. The adrenaline is pumping through your veins like it’s carved into every one of your blood cells. By the time you reach the pinnacle, most of it has worn off and you’re thankfully rewarded with this beautiful view of the peak to revive your dead limbs.

The boulder you stand on is massive and gives you the perfect spot to drink in the gorgeous landscape. Lush greenery spreads far and wide, trees thick climbing up along the mountains. They part like the Red Sea down the middle to a crystal blue river that stretches and disappears into the distance, sparkling like gems underneath the afternoon sun. 

Speaking of sparkling, sweat clings to your skin like it’s nobody’s business and the tightness of the air up here does not help with your labored breathing. Your hair is an absolute mess in this heat. Meanwhile, Bucky looks like he’s just gone on a brisk five-minute walk to the house out back. He still looks stupidly handsome with that thick, lush brunette hair in a windswept muss. You’d think he was modeling for Backpackers Monthly. 

He places a hand on your head, stroking and patting your head like he would a dog. Unfortunately, you wag your tail, preening into his touch because you’ve always liked it when he did that. 

“Good job, look at you,” he smiles, “you’ve proven me wrong.”

At that, you can only harrumph proudly.

You should’ve known that Bucky would come prepared. He sets his backpack on the ground and lays out a thick picnic blanket before he begins opening up the spread for lunch. A good selection of sandwiches, a dessert that looks suspiciously similar to Maria’s famous panacotta, and fruits — perfectly peeled and sliced. 

Bucky Barnes really is the perfect man.

The two of you enjoy the sustenance and the sight for sore eyes for as long as you can. However, when the sun doesn’t relent and the heat begins to make you question whether there is one or two Bucky’s, you know it’s time to go. 

The way down is a little — okay, a lot — easier and Bucky seems humored more than anything to see you humming as you skip down the path. 

“Careful,” he calls out, “paths can be a little slippery.”

As if on cue, the two of you stumble upon two girls halfway down the mountain. One of them is planted on the dirt, wincing as she tries to stand, while the other looks at her warily. You turn to Bucky, worry evident in your expression. 

Before you can approach them, the one standing is trying to help the other get back on her feet, which only results in a yelp that has her slipping with a curse. Your feet move before you can even think, hands reaching out to help her steady. The two of them look at you in surprise.

“Do you two need help?”

“She was running down after I told her not to,” the unhurt one shoots her friend a look. 

You expect Bucky to give you an I told you so look but instead, he looks more concerned with crouching down and gesturing to the girl’s ankle. “May I?”

With a quick assessment (because what can’t this man do?), he determines that it’s a mild sprain but she definitely should not be putting any weight on it. Despite Bucky and her friend’s attempt to help her to her feet, she can’t bring herself to stabilize. 

He looks a little conflicted, so it’s your turn to contribute.

“You should just carry her down, Buck.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she immediately says. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“We insist, we don’t want it to get worse,” you smile reassuringly at her, “don’t worry. He might look skinny, but he’s surprisingly strong.”

She laughs, looking at Bucky’s broad, beefy shoulders. “Well, I appreciate it then.”

Bucky crouches with his back before her, the two of you help her climb onto his back, and he quickly hoists her up. It doesn’t look like any effort at all as he begins to climb his way back down.

The two of them introduce themselves — Helen is the one with the twisted ankle and Heather is her friend. They joke that they were always meant to be best friends; they are practically long-lost twins. 

While Bucky tries to keep Helen comfortable, making small talk, you do the same with Heather as the two of you walk close behind. She apologizes profusely for taking up your time with Bucky.

“Don’t worry about it,” you wave it off with a grin, “we live together and I see him enough.”

Bucky tosses you a playfully irritated look over his shoulder at the comment. 

You learn that they’re both visiting from the city and taking a little break from the skyscrapers and rush-hour traffic. You bond over it for a little while, telling her how you’ve just moved up here six months ago, and that visiting the city is your version of a break from all the trees and fresh air. 

“The only place we get that is Park Avenue and nobody would ever go there voluntarily,” she tells you and you can only laugh in agreement.

At the same time, you hear giggles from up ahead. Your curiosity has you straining your ears to eavesdrop on what they could be talking about that has the two of them laughing together like that. 

For a second, your ex’s face flashes across your mind. It nearly gives you whiplash because you haven’t thought of him in a while. Months, really. The last time you really gave him any proper thought was… when you caught him laughing and smiling with another woman. 

Now, Bucky’s arms are wrapped around this girl’s bare legs that stretch out from under her shorts. His back pressed against her front as her own limbs dangled over his shoulders, around his neck. She’s leaning forward. Close. A little too close for your liking. 

You quickly kick the thought away. It’s an unfair, irrational thought. She’s just supporting herself to make sure she’s not making it harder for Bucky and— Bucky is not your ex. He’s far from it, in fact. He’s proven that time and time again. 

Still, your fragile little heart can’t quite shake the feeling. 

Heather bumps your shoulder with hers, smiling. “He’s a sweet one, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” you murmur. 

And he is — this is just who Bucky is. You’re happy that he’s helping, it makes you proud to stand by his side. You know how he’s built his reputation in town as someone reliable, dependable. 

You curse that stupid green monster that keeps rearing its head, whispering terrible things in your ear like an itch you can’t scratch. All you can do is swallow that feeling.

When you finally see the sign for the parking lot, you breathe a sigh of relief. Mostly for yourself because at least you can get Bucky back. You have to stop yourself for a moment, scolding yourself internally for being so inconsiderate when someone is injured.

Heather guides the two of you to their car and opens up the back so that Bucky can place Helen gently there. He checks her ankle again to make sure it hasn’t swelled too much. Your eyes are glued to his large hands on her feet. 

He’s saying something about the sprain, how she should be resting and icing it for the next forty-eight hours, how she shouldn’t put any more weight on it and to get herself checked if it gets worse. 

The two of them thank you two aggressively, but there’s a ringing in your ears that muffles all the other noise, even as you part ways and begin to make your way back to your car further down the road. 

Bucky’s fingers squeezing your hand snaps you out of your thoughts, the buzzing swallowed up by the real sounds of nature. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

You stumble with his words. He catches you and tugs you back towards him. “What?”

“You’re quiet. Have been.” He peeks around to get a look at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you fluster, “just tired.”

Bucky hums, “You wanna tell me or you wanna keep lying to me?”

Nothing gets past this guy. 

You sigh and mumble, “It’s stupid.”

“No such thing.”

“It is.”

“Sweetheart.”

Since he’s switched up from doll to sweetheart, your heart has been beating at odd rhythms more often than not. It’s sweeter, more intimate. It reminds you that his heart belongs to you, and yours to him. 

“It’s so dumb and I know you were only trying to be helpful, which I love — I love that you’re helpful. Just seeing you with that girl…”

Bucky stops dead in his tracks. “I’m not your ex. I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” you hiss, maybe a little too quickly, and flinch. “I know that, which is why I said it was stupid.”

He stops you in your tracks, standing in front of you to cup your face and kiss you. Deep. Deep enough that you let a small whine spill into his mouth. “It’s not stupid. Your feelings are valid. I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive. It’s perfectly normal to be jealous, but I want you to know that that was just me trying to be a gentleman to put you at ease. Wanted to get out of here without you worrying or thinkin’ about them.” 

He’s not wrong. If he hadn’t helped, you would’ve been stressed, wondering if they were okay. If someone else came along to help. “That’s fair.”

“So trust me when I tell you, I only have eyes for you.”

“Okay.”

“Now, what else is bothering you?” You’re about to deny it again, despite the pressing of your heart against your ribs, and Bucky adds, “Don’t say nothing. There’s more.”

“It’s silly.” He gives you a look. “You carried her on your back.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t like that.”

He laughs, then, before you know it, you’re airborne. Your knees folded, one arm underneath them, the other around your back to press you close to him, your arms flying around his neck. 

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“This is embarrassing.” Your heart beats straight out of your chest as your gaze flies around the parking lot, catching a few curious glances. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, fire licking up your skin, and it’s not the sun. “People are watching.”

“Yeah, I suppose we look like newlyweds.” Heat spreads across your body again as you squirm. “I could propose to you. Right here, right now. It’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.”

Your lips part in surprise as you jerk back to look at him. He looks completely calm, like he’s dead serious. Warmth creeping up on your cheeks again. “Please don’t.”