fuck

ticket one ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

ticket two ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ Once your situationship with “dirtbag Barnes” becomes more public, everyone around you only seems to widen the gap—filling both your heads with the wrong ideas until communication completely falls apart. And if things weren’t messy before… well, sugar, you’re both going down swinging.

you like the way we kiss in the dark? [prequel] ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're not afraid of all the attention. You're not afraid of running wild. But why are you so afraid of falling in love with the campus' dirtbag, Bucky Barnes?

Bucky could only stare in awe as he watched you standing there in the middle of the crowd, glowing in the pink band tee he made just for you.

He had never played the drums this hard, this passionately in his life. Was this how Ringo Starr felt when he saw his wife in the crowd at their shows? He started to let his imagination run wild—maybe in the future, if Civil War ever got big, he could bring you—as his partner—along on their tours.

Maybe even make you a backup-lead singer, just like Bruce Springsteen and his wife Patti Scialfa.

He let his imagination run wild as he rocked out hard on the drum set. Every word that Steve sang out, every word that Bucky had written in his song journal, was a word that was written for you.

When he looked up from his sticks, his eyes only found you. His eyes traced the way you danced and smiled—your pretty Mac lipstick spread wide just for him. It reminded him of the night when he first saw you like this, and just that sight alone was enough for him to fall in love all over again.

Performing was his favorite thing to do, but he wanted nothing more than to pull you backstage and fuck you right behind the curtains—to rip the shirt that he designed off your body and press sloppy kisses all over you.

Their set finally came to an end, and the crowd was cheering wildly. Steve yanked the mic off the stand, the sharp feedback only seemed to rile the crowd up even more. These weird kids loved loud noise.

“Alright, alright!” Steve beamed into the mic. “Thanks for stickin’ around and listening to our...” he turned, motioning to the rest of the band, “very mediocre playing.” The crowd laughed. “We’re Civil War, which sounded way cooler when we came up with it at two a.m.! Thanks, and goodnight!”

The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer Bucky had ever heard. He was pretty much stumbling over the drum kit as he made his escape. Steve usually insisted on a band debrief post-concert with a side of beer and cigarettes, but Bucky couldn’t wait for any of that.

He had to get to you.

“Buck, where are you going?” Sam called from the stage, lifting the strap of his guitar over his shoulder.

Bucky paid him no mind. He jogged down the backstage steps and pushed the side door open, intent on getting to you. But the moment he stepped out, he collided with a group of girls camped right outside, and they all reeked of stale beer.

“It’s Bucky!” one girl gasped, and the rest swiveled toward him like a school of fish suddenly spotting a regular piece of white bread.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky muttered, his hand flying back to the doorknob, twisting it urgently to escape.

Locked.

“Bucky, you were amazing out there!”

“I could see your muscles through your shirt. You were banging on the drums really hard—”

“Bucky! I’ve got something else you can bang on—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned.

This wasn’t the first time Bucky had been swarmed by girls trying to get laid by a band member. He used to be fond of the popularity and attention that came with being in a rock band. But ever since he met you, the only attention he craved was from the girl who gave him nasty side-eyes and snarky comments all while clutching a pink handbag.

He spun around, pounding on the door with his fist and rattling the knob. “Sam! Let me in!” he shouted. But his prayers were left unanswered. Seriously—that guy was shouting his name just a few seconds ago, and now he’s up and vanished?

Bucky stiffened when he felt a surprisingly strong hand clamp down on his shoulder, spinning him back around to face the girls. They stepped closer, pressing him against the door as the girl’s hand lingered on his bicep, giving it a firm squeeze through his shirt.

“He really is strong!” she said gleefully.

“Get your hands off of me,” he gritted, his hand immediately wrapping around her wrist and prying it away from his arm.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bucky?” she frowned. “I did my research. All of the members in Civil War are single.”

One of the girls behind her gasped. “Is that true?”

He swallowed hard. Maybe if he gave this girl an answer—any answer—they would finally leave him alone.

“Not necessarily—” the word barely left his lips before his eyes caught on something at the end of the dim, packed hallway.

You.

You were standing right there, square in the middle, blocking people’s paths with your arms crossed tight. Your hip was slightly jutted out, your mini-skirt rising and falling as you tapped your heeled toe impatiently against the floor. Your manicured fingers were gripping your arms tight as you glared directly at him. Your pretty face was twisted up into the sourest expression he’d ever seen, your lips pursed in utter disgust.

Normally, that look of yours would give him a raging hard-on. But right now? He was absolutely fucking terrified.

The overheard light flickered once, and he swore that if he looked away for even just a second, you would slit his throat with your fingernail.

“—shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath. He straightened up quickly, forcing a nervous grin. “Hey, I was just—uh, on my way to find you—”

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” you interrupted, your eyes narrowed into a searing glare aimed at the girls. “You don’t want to sleep with him, girls. Trust me. I’ve also done my research. Heard he has the smallest dick size in the band and can last about thirty seconds max. Try Rogers instead.”

Silence fell as all the girls just blinked. Before Bucky, or any of them, could utter a word, you spun on your heel and stomped out of the hall. Your hips swayed and your hair swooshed like a stuck-up princess making a grand exit. The girls all took a step back as your words processed in their minds.

Fuck, you were mean.

You got the girls off his back at the expense of his pride, but Bucky didn’t care about that. He knew you were pissed. He knew you were possessive of anything that belonged to you. And although you would never say it out loud, you were most particularly possessive of him—because he belonged to you too.

“Hold on—” Bucky pushed his way through the crowd of girls, calling out for you. “Hey, baby—wait!” He caught up to you in quick strides, grabbing your arm and stopping you.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped, spinning around angrily in the middle of the bar and jabbing a finger square into his chest.

He furrowed his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re actually upset—”

“Upset? Why would I be?” you scoffed, clearly upset. “How do I know I’m not the only one you call ‘baby’?”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He should have expected this. Steve was right when he said girls came throwing themselves at him after every show. Since this was your first time watching him play, he should have warned you. But to be fair, he hadn’t expected you to even show up at all.

“Come on, baby,” he flashed the smile he knew you loved. He grabbed your hand, pulling you close until you nearly collided with his chest. “Can’t you just tell me how good I played? I’m so happy you showed up, really. I mean—I played extra hard for you,” his hand slinked around your waist, pulling you closer. “And I know how much you love it when I play hard. If you know what I mean—”

You pushed him away and let out a frustrated groan. You crossed your arms again, glaring at him. Bucky had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, because... how could he not? Especially when you were standing there, dripping in designer pieces, yet wearing a cheap cotton T-shirt that read, “CIVIL WAR” in bold lettering.

“That shirt looks so damn cute on you.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go make your little groupie a couple of matching shirts, then?” you sneered.

Bucky blinked. This was the first time he had witnessed you like this. You had been protective over your designer bags and shoes, but never over him. You were feisty, crude, yet for some reason, he was drawn to it. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride knowing that he could make you—a girl with her head so steady on her shoulders—jealous.

“I can’t believe the pretty princess is actually jealous,” he took a step closer, immediately closing the pitiful distance you created.

“It’s not like we’re... really in a relationship, are we?” He questioned, and immediately regretted his words once he saw your face twist.

Although the question sounded more like he was the one who needed reassurance, it seemed you took it the wrong way—like a taunt. He realized now just how terrible he was with words. Writing songs came naturally, but saying things out loud was another thing entirely.

He tried to backtrack before it was too late. “Okay, hold on. I didn’t mean—”

You barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No,” you shook your head. “You’re right. We’re not in a relationship. So really, I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.”

Your face was starting to flush, and Bucky was smiling before he could stop himself. He knew he wasn’t helping the situation, but he genuinely couldn’t hold back when you were standing there looking like Tinkerbell with a scrunched-up, angry red face. He didn’t know what possessed him to say the next words—maybe it was the adrenaline from playing just moments ago, or the insistent pressure of his cock against his zipper at seeing you riled up.

“Wait, princess—don’t you want to at least give me a kiss for playing so good?”

Your eyebrow twitched with annoyance. “I can’t believe you,” you spat, rolling your eyes and spinning on your heel, leaving him standing in the middle of the room alone with all eyes now turned on him.

Bucky continued to call after you, but you refused to listen. You were here, in his space—the odd one out—and he was taunting you rather than defending you. You knew Bucky was bad with words, but you weren’t going to stand here and let yourself get humiliated for any longer.

As you left, Steve, Sam, and Natasha were standing by the bar in silence, a drink in each hand, their faces stunned.

Natasha scrunched her face up, looking utterly confused, while Steve’s jaw hung open. “I can’t believe Bucky is—”

Sam cut in with the same realization. “—they’re screwing each other?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually playing around with her,” Sam huffed, his arm resting lazily on the couch. “I mean—when did this happen? How did this happen?”

It was the next day, and Bucky could not hear the end of it. After your little jealous outburst at the bar, the band had discovered his relation-not-so-ship with you, and since then, he had been subjected to their unrelenting teasing.

“Barnes is not unattractive,” Natasha said, her fingers idly plucking at the strings of her bass. “I’m not surprised he was able to snag one of the popular girls dressed in pink.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Bucky said, his chest rising and falling after he downed a water bottle. “I don’t know why Sam is acting like I haven’t touched a woman in my life—”

“Though I bet she tops him.” Natasha included.

“What the fuck, Nat.”

Steve snorted, letting himself fall into the open space next to Sam. “So, all the times you’ve ditched practice in the middle of the night, was for her?”

Bucky tried to hide his flushed grin, feeling sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted bashfully, smiling behind his drum set like an idiot.

“Unbelievable,” Sam groaned, tossing a throw pillow at him, hitting the cymbal on the way. “Our boy Barnes is out here ditchin’ practice to get laid—”

“Shut the hell up, Sam,” Bucky hissed, cheeks burning as he threw the pillow right back even harder.

“She’s like the last person I expected you to be with,” Steve chuckled, grabbing an opened beer bottle on the floor and taking a swig. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

Bucky rested his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers like a child. “For a few weeks now. I saw her at one of the backyard gigs,” he shook his head as he recalled the fond memory. “She looked so beautiful that night.”

Sam had to hold back a laugh while Steve gave him a smack on the back, shutting him up. Steve nodded his head, urging him to continue. “Jesus, Buck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this head over heels over a girl since, like—” he tapped his chin, “the third grade.”

“You must really like this girl, don’t you?” Sam questioned.

“Shut up, guys,” Bucky mumbled, though the red shading on his ears and the smile he wore were clear signs he didn’t mind the teasing—because to him, it meant he got to talk about you more.

Natasha finally looked up from her instrument. “So, you two have been screwing around for a few weeks—nearing a month... and you two are... what?”

“What do you mean?”

Natasha just shrugged. “Like talking, or just hooking up?”

Bucky finally lifted his head, and his fingers stilled. “Uh—I don’t know.”

Steve and Sam exchanged a look before looking back at Bucky.

“We heard you at the bar—I mean, everyone heard you at the bar. You said you two weren’t ‘really in a relationship,’” Sam said, using air quotation marks. “But then she got jealous when you were surrounded by chicks. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… she has every right to be jealous,” he said casually, as if it were obvious. “Even if she isn’t officially mine or I’m not… hers.”

There was a brief pause, where the three of them just exchanged glances, already all thinking the same thing.

“Hold on,” Sam shook his head, trying to wrap his head around it. “You’re telling me that she gets the right to be jealous even though you two aren’t official? Is that what I’m hearing right now?”

“We don’t need a title to feel things.”

Steve exhaled slowly, fingertips idly tapping against the glass bottle. “Okay, but do you two even talk about what you are? Or are you just hoping she’ll eventually call you her boyfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his smile slowly fading. “It’s not that simple, Steve.”

Natasha turned to him, one hand resting on the neck of her bass and the other on her hip. “Then explain this, Barnes,” she tilted her head. “If she gets to be jealous, you get to be jealous too, right?”

“Look,” Bucky sighed, resting his hands on his legs and leaning forward as he eyed each and every one of them. “If this is about Walker—she already told me they aren’t dating.”

Natasha pressed her lips together, like there was more she wanted to say but the right words wouldn’t come out—so instead, Steve spoke up first. “It’s just… every time we see her walking around campus, she’s always with Walker,” he started, eyeing Bucky’s reaction carefully.

Bucky stayed quiet, keeping his jaw tight as he picked up his drumsticks. “We should just rehearse—”

Natasha scrunched her face, oblivious to Bucky’s growing unease. “He’s practically glued to her hip. Like—every hallway, every table in the dining hall—he’s always right there. He’s like some emotional support frat boy.”

“Guys,” Bucky cut in with an awkward laugh, “we should—”

“And,” Sam added, “he keeps bragging about having her at his side. Didn’t he say something like—what was it? ‘She’s practically mine, she just doesn’t know it yet’?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah. That.”

Bucky let out a low and agitated exhale. “Walker is full of shit. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He scratched his temple, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he kept his gaze steady on the drum set. “Look—can we just fucking practice already? We’re wasting time here.”

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and adopted a softer, gentler tone. “Buck, we’re not trying to piss you off. We’re just worried about you, you know? You ditch our practices to go to her every time she calls you—and apparently, you two have been screwing around for weeks, and we didn’t know about it until—” he looked at the rest of the group, “now.”

Sam nodded. “And she won’t put a label on you, but she’ll happily be seen with Walker?”

Bucky kept his head down, pretending to be occupied with the marks on his snare drumhead. “It’s more complicated than that,” he muttered. “You guys wouldn’t get it.”

Sam opened his mouth, likely to push further, but Steve clamped a hand on his shoulder—a silent warning to stay quiet. “Alright,” with a groan, Steve sat up and took another swig of his beer. “We’ll drop it.”

With one last swig, he set the glass down on a crooked side table and picked up his Fender. “Let’s practice.”

Steve adjusted his strap, rolling his shoulders back. Natasha stood up straight, her hands already over the strings of her bass. Sam sat up and grabbed his pick off the table. Bucky’s grip tightened on his sticks—his palms slick and clammy. He leaned forward, trying to settle in as Steve counted them in.

“One…”

Bucky shut his eyes, his leg already bouncing up and down as he tried to keep his hands tight around the sticks.

As much as he hated to admit it, everything his friends said was true. The entire time you two had gotten close, he was your dirty little secret. You didn’t want to be seen with a guy like him. You claimed you didn’t want a title—yet you were prancing around with John fucking Walker?

“Two…”

You told him you and John were nothing—just like all the guys before—and he believed you. He wanted to believe you. Hell, he thought he could see it in your eyes every time you hung around those frat boys. Bucky knew he was special to you—otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up to his gig, wearing the shirt he made you… right?

But then your reaction to the girls after the show had thrown him off. You wanted to keep whatever you two were a secret, yet you were openly jealous—and then you hadn’t spoken to him since.

Neither of you had.

“Three…”

All the words the band told him were racing in his mind, his heart already beating faster than the tempo of the song they were about to play. His palms grew sweatier despite not having hit anything. He imagined you—hanging out with God knows who—someone who wasn’t him.

Maybe after seeing how many girls were interested in him, you grew uninterested.

Maybe he should have tried reassuring you that there was no one else but you. Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked your anger as a joke.

But why would you have the right to be jealous when you couldn’t even call him your boyfriend?

“Four!”

The song started off with Sam’s strumming—a tight rhythm, quick downstrokes. Then Bucky smacked the snare and hit his cymbals, kicking off the beat. Natasha’s bass followed right behind, and then Steve leaned into the mic as his lead guitar part came in.

Then, Bucky’s drums came in hard.

The drums were supposed to match the upbeat, punchy tempo that everyone else was following—those crisp snare hits and rapid-fire pop-punk bursts that kept the momentum alive. But Bucky slammed into the kit like he was trying to blow through the song rather than play it.

Sam tried to maintain his rhythm, but Bucky was already pushing the tempo.

Natasha held the groove, but Bucky kept speeding up.

Steve tried to sing in time, but Bucky’s snare cracks nearly swallowed his voice.

“The needle on my record player has been wearin’ thin…”

Another hit—too sharp, and too damn loud.

“This record has been playing since the day you’ve been with him—”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his face scrunched up into an ugly sneer as he kept banging on the drums. He hit the crash cymbal hard enough that the whole kit rattled. Steve glanced at him over his shoulder, giving him a look that clearly signaled he was offbeat, but he kept singing.

But Bucky was no longer just playing the beat.

He was attacking it.

His hi-hat hits were sharper than they needed to be; it was more like he was trying to dent the cymbals. The snare cracks turned into heavy, punishing smacks that echoed through the entire garage. His fills came in too early, too strong, slamming across the toms instead of sliding cleanly through them.

Every time the chorus hit, instead of tightening the groove like the original track, he opened the crash cymbal with an explosive force, the ringing so loud Steve actually winced mid-strum.

It wasn’t a song anymore.

It was Bucky’s heartbeat—rushed, uneven, and utterly pissed off. Pissed off over the fact that still, to this day, after everything you two have been through, you still weren’t his.

The audacity to get upset seeing him with other girls—when you had a new frat boy on your hip every week. His kick drum hammered the floor like he was trying to kick his foot right through it. His shoulders were locked, his arms were flexed, and his knuckles were white from gripping the sticks too hard.

Steve’s voice was muffled by the ringing in Bucky’s ears—his face warming up with anger.

“Have I waited too long?”

“Have I found that someone?”

“Have I waited too long, to see you?”

Bucky raised his arm up and hit the snare—once, twice, and then another way too hard.

Then his sticks snapped.

The wood split clean in his grip.

“Fuck!” he shouted, the sound ripping straight out of his chest and echoing through the garage. He hurled the broken sticks; they clattered across the concrete. Steve’s guitar cut off mid-chord. Natasha’s hands froze over her strings. Sam stopped entirely.

All three turned toward him with cautious, wide-eyed glances. Then it went silent. A heavy, stunned, and tense silence. The only sounds were Bucky’s breathing, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His leg was still pacing up and down—but he was desperately trying to keep his breathing in check.

“Buck?” Steve said softly.

Bucky didn’t look up. He just swallowed hard, made a face, then spoke through clenched teeth.

“Take five.”

Before any of them could get a word out, he quickly scrambled out of his kit, heading to the door and swinging it wide. He left a puff of angry, tension-filled air in his wake as he exited the garage and retreated back into the house.

They all looked at each other—and they didn’t even need to speak to know what to do.

With a quiet exhale, Steve slipped off his guitar, set it gently against the amp, and followed him inside.

Bucky was already pacing back and forth in the living room, his thumbs shaking as they hovered over the keyboard on his phone.

He knew he was being selfish. Irrational. Messy. But how the hell was he supposed to walk back into that garage and pretend he wasn’t falling apart? His hands could bleed from splintered sticks, he could break a dozen more, but none of it compared to the ache clawing through his chest at the thought of you—so close, yet so far from him in every possible way.

“Buck—” Steve’s voice came in rough, cutting through the static in his head.

“I have to text her, Steve.” Bucky’s voice came out hoarse and desperate. He didn’t even look up, scrolling through his contacts until your information sat there, staring back at him. “I can’t just let her walk away. I can’t let her go. Not to John fucking Walker—”

“Bucky. Hey—” Steve stepped closer, placing a solid and grounding hand on his shoulder. “Calm down.” He squeezed gently, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes.

“I hear you, man, I really do—we all do,” Steve sighed, choosing his words carefully. “You’re head over heels for this girl—I can see that. But Buck, our band is finally getting some traction. We’ve got gigs lined up, real offers coming, people finally paying attention to us. This is what we’ve been working our asses off for.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes landing back down on his phone.

“And we can’t afford to lose you to this,” Steve continued gently, “to a girl who—look, I’m not saying she’s a bad person. But she’s caught up in... all that.” He waved his hand around vaguely, making a displeased face. “Handbags, social circles, cliques, who’s-who on campus. That stuff matters to her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know you’re hurting,” Steve said softly, leaning in closer. “And I know you’d probably burn the whole campus down for her if she asked... but Buck, she’s not giving you the same thing back. She doesn’t need you right now, man. We do. The band needs you.”

Bucky stayed silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. There was so much that Bucky wanted to say. He wanted to fight for you, to defend you, because only he knew who you truly were. But how could he? When all his friends had seen was you only giving him half your heart?

“We need you here,” Steve continued. “Not half here. I mean, we can’t even get through the first song without you—”

“I get it, okay?” Bucky finally said, the words strangled in his throat—tight, shaky, like there was a lump trying to claw its way out.

His fingers curled around his phone one last time before he let out a slow, and defeated breath. The screen dimmed and went black, and he shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans.

Steve frowned, taking a step back and giving him some space. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky let out a dry and humorless laugh—one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be.” He forced himself to look at Steve, holding his gaze even though every part of him felt like it was splintering apart. “You’re right. You are. We should just… get back to practice.”

And before Steve could say anything—to offer comfort, an apology, anything—Bucky brushed past him. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and his heartbeat loud in his ears as he forced himself to pick up his feet and move back to the garage.

You didn’t know why Bucky’s sudden popularity bothered you so much. The entire time you’d known him, he was always surrounded by the same three people; Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff. It was always those same people with the same hole-ridden T-shirts, ripped jeans, and dirty shoes. That’s how it had always been. That’s how it always should be.

So, to see him surrounded by those girls—girls dressed like him, girls who loved his music, girls who seemed like they would be a better fit for him than you—it absolutely pissed you off. You didn’t like it when people touched things that were rightfully yours.

Being in that bar, surrounded by Bucky’s crowd, you felt like the dirtbag in his world this time around—and you weren’t sure you were a fan of that, either. You were used to people flocking to you, looking up to you for attention. You were never the odd one out.

You hadn’t talked to Bucky in what felt like months, even though it had only been a week. A painfully long week.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t try. You did text him—once. Your pride was already shattering from sending the first message, so you drafted a short, simple message that sounded like you didn’t care as much as you truly did.

👑: hey, we should talk.

He saw it.

You knew he did, but he never replied. That was the part that shocked you the most, because Bucky always answered you—instantly, annoyingly, and reliably. It was like he was always waiting for your name to pop up on his phone.

Maybe you had overreacted when you saw him drowning in attention from those other girls. Or maybe your stupid pride made you say the wrong thing, walk away too fast, and slam a door a little harder than necessary. But ignoring you? That wasn’t like him at all.

Your mind was so occupied with these thoughts that America’s Asshole had to snap his fingers to bring your attention back to him.

“What, John?” you muttered, poking at your lunch.

“You weren’t at the party last Friday night,” he pointed out. “We missed you after the game. What happened?”

“I had better things to do,” you replied flatly. “I was at a show.”

“A show?” John’s face scrunched up, almost in disgust. “What kind of show? What show could’ve possibly been better than my party?”

John’s voice drowned out just as face as it came as you caught a familiar, grungy, and broody figure in the corner of your eye. Your head turned instinctively in the direction, and you caught sight of the same man who never failed to send butterflies through you since the day you’d met him.

“Bucky,” you muttered under your breath, nearly inaudible.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asked, leaning in closer to hear you.

Without further explanation, you quickly got out of your seat, abandoning your lunch and John Walker entirely as you made your way toward him. Déjà vu hit you hard as John shouted your name—which you made it a habit of ignoring.

“Bucky, wait—” you called out, your heels clicking sharply against the dining hall’s floor and catching the attention of other students. “Bucky. Hold on—”

His shoulders tensed up at the sound of your voice, and he paused for a second. But instead of turning around to face you, he continued walking.

As if you didn’t exist.

You furrowed your brows, frustration bubbling as you picked up your pace until he was finally within reach. You clamped a hand on his shoulder, his body stiffening immediately.

“Bucky, Jesus—” you huffed. “I told you to wait—”

Slowly, he turned to finally face you. He didn’t have that usual sparkle in his eyes that he usually had when you two locked gazes from across campus. He didn’t have that obnoxious and teasing grin or sheepish smile when he’d see how beautiful you are.

No words, no greeting, no warmth.

Just a look.

A look so sharp and unrecognizable that it actually knocked the breath from your lungs. Bucky had never looked at you like that—not even on the day you insulted his entire outfit to his face.

His jaw was clamped tight, his eyes flat and unreadable, a tension in his expression that felt almost... guarded. Like he’d put up a wall between you while you weren’t looking.

A part of you wanted to step back and leave him be, but pride straightened your spine before anything else could.

Plus, you missed him.

“Why didn’t you answer my text?” you asked, crisp and direct—like you hadn’t spent the last week losing your mind over it.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past you, over your shoulder, and toward the table you’d just abandoned. With John. His jaw ticked slightly, then his eyes fell back on you.

“Been busy with the band,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. You knew it was bullshit. Every time you texted him—even for one simple text—he was always there for you. And standing here, underneath his cold gaze, you’re realizing just how much you’d taken all that—taken him—for granted.

“Busy,” you repeated, nodding once sarcastically. “Right.”

He didn’t respond. His shoulders slouched slightly, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jeans. His entire body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here—and that hurt.

“Look, I’m trying here,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. “I texted you. I tried to talk to you. I know things got... weird after your gig, okay? But you don’t usually just ignore me like this.”

Still no response.

“Bucky,” you tried again, firmer. “I’m talking to you—”

“What?” he interrupted you coldly, his voice coming out louder than expected. “You expect me to always be there, answering your every call or text like some kind of lap dog?”

You blinked at the unexpected tone.

“W-what?”

Bucky pressed his lips together, looking around warily, making sure no one was close enough to hear—because that’s what you cared so much about, right? People hearing about you two, discovering you two.

He took a step closer, leaning in slightly. You thought he was going to apologize, press a kiss to your head right here in the middle of campus, and grovel at your feet. And you’d laugh, call him an idiot, and tell him to get up.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t do anything of that.

“The band and I have been talking,” he started, his voice so quiet you could barely hear. “We’re actually picking up momentum. We’re starting to get recognized. And I can’t afford to—” he hesitated slightly. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I just can’t afford to waste my time with you.”

“Waste your time with me?” you repeated, as if giving him the opportunity to take his words back.

He kept his head down at your shoes, his thumb rubbing anxiously along the seam of his pocket as he exhaled hard through his nose.

“Bucky,” you leaned in closer, lifting your hand to reach for his cheek, but he leaned back slightly—just enough for you to get the hint.

“They’re right,” his voice was strained, “You and me—it’s not a good idea.”

You stared at him, stunned. Every sentence felt like a slap to the face—humiliating and unexpected. Your lips parted to speak, but his voice pushed on through.

“I just can’t understand it,” he continued. “We won’t talk for days, and then you’ll come crawling back to me when you need me. You get jealous, but you won’t put a title on us?” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “I can’t keep up with it anymore.”

Your throat tightened so sharply you had to swallow around the burn. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“And let’s be real,” he cut in, lifting his eyes to meet yours for half a second before they darted away again. “This would be easier for you too.”

“Bucky—”

“You can hang out with any guy you want without me holding you back. No arguing, no hiding, no getting mad at each other because some asshole looks at you or someone at my show says hi to me.”

Your face scrunched up, your bottom lip trembling slightly.

“Bucky… I never—I don’t—‘holding me back’? That’s not—”

“You were literally sitting with John Walker not even ten minutes ago,” he snapped quietly, but still loud enough to catch the attention of some people nearby. “So don’t stand here and act like I’m saying something you don’t already know.”

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours—tired, hurt, and cold. It was a look you’d never seen from him, a look you never wanted to see ever again, and a look you were already beginning to hate.

“I’m just… trying to make this easier,” he muttered. “For the both of us.”

But it didn’t feel easy.

It felt like he had clawed his way into your chest, dug deep, and pulled your heart right out.

You felt the blood drain from your face, the sting of tears suddenly sharp behind your eyes. You searched his cold gaze, refusing to accept the words you had just heard.

“You don’t actually think that way, do you?” you whispered, your voice sounding weak and brittle. “You know our relationship is more complicated than that, Bucky. They don’t know—”

“A relationship?” Bucky scoffed. “Can you even call it that?” He took one step back—just one small step, yet it felt like miles.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t sound angry anymore—he sounded tired, defeated. “I’m done making excuses for you. For myself.” He swallowed. “Just let it go.”

You wanted to reach out to him, to apologize for everything you’d done wrong, to yell at him for not fighting for you because of a few words from his friends who didn’t understand the whole situation, to hug him and never let go.

But he didn’t wait around for an answer. He turned slowly, then he walked off. No more lingering over-the-shoulder looks, no second thoughts, and no chance for you to grab his hand before it slipped away.

Just the sound of his boots thudding against the floor as he left you standing there in the campus’ dinging hall—where everyone, including John Walker, stood and sat staring at you.

Since that day, the tension between you and Bucky was palpable. You both hadn't spoken to each other—not even a single text. But whenever you two saw each other in passing, you would steal glances.

You would catch him staring at you right before he forced himself to look away, and every time he did, he swallowed hard, his face shifting into a grumpy expression—the look he’d always give to people he didn’t like. He never gave those looks to you before, and now he is.

You hated this. You hated how he was always within reach—just barely close enough to graze, yet too far to hold onto.

Was this how he felt when you kept backing away from turning the relationship into something more serious?

At first, you were heartbroken when he essentially broke off your non-official relationship. But after days of subtle glances and side-eyes from across the campus—always watching, always curious—you couldn’t take it anymore. Especially when he sat and laughed with his friends, the very ones who filled his head with doubts about you without giving you the chance to even explain yourself.

He continued playing with his band at gigs, and every time you weren't present, your mind traced back to the night he was surrounded by girls. But one thing really set you off.

Seeing Bucky laughing with some girl outside the music building.

And then jealousy filled you. Hot, white, burning jealousy filled you from your toes to the very top of your head.

Like a mental switch flipped inside your head, you started telling yourself, “If he doesn’t want me, then fine.” You were going to do what you did best, and that was pissing him off from a distance. If Bucky wanted to act cold, then you’d act unbothered.

You started dressing even hotter than usual—short skirts, and the heels you knew would always catch Bucky’s attention—he told you himself. You always made sure to walk near him, because the clacking sound of your heels against the floors always seemed to “turn him on.”

“Those heels make your legs look so fucking hot,” he’d said to you. “Wanna see them hiked over my shoulders, heels dangling in the air while I fuck you stupid.”

“Stop being a pervert, Barnes.”

You drowned yourself in the perfume that you knew he loved—the scent was another weapon. Every time he held you in his arms, his nose would find the crook of your neck and inhale deeply, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, tilting your head to the side as he kissed and suckled on your sensitive column.

“So good, pretty princess,” he’d groan. “Always smellin’ so sweet—lookin’ so pretty. Can’t ever get enough.”

And you would always giggle. “Bucky, stop. You’re tickling me.”

Those methods partially worked. You would catch his eyes taking you in up and down from a distance—tracing your legs and calf muscles accentuated by the heels. He’d inhale deeply, his chest rising as you walked past him, your sweet perfume lingering in the air.

Just when you thought his patience would finally snap, he’d reel himself back in, going back to hanging around with his friends as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew one thing would really get him riled up. And that was wearing his shirt. The shirt he made for you.

Next to John Walker.

You were standing near the door of the union, wearing the soft pink cotton shirt with “CIVIL WAR” spread across your chest, loud and proud. John glanced down at it, raised a brow, and looked back up at you.

“Uh,” he started. “What’s with the shirt?”

In the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky, sitting with his friends as per usual. Except this time, instead of sneaking glances, he was glaring daggers at you. Sharp, cold daggers. And instead of doubling down, you took a step closer to John, batting your lashes at him.

“Well,” you twirled your hair, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Flustered, John only smiled back. “Yeah—I mean, I guess it’s cute. But what’s Civil War?” he asked, acting as if he had totally forgotten the time he was face-to-face with Bucky and his band posters.

Your eyes flickered back to Bucky’s at a distance, and this time, he didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Your smile grew wider, and you looked back at John, raising your voice loud enough so Bucky could at least make out a few words.

“Oh, Civil War? Maybe some one-hit wonder band that disbanded? I don’t know—this shirt was passed down to me.”

Bucky still had his chin resting against his fist, glaring down at you two from across the union, his other finger tapping against the table and his leg bouncing impatiently.

Sam was talking—probably about their performance for the football game’s halftime. He should’ve been stoked for it, playing in front of the whole damn school, yet no words registered in his ears.

He had tried to get over you these past few days, but how could he when you were tempting him with those damn high heels, the sweet scent of you, and now the so-called one-hit wonder band tee shirt he made for you?

Bucky knew you were purposefully taunting him, and he didn’t know if he could take it anymore.

“—so since we’re only able to play two songs, I think we should choose—”

“I’m writing a song,” Bucky cut back into the conversation.

The rest of the band just blinked at each other. Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Uh. What?”

Bucky’s leg stilled, letting out a low exhale as his jaw remained clenched. He faced Sam slowly, almost intimidatingly. “I’m going to write a song.”

“Why?” Natasha furrowed her brows. “When we already have our own songs—”

“Trust me,” he grunted, grabbing his notebook and backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced back at you, his glare still cold as stone. “It’ll be good.”

Later that day, the band was back in the garage, practicing for the football game. Bucky had been working on a song all day, a song he had written with pent-up emotions that developed after failing to get over you. A song written out of pure, unadulterated pettiness.

And a song that would likely make the athletic director never want to bring them out to perform again.

But he didn’t care. He knew you were going to be there. And it was a song for you.

Bucky pulled out his battered notebook, tore a page out, and handed it to Steve.

“Read it,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.

Natasha exchanged a look with Sam, both leaning in as Steve lifted the paper. There were scribbles everywhere, crossed-out lines, and arrows pointing to rewritten lyrics, but it was fucking good.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “This has got to be a diss track or something.”

“Yeah,” Natasha huffed. “No shit.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “This is... we could get attacked for this, Buck. I don’t know if we—”

“But it’s good, right?” Bucky interrupted, leaning against the wall and grinning. “Even if they won’t let us perform again, people will dig it, and they’ll start coming to our gigs outside of school.”

Steve shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Okay. Let’s practice—”

“But,” Bucky pushed himself off the wall. “I want to sing it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “But you’re our drummer. You really think you can sing this without getting winded? You can barely scream backup without losing the beat.”

Bucky shrugged. “So? Don Henley sang ‘Hotel California’ while drumming.”

Sam snorted. “Does that make your girl Stevie Nicks in this little fantasy of yours?”

“That’s not the point,” Bucky glared. “I’m singing it.”

Steve stepped forward, raising the page and scanning the lyrics again. “Buck… ‘Hotel California’ is a seventy-four BPM song. This song—” he flicked the page, “—is eighty-seven. That’s a big difference. And you’ve never sung while playing before. Are you sure you can even keep up?”

He knew it was petty. He knew it was a risk. But man, did he want to perform that song. He wanted to see your pretty little face, eyes wide when you heard the lyrics.

And he couldn’t wait to see your boy-toy all pissed off and riled up after hearing it, too.

“Alright,” Steve said, picking up his guitar. “Take one of Bucky’s song.” He squinted at the title written messily at the top.

“’Johnny Doesn’t Know.’”

You had spent the rest of the week feeling like your insides were scraped hollow.

You kept waiting, and hoping, that Bucky would crack. You hoped he’d text you at two in the morning like he used to, sending some stupid meme or asking what color your nails were that day. But not a single text went through, and every hour that passed without him felt like a painful reminder of every time you pushed him away.

You hated how close he felt just days ago, how easy everything had been—how warm he looked when he smiled at you. And now he was gone, because you pushed him. Because you didn’t want to put a label on it. Because you let your ego talk louder than your heart, and because you let his friends fill his brain with things that weren’t true.

You missed him so bad, it hurt.

The night before the football game, you sat at your desk with a pink stationery card, something you typically received, not wrote on. For the first time in your life, you were writing someone a heartfelt letter.

The pen shook as the words came out. Messy apologies, confessions, secrets about yourself that even he didn’t know. Little things you remembered about him—his smile, the way he fiddled with his drumsticks and bounced his legs when he was nervous, his dark and torn-up clothes and dirty Converse. You wrote that you were wrong, that you missed him, that you wanted him, even if the thought of being in a relationship terrified you.

You folded the letter carefully, slid it into the pink envelope, and sealed it with a cute heart sticker before you could chicken out and tear it up.

Then you added the real surprise.

Two tickets to Iron Maiden.

You’d hunted them down the second you heard they were selling locally—Bucky’s favorite band. The same one he’d rambled about for an hour while lying beside you, tracing patterns over your stomach and promising he’d drag you to a show “one day.”

Today was the day of the football game, and you’re standing in the bleachers next to a group of girls you could hardly call your friends. You clutched your purse tighter against your body—the purse carrying your sacred letter. You knew his band was going to perform today. You knew he was going to be there, and you’d stand there, holding that pink envelope, and tell him everything you should have told him weeks ago.

You were going to tell the biggest dirtbag Bucky Barnes that you were sorry, that you wanted him back, that you wanted to become something more—even if it scared you, even if he walked away again. Because for the first time, the idea of losing Bucky completely terrified you more than putting a label on whatever the hell you two were.

At first, the crowd hesitated—because everyone knew Civil War’s reputation. The misfit band that wouldn’t play anything “family friendly.” The band that made the athletic department nervous every single year. Civil War wrapped up their first song, and the crowd was now cheering loudly, fully won over. Steve stepped away from the mic, grabbing his water bottle. Sam adjusted his strap. And Natasha re-tuned her bass.

But Bucky was doing something different.

He was pulling the mic stand toward his drum kit. Your brows furrowed. You had never seen him touch a mic onstage—ever. He told you once he hated singing on stage, and that you only ever heard his voice along to the radio when he drove you home at night. He was adjusting the height, angling it perfectly toward him, his breath steady and focused, his eyes flicking up toward the bleachers—

Toward you.

Your stomach dropped. A slow, warm flush crept up your neck. You didn’t think he had noticed you at all, but now he was staring right at you. Steve mouthed a count, and instead of the usual instrument buildup they did, the song started with Bucky yelling into the mic and Steve’s heavy guitar riff—immediately hyping the crowd up once more.

And the words that Bucky started singing made your jaw drop to the bleachers.

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“She tells him she’s out shopping.”

“But she’s under me and I’m not stopping.”

“Johnny doesn’t know.”

“I can’t believe he’s so trusting, while I’m right behind you thrusting.”

“She’s got John on the phone, and she’s trying not to moan.”

“It’s a three-way call and he knows nothing.”

“Johnny doesn’t know. Don’t tell Johnny.”

Heat exploded across your cheeks so fast you genuinely thought you might faint. Those lyrics weren’t suggestive, it wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t a hint. They were filthy, scandalous, and a direct message to Walker—messages explicit enough to make half the student body choke on their popcorn. Your jaw hung open, your eyes wide, your pulse pounding against your throat. Because Bucky Barnes—the quiet, broody, never-sings-in-public dirtbag Bucky—was onstage in front of hundreds of people, singing about being inside you behind Walker’s back.

You probably should have felt embarrassed or shameful, but your entire body went warm because that meant he’d been thinking about you. Thinking about you like that these past few days. Angry, jealous, petty, needy, and he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

If people didn’t know you two were a thing, then they most certainly do now.

A chorus of gasps shot through the bleachers. One girl next to you gave you a side-eye, whispering to the friend beside her, “Is this… about—” “Yeah, I think it is. That’s so gross.” Meanwhile, the students behind you cheered on, simply enjoying the music.

Down on the field, John Walker’s entire face scrunched—first confusion, then dawning horror, and finally, an angry, red explosion of humiliation. He threw his helmet to the ground and took a furious step forward, like he wanted to rip the entire drum set apart with his bare hands, but his teammates grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him. Meanwhile, the faculty area was in shambles. The athletic director’s headset nearly fell off as he sputtered into his mic, and the cheer coach looked like she was two seconds away from fainting.

Once the song ended, the crowd, if they weren’t already standing, erupted into a loud cheer—a cheer so loud it made your ears hurt. Steve delivered his outro, the band started to wrap things up, and the football teams were getting ready to play again while the cheerleaders resumed their routine.

You didn’t want to waste another second. Your mission, the messily crafted letter, the fear of losing him—all of it came rushing back, amplified by the public display of his hurt.

You raced down the metal steps, eyes scanning the area behind the makeshift stage. You moved toward the exit ramp where the bands typically packed up, and you spotted him, packing up his kit.

“Bucky!” you called out, but his friends turned to face you first. “Bucky. I need to talk to you—”

“We’re busy,” Sam cut you off, but you ignored him.

You weren’t going to let anyone or anything block your way.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, catching your breath. “I just want to talk.”

Bucky paused, looking up from the wires he was looping around. He gave a brief glance at the rest of the band and nodded. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You watched as the group left; all of them threw hesitant glances at you over their shoulders. Once they completely disappeared, Bucky turned his body to face you, giving you his attention. You started digging in your purse for the letter.

“I know we’ve gone through a lot together, and I—”

“What’s the deal with you and Walker?”

You paused, furrowing your brows. “I’ve told you this a million times over. There’s nothing going on between Walker and I—”

“So then why the hell is he still attached to your hip?” he interrupted coldly again, taking a step closer with crossed arms. “And why the hell are you walking around with these damn high heels, flaunting your legs to half the fucking school?”

He took another step closer, and you took another one back.

“And that perfume, that sweet fucking perfume that you only ever wear around me,” he took another step, closing the distance until you were pushed up against a column. “I could smell you from across the campus—taunting me, teasing me.”

His eyes lingered down to your shirt. “And this shirt,” he muttered. “This shirt that got passed down to you—was that what you said?” He taunted. His rough fingers trailed down to the hem of the soft cotton, pinching the fabric.

You felt the roughness of his knuckles graze against your lower belly, making you shudder.

“Wearing the shirt I made you around Walker just to piss me off,” he scoffed. “You knew I couldn’t get over you, huh?”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, tugging you closer.

“Answer me,” he demanded quietly. His voice was low, rough, a rasp of jealousy and frustration that made your knees weaken. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

His forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm against your lips. When you were planning on confronting Bucky, you expected him to push you away or not even hear you out. You hadn’t expected this—him standing toe-to-toe, your nose brushing against his as his fingers played at the hem of your shirt.

Your body couldn’t help but naturally react to him—to his possessive touch and his words—even your body knew you missed him.

And yet, even found in a compromising position, you also couldn’t help but taunt him yet again.

“Aw,” you tilted your head, smiling. “Jealous, are you?”

A low snarl escaped his lips as he leaned in, his lips grazing yours, but not exactly kissing. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands sliding beneath your shirt and up your stomach. You wanted to break the distance right then and there and slam your lips right on his—right where they belonged, but you held back.

If Bucky was going to make a song about fucking you and perform it in front of the whole school, then he had to make the first move.

“And here you are, after everything, still trying to bait me in.” His words came out cold and crude, like he didn’t want you. Yet his eyes looked like he could eat you right up.

“I missed you, Bucky,” you teased again, your hands coming up to the back of his hair and giving it a tug. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, or maybe pride, or that stubborn self-control he always tried to hide behind. His jaw clenched, and he tried to take a step back, to break the tension between you two for good and leave this all behind.

But you still had your fingers tangled in his hair.

And he still had his hands under your shirt.

He fucking missed you, and you were standing there, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours.

You had kissed Bucky plenty of times in the short period you’d known him, but this kiss didn’t feel like any other. It was a kiss that conveyed his anger, his frustration, and his hatred for you. But it was also a kiss fueled by pent-up hunger, longing, and love.

His mouth moved against yours wildly, his fingers digging into your waist and dragging you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left. He held you tight, like he never wanted to let you go again, but his mouth moved like he was punishing you for making him want you this badly. You tried to breathe, tried to keep up, but you were no match against his desperation.

A soft sound slipped out of you, and the second he heard it, you felt his lips curve up into a smirk, because that little, helpless sound confirmed that you’d been needing him just as much. His other hand circled to splay shamelessly across your lower back, his touch hot against your soft skin.

Bucky’s lips broke away from yours just slightly, and you let out a soft whine at the loss of contact, already leaning in for more of his touch. His thumb dragged a slow, burning line along your waist, fingertips slipping under the band of your skirt.

“Christ,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, “...are you sure you didn’t miss me?”

Your breath hitched, and the smugness in his eyes sharpened instantly. He angled his head just enough to brush his nose against your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth without giving you a real kiss.

“Because you’re shaking,” he whispered, dragging his hand up and down your spine, your back instinctively arching. “And that cute little sound you made tells me how much you need me.”

“Bucky…”

He leaned in closer. “Should I fuck you right here, right behind the stage, where anyone could walk by and see?” His hand trailed down to the short hem of your skirt. “Lift this tiny skirt up and have you crying my name? How about it, princess? Want this pathetic loser’s cock deep inside you again?”

Your face flushed in hot embarrassment. He wasn’t the same man who was too shy to kiss you when you were sitting in his passenger seat. He wasn’t the same man who stood there helplessly while your “friends” tore him to shreds when he gifted you the band shirt he made for you.

No. Bucky knew what he wanted from the very beginning, and that was you—the gentle, pink light in his dark days. Your soft, feminine laugh that contradicted the loud and gritty music he listened to. You were the luxury brand to his torn-up shoes with frayed laces.

You were everything he needed. And he was yours.

Your dirtbag.

Your mouth parted, ready to tease him again, but the sounds of footsteps shuffling against grass filled your ears. Sounds that were too loud, and way too close. Bucky’s hand immediately flew to cover your mouth, pressing you back hard against the column. His eyes narrowed, warning you not to make a sound. His breath on your cheek did nothing to soothe the building ache between your legs.

Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Quiet,” he whispered, low and raspy.

You nodded against his hand, your heart pounding, and he smiled down at you.

“My dirty little secret.”

And that only made your stomach flutter even more.

He waited until the voices faded, tilted his head to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed your hand. “Come on.”

Before you could ask, he tugged you away from behind the stage. Your heels clicked frantically behind him as you could only stare at him from behind in awe. Him dragging you out away from everyone else just to keep you to himself—it felt like it was straight out of a corny romance movie scene. And when he looked over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up and flashed you a warm smile, you knew you were done for.

He didn’t stop tugging you along until he found the first unlocked door he could get his hands on. A small, tucked-away storage shed that was mostly used by staff and the athletics team. He pushed it open, pulled you inside with him, and kicked it shut behind you.

The lock clicked, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there—breathless, with hearts pounding in sync. Then you laughed, an exuberant, bubbling laugh that had your hand flying to your mouth as you tried to quiet yourself, which only made him laugh in return.

Bucky’s hair was slightly messy from your fingers, his lips flushed and stained with your lip gloss, his chest rising fast. He was smiling, that cute boyish smile he had when he would watch your reaction after teasing you.

You felt like a girl falling for him all over again.

And before you could think the better of it, the words slipped from your mouth as if you had said it a million times before.

“I love you.”

Then Bucky stopped laughing. His smile lingered for a second, but his eyes... they burned into yours, wide and stunned, as if all the warmth and tension you’d been feeling with him just now was nothing but a silly figment of your imagination.

“I—” you started, suddenly aware of what you had just said.

But he didn’t give you the chance to backtrack.

In one sudden, hungry movement—even hungrier than before—Bucky grabbed your waist and hauled you against him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that knocked a gasp right out of your lungs. The storage shed suddenly felt so tight; the only space that was left was completely occupied by Bucky. His mouth moved against yours—urgent, desperate, like he had been waiting longer than he knew you just to hear those three words fall from your lips.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice shaking, almost feral. “Please.”

“I love you,” you repeated, breathless. “I love you so much, Bucky.”

“Fuck—I knew it,” he groaned, his calloused hands coming up to gently caress your face. “I knew you’d come back to me. You were always meant to be my girl—my angel.”

He leaned back in, closing the distance as his mouth found yours again. His lips devoured yours—messy, sloppy, and wet, your favorite type of kiss from him, because it showed how much he needed you. His hands wandered your body greedily, your handbag long forgotten somewhere in this dusty shed as he pushed you up against the wall, the whole shed shaking.

“I love you too,” he moaned against your lips. “I love you so much—you have no fucking idea.”

Bucky had touched you and fucked you in ways that made your mind dizzy—but hearing those three little words come out of his mouth only made your legs tremble and your heart flutter rapidly.

“Bucky,” you clung to his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. You hooked one leg around his waist, trapping him against you as you pleaded. “I need you.”

“Yeah?” he nuzzled his nose against yours, his voice raspy. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

“I need you so bad,” you whined, leaning in closer to try and kiss him again, but he pulled away just slightly, his hand tight on your thigh that was wrapped around his waist.

You groaned, your face twisting. “Stop taunting me, Barnes—”

“Oh, you’re being a spoiled little princess,” he taunted, giving your leg a squeeze. “I always give you what you want, don’t I?” He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, just barely grazing the corners of your lips. “You’re always making demands and you can’t even say ‘please.’”

You swallowed hard, heat spiraling low in your stomach and pooling between your legs as Bucky held you firmly against the wall. Your thigh was still hooked around his waist, keeping him close—so close you could feel every breath he took—yet he still refused to give you what you were begging for.

“Please,” you whispered, your pride crumbling at his feet. “Bucky… I need you. Please.”

His eyes darkened, a slow, cocky smile tugging at his lips. “There she is,” he murmured. “My sweet girl. My little angel.”

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until his fingers found the waistband of your panties. He hooked them, pulled once hard, and the thin fabric gave way with an audible rip, falling to your knees.

Your breath hitched, your cheeks burning. “Jesus, Barnes,” you huffed. “You owe me a shopping spree with how many pairs of panties you’ve destroyed.”

He unhooked your leg around his hip, setting it down gently as his hands started to fumble and work at the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants. “I’ll buy you new ones—turn around,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Turn around. Hands against the wall.”

When you hesitated for just a second, his hands found your waist again, turning your body around roughly, making your hands scramble against the wall to keep your balance. His grip on your hips tightened as he pulled your bottom out, forcing you to arch your back and present your bare slit to him that was barely covered by your skirt.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his hands going back to tug his belt and pants down—the sound of it making your legs tremble. “Look at you, already archin’ for me. You’re so pretty, baby."

You couldn’t take it anymore. You rocked your hips back, seeking any form of friction, and once your bare ass rubbed against his cock—hard and warm—you couldn’t help the pitiful whimper that escaped your lips. It wasn’t nearly enough, so you started to rub your ass up and down against his cock that was barely peeking out of his jeans.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his hands tight on your hips. He tried to hold you still, but the minute your wet and puffy slit ground against his pulsing shaft just right, he couldn’t help but tip his head back into a moan. “Fuck—you desperate little slut.”

He started to palm your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that made you yelp. He wrapped a hand around his cock, freeing himself completely from his pants—giving himself a couple of steady pumps that made his breath go heavy as he positioned the tip against your slit, coating himself in your slick arousal.

Your knees nearly gave out as he probed and teased the entrance, pushing just enough to make you gasp and flutter around him—your walls already ready to accommodate his size, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

“Bucky—” you breathed, your fingers trembled against the wall. Your hips pushed back, desperate for more than just the teasing slide of his tip.

“That’s right,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned over you. “Beg for it. Beg for me for once.”

You whimpered, your forehead pressing against the cool wall. “Please—please, Bucky, I need you—”

He dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds again, gathering the slick that was dripping down your thighs. His free hand came up to your shoulder, gripping you firmly, keeping you perfectly in place as he pushed forward just an inch.

“You didn’t fuck anyone else while I was gone, did you?”

You shook your head.

“No?” he gave you a shallow and short thrust, his tip going past your entrance and making you gasp. “Not even Walker?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “N-no…” You tried to rut your hips back, but he held you firmly in place, unmoving.

“Are you sure about that?”

You made a frustrated sound, a whine and a sob that made him chuckle darkly, savoring your sweet torture. His hand slid from your shoulder to your throat, wrapping around it gently, tilting your head just enough to force your back to arch even deeper. “You didn’t fuck anyone else—and you will not fuck anyone else. Not while I’m here. Got it?”

“Bucky—please,” you begged, your voice cracking. “Please—for the love of God.”

His hips moved forward, pushing excruciatingly slow, your walls stretching around his length. You hadn’t given yourself the courtesy of pleasing yourself while you and Bucky were on a 'break,' because you knew nothing could replace the real thing—the real feeling of him splitting you open on his cock.

“Christ,” he groaned, leaning forward until his whole body blanketed yours, his nose buried in your hair as he breathed you in. Your scent made his breath stutter, his voice roughening. “Still…” he pushed deeper, inch by devastating inch, “…still so goddamn tight for me.”

It had only been a few weeks since he was last inside you, yet it felt like years.

“Give me all of it, Bucky—please, I need it—”

He let out a dark, low laugh that vibrated against your back, the condescending sound making your walls flutter around him. “So fucking spoiled. You’re such a spoiled little princess.” He pushed forward until he was almost fully sheathed—one sharp thrust away from filling you completely—but he didn’t give it to you.

“I keep calling you a princess, but you always seem to be—” his hand cracked against your ass, the sharp smack echoing in the tiny shed and forcing you to gasp, hands scrambling against the wall. “—getting fucked in the dirtiest places.”

He pulled back just enough to make you whimper—then slammed in, burying himself to the hilt. You choked on a cry as he grabbed your hips and began ramming into you, hard and hungry.

“Getting fucked in the bathroom… in my car…” his rhythm turned punishing. “And now in some—fuck—some dusty little shed...”

His voice dropped lower, smug and vicious. “If it were any other frat boy, you’d want him to take you all soft and sweet on a bed like the princess you pretend to be.” His fingers dug into your hips. “But with me? You’d let me fuck you anywhere. Isn’t that right?”

Your body answered for you; squeezing, fluttering, dripping around him with every brutal thrust.

He groaned, hips snapping forward, your pussy clutching him as though trying to pull him even deeper, welcoming him back exactly where he belonged. Your body went soft and trembling under him, your breath coming out in broken, needy gasps. And Bucky heard every single one—fed off them and drank them in.

“My little fucking princess,” he rasped against your ear, his hips slamming hard. “All dressed up, walking around campus like you’re too fucking good for me.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine before curling around the back of your neck. “—but you always come running back to me. You always do.”

You whimpered, pushing back helplessly against him, chasing every hard thrust. “Bu—Buck…”

“Aw,” he chuckled darkly. “You’re whining. My pretty little princess is whining for it.”

You whimpered again even louder, and he groaned like it was the sweetest song he’d ever heard.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed. “All that attitude, all that sass—but the second I get inside you, you melt. Don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your hands sliding down the wall as your legs trembled.

“Nuh-uh.” He tightened his grip on your neck, tilting your head up. “Use your words.”

“I—I melt,” you stammered pathetically. “I always melt for you—only for you…”

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips losing their rhythm at the sound of your helpless and sweet voice. “Cute… that’s real cute, angel.”

Your knees buckled, and the rasp of his voice alone was enough to make your eyes roll back, your cunt clenching helplessly around him as he fucked you just right. “Fuck—Bucky, I’m—”

He smirked against your ear, his stubble scraping your skin deliciously as his hand slid down your stomach and found your clit. His fingers circled it in tight, fast patterns that made your whole body jolt. And if that wasn’t enough, the way his other hand groped your breasts through your shirt—shameless and filthy—sent a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, now you’re close?” he teased, voice condescending. “My sweet girl wants to cum already?”

You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky— I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

Then both his hands disappeared.

Your legs shook violently, a sob ripping from your throat. You looked back at him over your shoulder—mascara streaking down your cheeks, lip gloss smudged over your chin. “Wha— Bucky, please—!”

He grabbed your hips, holding you perfectly still as he pulled halfway out—only halfway, because he knew if he pulled out all the way, you’d throw a tantrum like a brat. And as mean as he was being, he still wanted to stay buried in your warmth.

“You think you get to cum before I say so?” he murmured, voice soft but every word sharp. “Just ’cause you’re my princess doesn’t mean you get special privileges, baby. You earn them.”

You nearly collapsed, a desperate little cry shaking out of your chest. “Bucky—I can’t— I need—”

“Oh, you need.” He laughed, breath hot at your ear. “You sound so pathetic.”

He snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your cry echoed off the metal walls.

“Look at you,” he mocked, tangling his fingers in your hair and yanking your head back. “Shaking. Dripping. You want it so fucking bad you’re about to cry.”

“I am,” you choked. “B-Bucky, please—”

“Beg better.”

His fingers returned to your clit—barely brushing, and frustratingly light.

“Please—please, let me cum,” you sobbed. “I’ll do anything—Bucky, please, I’m your princess, I’m your angel, I’m— I’m yours—”

He inhaled sharply, his grip on your hips turning bruising.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, breaking apart. “I’m yours, Bucky—please let me—please, I love you. Fuck, I love you, and I need you so bad.”

A small, almost broken groan croaked from his throat at the sound of your words. He was buried so deep inside you, the tip of his head pressing against your cervix. His fingers dug deep into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against him.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “You can’t just say that to me when I’m inside you—” he thrust hard, losing control. “You can’t tell me you love me and expect me to stay gentle.”

Your breath shattered as he dragged out of you, then slammed right back in—deep, hard, and possessive.

“Say it again.”

“I—I love you,” you cried.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “My girl. My fucking girl.” His fingers dropped to your clit again. No teasing this time—tight circles enveloped you, fast and desperate, making your whole body jerk in his grasp.

“God! Bucky—”

“You want to cum?”

“Please,” you nodded hard, crying. “Please—please, let me—”

He thrust hard, pinning you to the wall, his pace brutal and relentless. “Good girl. Cum for me, baby.”

“Fuck, Bucky!”

Then your vision went white. You tossed your head back, your back arching even deeper against his thrust as you fluttered and came undone. You spasmed around him, clenching hard, wet and messy.

“Good girl—fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Squeeze me—just like that…”

You trembled uncontrollably, your orgasm rolling through you in sharp, shaking waves, making your release drag him with you. He tried to hold on, tried to make this last longer than it should, but that broken little “Bucky” that left your lips, and the way you’re squeezing him so tight, it was impossible for him to hold back—especially when him and his body missed you so much.

“Fuck—sweetheart—” his hands clamped down on your hips, pulling you back into him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his whole body shuddering through each deep, hard pulse of pleasure. “God—” he rasped, his voice shaking, “you feel… you feel too good. I can’t—”

You squealed again, and it made him want to fill you with nothing but filth.

“Shit, shit,” he groaned. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, baby. Take it, princess.” He grabbed your hips hard, making you whimper as he held you still, his cock jerking and pulsing inside you as he let himself go—his cum, hot and thick, filling you to the brim as he stuffed you with his love.

Your eyes rolled back, your lips parting in a sharp gasp as he filled you completely. He stayed sheathed inside you, breathing hard as his hands roamed your body lazily, grasping for you as if making sure you were still there with him. Your clothes were a mess, Bucky was sweating above you, and you felt his release trickling down your thigh.

“Jesus,” he moaned, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Mine. All fucking mine.”

You tried to turn around, to pull him out of you so you could face him, but he held you still, completely inside you. “Don’t…” he mumbled, his voice breaking slightly in short pants. “Don’t move... just stay with me. Okay?”

And for a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your breathing and the occasional shuffle of feet and student voices just outside the shed.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell against your back, his breath warm as he pressed one last lingering kiss to the side of your neck. His hands smoothed up your sides, his touches gentle and kind now.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice scratchy.

You nodded, leaning back into him, letting his weight, his warmth, his presence fill your senses. “Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He let out a quiet, relieved sound like a laugh, and wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, hugging you tightly. His nose brushed your cheek as he held you close.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely audible. “So fucking much.”

He didn’t let go until your breathing evened out and your heart beat at a steady, slowing pace. Only then did he ease back, turning you gently to face him. His thumbs brushed your cheeks tenderly, wiping away smudged mascara like it was something precious. Then he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—so achingly gentle after everything that your chest tightened. He adjusted your skirt, putting it back into place.

“No panties,” he smoothed your hair down, giving you a soft smile. “But you’re still so beautiful.”

When he finally stepped back, he zipped himself back up. His eyes swept the room—and landed on your handbag discarded on the floor.

He huffed a frustrated laugh and bent down to grab it. “This thing is way too expensive to be sitting on the ground of a dusty-ass shed.” He lifted it by the straps, dusting it off. “You treat this bag worse than you treat me.” He joked.

“I treat you great, actually,” you crossed your arms with a grin.

He didn’t deny it. He grinned as he adjusted the bag, about to hand it over to you, but his hands paused in the air as he caught sight of something pink—a small envelope sticking out of the open zipper. The neat handwriting on the front read: To: Bucky.

He looked up at you slowly, his blue eyes wide. “...You wrote me something?” he asked quietly.

And before you could reply, he pulled the note out, eagerly tearing the envelope open and pulling the letter out. Suddenly, all the confidence you had in delivering him the letter before this backfired. You stood there, face flushed and embarrassed as you watched his eyes trace over each word carefully.

His face shifted into a disbelieving smile, even chuckling at your ridiculous string of words.

“Wow,” he let out a low whistle. “Did you make one of your friends write this?” He teased, though the smile and red flush on his ears said otherwise. He looked up at you, trying to hide the grin that he was failing to compose. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.”

His teasing smirk only widened when he saw how red your face got. You stepped forward to snatch the letter back, but he lifted it easily out of reach.

“Give it,” you hissed.

“Uh-uh.” He wagged the paper, backing up a step. “Not after you wrote—what was it?” His voice pitched up dramatically as he read a line from memory. “‘Your music makes me feel safe.’” He pressed a hand to his chest, pretending to swoon. “You trying to make me fall in love with you even more, sweetheart?”

You groaned, mortified. “Bucky—”

“And this?” he tapped another part. “‘I miss you even when I’m mad at you.’” He held the paper to his heart. “That’s so fucking adorable. You really wrote this for me? Little ol’ me?”

You crossed your arms, your face scrunched up into that bratty look. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. That cute little gesture only made him want to tease you more—but he held back. He stepped closer, nudging your chin up with one knuckle. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m gonna keep it forever.”

You swallowed hard, and he gave your cheek a soft kiss—warm, reassuring—before finally grabbing your bag and holding it out to you.

But when he tilted it slightly to get a better grip, the envelope slid in his hands—

And two glossy tickets fluttered out, landing at his feet.

He blinked.

Then slowly, very slowly, he crouched and picked them up.

“...Iron Maiden?” he breathed.

You shrugged, trying for casual but failing miserably as you still had that embarrassing flush on your face. “They’re, um... really good seats,” you mumbled. “The Book of Souls Tour—or whatever it said online.”

He stared at the tickets. Then at you. Then back at the tickets.

“Baby,” he held up both of them. “Do you... do you know how hard these are to get?”

You shrugged again, starting to be fond of the way he was beginning to swoon over you. “I have connections.”

“You do not have connections,” he said, stepping closer, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You fought Ticketmaster to the death. You went to war for this.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.” His grin stretched ear to ear, so wide it looked like he couldn’t contain it. “Holy shit. You got us Iron Maiden tickets.”

Bucky didn’t even try to keep the grin off his face anymore. He just stepped into your space and wrapped his arms around you so suddenly, so tightly, that your bag slipped from his hand and thudded onto the floor. You froze for half a second, caught between wanting to shove him away for being so dramatic... and wanting to melt right into him like you always did. He didn’t give you much time to think anyway.

Because Bucky Barnes—outcast drummer, campus dirtbag—was kissing you everywhere.

Your cheeks. Your jaw. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips, soft and quick and warm.

You felt his smile against your skin, felt the barely controlled tremble in his hands as if he still couldn’t believe you were here—choosing him for good.

“Bucky—stop,” you muttered, trying to shove him with zero effort behind it. “It’s not that serious—”

“Oh, shut up,” he laughed. “It is serious. You care so much. You love me. It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his shirt anyway. “I do not—”

“You do,” he cut in smugly, brushing a kiss to your collarbone. “And I love you back, princess.”

Another kiss to your cheek. Another to your hairline. Another to the corner of your lips that had you biting back a helpless smile.

You huffed, trying to salvage your dignity. “You’re so obsessed with me, Barnes.”

“You bought Iron Maiden tickets,” he countered, lifting you slightly off the ground as he hugged you again. “You’re the one who’s obsessed.”

You smacked his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “Put me down!”

He finally loosened his arms—only for your eyes to land on your handbag abandoned on the filthy shed floor.

“Bucky,” you said flatly. “What happened to ‘this thing is too expensive to be on a dusty-ass floor’?”

He paused, an eyebrow raising in confusion as his eyes followed yours to the ground. There, lying forgotten on the dusty concrete, was your expensive handbag.

“Oh shit,” he scrambled immediately, dropping into a crouch like a loyal, panicked puppy. “Baby, I swear I didn’t mean—this was a moment—I got distracted—don’t look at me—”

You couldn’t help the grin as you watched him scoop up your bag like it was a wounded animal. He dusted the straps as he stood up, handing it back to you with both hands. “There,” he said earnestly. “Pristine. Untouched. Immaculate. Better than me, honestly.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag, putting the strap over your shoulder.

“You’re so lame.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he grinned.

“Oh. Actually—there is one thing.”

His brows lifted, head tilting slightly as curiosity flashed across his face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You made a face—scrunched nose, dramatic disgust—like the memory alone annoyed you. “You need to make a shirt that says ‘I love my girlfriend’ or something.”

He blinked. “…Girlfriend?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, ignoring him. “Or maybe I’ll print my face on it. Huge. Right across your chest. So every girl knows you’re taken.”

Realization hit him in real time—then he couldn’t help the slow, boyish smile that spread across his face. “Okay,” he nodded. “Yeah. Fine by me.”

“Just something that tells them the drummer is not up for grabs.”

He snorted. “Of course.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

He shook his head quickly, a soft laugh escaping. “What? No. I’d let you stamp your kisses with lipstick all over my face before I get on stage if you wanted.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you rolled your eyes like you weren’t the one who started this.

“You’re such a loser.”

Bucky smiled, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder. “And you’re dating me.”

guys.... i finally did it... i finally finished pt 2...... this chapter definitely had more musical influences so if you care to take a gander...

fic playlist

thank you for reading and indulging in my rodrick x regina hyperfixation. i hope you enjoyed it <3

It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.

They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.

It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.

How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?

You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.

Bucky.

He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.

Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.

“What are you doing—”

“What are you doing—”

You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.

Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.

When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.

While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.

Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.

To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.

You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.

Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.

Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”

He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.

The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.

“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”

You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Look, I—”

“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.

Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.

“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.

Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”

AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.

Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.

“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.

Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.

AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.

You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”

AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”

The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”

Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”

Big enough to fit the both of you?

“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.

Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”

The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”

You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.

“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.

“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”

Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”

Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.

This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.

“I don’t know about this, Sam—”

“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.

Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.

“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”

Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.

“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”

Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”

“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.

He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.

“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”

“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”

Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”

You felt your eyebrow twitch.

“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”

“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.

“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.

You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.

“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.

“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”

He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”

You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.

“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.

It looked incredibly small.

It looked too intimate.

It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”

“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.

You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.

You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.

Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”

You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.

“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.

You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.

Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.

“Let go,” you said.

Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.

He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.

“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.

He didn’t.

He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.

You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”

You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.

The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.

Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.

His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.

“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.

You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.

“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.

“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.

You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.

A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.

“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”

Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”

He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.

You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.

The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.

An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”

“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”

“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”

Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.

You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.

But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.

“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.

Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.

“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”

The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.

“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.

The paddles lurched toward you.

“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”

Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.

“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.

His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.

“Now give me these damn paddles—”

But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.

With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.

Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”

“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”

Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.

With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.

One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.

Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.

You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.

“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.

When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.

You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”

Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.

You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.

You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.

Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.

“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”

As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.

You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.

Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.

“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.

“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”

Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.

Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.

“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”

“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.

“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.

“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”

“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.

Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”

Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.

After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.

“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”

You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.

Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.

Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”

“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”

Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.

The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.

The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.

Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.

Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.

Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.

Bucky was shirtless.

You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.

His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.

You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?

Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.

Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.

“Bucky… can you keep it down?”

But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.

“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”

“Bucky, listen to me!”

“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.

You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.

“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”

When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.

He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.

“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.

“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”

You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?

Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.

You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.

Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.

In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.

“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”

You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”

Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”

A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.

He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.

Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.

“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”

As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.

Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”

Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.

“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”

You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.

“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”

You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.

“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”

Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.

With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.

You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.

“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.

Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”

There was another pause.

This time, Bucky broke it.

“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”

The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.

There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.

Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.

He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.

You had already fallen asleep.

The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.

From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.

You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”

A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.

“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”

You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.

“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”

“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”

“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”

“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.

Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”

Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.

Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”

“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”

You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.

“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”

Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”

You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.

When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”

Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.

He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.

The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.

“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.

The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.

“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”

Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”

“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”

Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”

Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”

The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”

While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.

You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.

For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.

For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.

Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.

The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.

Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.

Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.

Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.

Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.

“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.

The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.

“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.

Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”

As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.

He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”

Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.

“Here, let me help you.”

To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.

With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.

You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”

Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.

“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.

You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.

Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.

As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.

You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.

The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.

Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”

He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?

Were you trying to pull his leg?

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”

Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”

More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.

You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do you want to leave—”

“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die.

His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.

You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”

“What? Hey—wait—!”

Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.

This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.

“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”

The Forties.

“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.

You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”

You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.

At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.

Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.

The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.

“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.

As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.

In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.

He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.

It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.

After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.

As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.

But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.

“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.

For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.

“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”

This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”

With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.

“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”

You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”

Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.

“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”

You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”

The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.

“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.

“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”

“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”

“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.

He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.

“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.

He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.

“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.

“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.

You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.

“You broke Sarah’s truck.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”

You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”

He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.

Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.

“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.

“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.

He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.

“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”

“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.

He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.

“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”

Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.

“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.

“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.

“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”

You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.

You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.

“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”

“300 East,” you answered quickly.

“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”

Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.

“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”

“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.

“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”

“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”

Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.

“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”

Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”

“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.

He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.

“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.

“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”

You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.

You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.

Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.

“Look at me—”

You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.

“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.

“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”

You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.

“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”

Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.

Was this what you had thought of him all this time?

That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.

You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.

“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.

Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”

“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.

“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.

But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.

He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”

“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.

“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”

Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.

“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”

“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”

“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”

With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.

He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I want more.”

A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”

Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.

He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.

“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.

He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.

You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.

The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.

Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.

You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”

A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.

It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.

Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.

He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.

But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.

“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”

His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.

“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”

He was always looking for you?

Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.

“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”

His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.

You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.

“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”

With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.

The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.

You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.

Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.

A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”

Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.

“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.

You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.

From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.

“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”

Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.

The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.

“God—eager, are you?” you teased.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.

His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.

With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”

Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.

The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.

Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.

Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.

Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”

“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”

Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.

It was enough to drive you insane.

Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.

You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.

“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”

A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.

“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.

Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”

“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”

Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.

Please?

Did you just say ‘please’?

He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”

Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.

You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.

“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”

When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.

You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.

“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”

Just once.

All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.

He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.

“P-please…”

The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”

Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.

“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”

Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.

“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”

Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.

“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.

The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.

He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.

“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.

You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.

All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.

“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”

“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”

Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.

“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.

“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.

“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”

A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.

Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.

But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.

It was too good not to.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”

Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.

He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.

His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here, baby,” he cooed.

Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.

“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.

You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.

You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.

He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.

As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”

But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.

It was Sam.

He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.

“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”

Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.

He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.

“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Fighting was one way to put it.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”

You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.

“Bet I can do it in two.”

“Oh, here you go again.”

i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

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You couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across your face once you heard your name being called to hand over the gift to your Secret Santa. You had been holding in your laughter all day, sneaking subtle glances to gauge his expression, because the gift you had picked out was absolutely inappropriate—potentially fireable—but when the opportunity to give your boss one big “FUCK YOU” presented itself, how could you resist?

The moment you locked eyes with Congressman Barnes and handed him the perfectly wrapped present with your brightest smile, you could practically see the stress lines deepen around his eyes as he accepted it with cautious hands.

“You’re my Secret Santa?” he asked, blinking up at you from his seat.

“Yup,” you grinned, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying innocently, even though every item in that box was anything but. “Merry Christmas, Congressman.”

Bucky gave you one last skeptical look before turning his attention back to the gift now resting neatly in his lap. Carefully, he untied the ribbon, peeled back the wrapping paper, and lifted the lid of the box.

Staring back at him was a HOW TO: SEX FOR DUMMIES, Volumes One and Two.

And a packet of the smallest size Trojan condoms.

The moment you saw his eyes darken, his jaw clench, and his eyebrow twitch, you knew you had won.

After months of constant bickering and endless arguments about ridiculous schedules and a growing workload, you had finally gotten your sweet revenge, and what better way to deliver it than through the art of gift-giving, where everything is supposed to be merry and bright?

“Well,” Gary said, grinning with anticipation, “are you going to show the rest of us, Barnes?”

Bucky forced a smile so bright it looked painful. “No. I think I’ll be keeping this one to myself,” he teased, placing the lid back on the box before carefully setting it on the floor.

Whistles broke out around the room, everyone riding high on holiday spirits.

“Well, whatever she got you, it must be a keeper,” one of the press assistants chimed in. “Probably why she’s managed to stay your trusty assistant for so long—despite all the bickering.”

That earned a round of perfectly polite, coworker-forced laughter that grated on Bucky’s nerves, and only made his gift even sweeter.

“That’s exactly right,” Bucky said, exhaling through his nose. His tone was so flat no one could tell whether he was joking or actually annoyed. But then, he looked up at you with a smile and eyes that seethed You’re fucking fired.

“Thank you. I love it.” Bucky lied. “I guess it’s my turn?”

Everyone nodded, and Bucky lifted an equally nicely wrapped present—which surprised you, because he never had the diligence to wrap his own gifts. He always left you, his assistant, responsible for all of that.

He stood up with an old man’s groan, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in all the people sitting in their respective seats.

Before they landed back on you. Again.

You blinked as he closed the distance, his expensive shoes hitting the floor as he presented the gift.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. You could see the way the corners of his lips twitched from the soreness of his forced smile.

“Wow,” the press assistant cooed. “What are the odds of getting each other for Secret Santa?”

“Goes to show how meant to be they are,” another person teased.

You looked up at him, dumbfounded. A part of you felt guilty for getting him a gag gift, especially after seeing how pristine the wrapping was—meaning he took the time and effort out of his already busy day to make this presentable for you.

“Congressman Barnes,” you started softly, your face flushing with guilt as you reached for the present. “I… I don’t know what to say—”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said, nodding toward the gift. “Open it.”

There was something about the way his eyes looked that made you second-guess yourself—but you gave him a quick, brief smile as you started to undo the perfect bow, your fingers gently tearing the wrapping paper. Bucky’s eyes were on you the entire time, examining your expression as you slowly lifted the lid.

You looked down. Staring back at you was a purple vibrator with the words “Womanizer Next Duo Clitoral Stimulator and Vibrator” listed loud and proud on the box. But there was also something underneath it. You pushed the vibrator box aside with your finger; beneath it was black, lacey lingerie that left little to the imagination.

Your face flushed—first with embarrassment, then with a burning hot anger. You didn’t dare to lift any of the items up.

What the hell was the Congressman thinking?

Your eyes met Bucky’s again. He was standing above you, an obnoxious smile on his face at your subtle reaction. Not noticeable to the others, but obvious to him.

“Well?” he taunted. “Do you like it?”

Your throat felt tight. The vibrator’s glossy purple plastic seemed to mock you from inside the box, alongside the lingerie that looked like it belonged in a hidden drawer, not an office holiday party. You forced your jaw to unclench.

“I—”

“Come on!” Gary called out, smiling in his seat. “Show us! What’d he get you?” he elbowed the woman beside him. “He’s a terrible gift-giver, so this has to be good.”

Bucky’s eyes never left yours, despite the amused chatter and whispers around the room. His smile widened, because deep down, he knew you didn’t have the guts to reveal what he’d gotten you. And he was right.

Payback. Triumph.

And check-fucking-mate.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box, your nails nearly digging into the cardboard. Heat climbed up your neck and spread beneath your collar, and you could only pray no one noticed as you forced a smile.

“I don’t think I should show this one,” you said with a forced laugh.

Bucky also laughed. Not with you, but at you.

“Aww, come on!” someone whined. “Stop being so secretive!”

You inhaled slowly, deeply, and slipped the lid back over the box. “It’s private.”

“That’s right,” Bucky nodded. Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice taunting. “Aren’t you going to thank me for such a thoughtful gift?

In other people’s eyes, they thought it was hilarious that the usually stoic and broody Congressman had cracked an office-friendly joke. But to you, you wanted to do nothing more than take this purple vibrator and shove it up his—

“Thank you,” you said through clenched teeth instead. “You’re so thoughtful, Congressman.”

The next few days were uncomfortably tense between you and the Congressman.

Whatever bickering or passive-aggressive back-and-forth the two of you usually exchanged had somehow multiplied tenfold. The paperwork he dropped on your desk were thicker than usual with dense briefing packets, endless policy drafts, constituent letters that normally would’ve gone to the interns. He had you doing redundant tasks the front desk or staff assistants could’ve easily handled; reorganizing files you had already organized, reformatting reports that didn’t need reformatting, double-checking things you’d triple-checked yesterday.

And the schedule.

The goddamn schedule.

He had you listed for more overtime than you had seen all year. Fielding late-night calls, managing back-to-back meetings, arranging interviews he refused to reschedule despite his calendar already being overloaded.

And his excuse?

“That’s politics.”

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case. This was because of that goddamn Sex for Dummies book and the extra-small condoms you gifted him. This was him getting his sweet revenge, as if the lingerie and vibrator hadn’t been insulting enough.

You had gone home several nights in a row exhausted—tired, stressed, and in desperate need of some kind of relief. And every time you walked through your front door, that purple vibrator box sat there waiting for you—taunting you. Haunting you.

The glossy packaging felt like Congressman Barnes himself was delivering another slap to your face. And because of that, you never touched it. You refused to use it, because opening it would mean letting Bucky win.

So, since it was the start of a brand new week, you did the mature, responsible thing that even the Congressman wouldn’t find himself doing.

You packed the gifts he had given you into a neat little gift bag—stripped of all the festive wrapping paper he had miraculously folded with before. Your plan was simple; return the gift. Tell him, professionally, how wildly inappropriate it was. Then apologize for your own wildly inappropriate gift.

A clean slate. A truce, even.

Except the chance never came.

You were already drowning in tasks he had piled onto your desk. Three constituent reports, two briefing summaries, and a stack of letters he somehow wanted “proofread, printed, signed, and mailed before lunch.”

And, as always, you grabbed the letters with a smile and said, “Yes, Congressman.”

Later in the day, you were halfway through drafting an email when Bucky stepped out of his office and into yours with a folder in hand.

“Need you to handle this,” he said, placing the folder directly on top of the open one you were already working on.

Your hands paused on the keyboard as you looked up. “Congressman,” you addressed him slowly. “I’m still working on the policy revisions you asked for. I’m not finished—”

“This takes priority,” he said, pointing a finger at the file. “I need the whole packet organized, footnoted, and ready before my meeting with the Oversight Committee—”

You blinked, looking at the time at the bottom right of your monitor. “That’s in—”

“Forty minutes,” he confirmed, looking down at his watch and not at you. “Better get to work.”

It was like the devil himself was standing right in front of you—all six feet of him in an expensive suit and tie that probably cost more than your salary. Before Secret Santa, he already made your work life a living hell, and now he seemed to be taking even greater joy in kicking you while you were down.

You couldn’t take it anymore. It was like something inside you snapped—your face immediately felt boiling hot, and your heart beat faster than you could think. Being in this very office with this man taunting you triggered your flight or fight response.

And you were choosing fight.

You quickly stood up, your chair rolling back and hitting hard against the wall. This finally made him meet your eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” you scoffed. “You’ve been dumping extra work on me all week. Redundant tasks. Unnecessary overtime. A schedule that’s fucking impossible to keep up with,” you jabbed a finger at the folder on your desk. “And this? You want finished in forty minutes? Are you serious right now?”

Bucky froze and glanced over to the window. When he caught people staring, they immediately looked away.

At this point, you were on the very precipice of getting fired. You didn’t care who was watching anymore.

“What the hell is going on, Congressman?” you demanded. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I got you?”

You saw Bucky’s jaw clench in the dim light of your office. He didn’t say anything, nor did he even blink. Without a word, he turned and stepped away from you. He walked straight to the window that separated your office from the hallway and—under the eyes of every staffer pretending not to eavesdrop— he pulled the blinds shut with one, easy motion.

Then, he walked to your door, closed it softly, and quietly clicked the lock into place.

Bucky turned back toward you slowly, his hands tucked in his pockets and his expression completely unreadable.

“Excuse me?” he asked, and you still couldn’t discern his emotion.

It felt like you were poking the bear, and suddenly, being in this office where you were supposed to feel most productive felt suffocating. You probably should’ve apologized, but you knew you were already in deep shit. You just hoped he had any ounce of understanding in that cold political heart of his.

“I said,” you cleared your throat, not backing down. “Are you punishing me because of the Christmas gifts I gave you? You know, the one with the How to Sex for Dummies and the small condoms—”

He raised a hand. “Stop right there.”

You scoffed again. “What—”

“You want to talk about the Christmas gifts? Fine,” he said, meeting you back at the other side of your desk and staring you down. “But as your boss, I think I should go first.”

Before you could even say anything else, Bucky continued.

“Let’s talk about the oh-so-pleasant gift you gave me for Secret Santa. Did you even read what I put down on my wishlist? Did you even look at it?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm and quiet despite the biting tone.

And despite him asking you a question, he continued without waiting for an answer.

“No, I don’t think you did. So let me tell you what I asked for,” he added, stepping closer and resting both hands on the table, leaning forward so that he was eye-level with you across your desk.

“I wanted gray socks and an assortment of neckties,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Not a goddamn Sex for Dummies book and…” he grimaced before continuing, “… extra-small fucking Trojan condoms.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Bucky gave you a look. “You’re laughing? You’re actually fucking laughing?”

You quickly shook your head. “No, sir. It’s just—”

His eyes trailed to your desk. “What is that?” he interrupted suddenly, nodding toward the plain gift bag sitting on your desk.

You looked down at the bag, clearing your throat and trying to choose your words carefully before digging yourself into an even deeper hole. “Okay. You know what? You’re right, Congressman. I shouldn’t have done that. I’d like to—uh, actually apologize for the gifts that I gave you.”

He stood up straight, crossing his arms and raising a skeptical brow. “Apologize?”

You nodded again, your teeth strumming your bottom lip to keep from laughing at his man-child outburst just a few seconds ago. You picked the bag up with gentle hands.

“I understand that the gifts I gave you were highly inappropriate, especially for a work setting. I also understand that you’ve been feeling… on edge because of… well, said gifts.”

Bucky tried to ignore the subtle taunt in your voice, but he couldn’t.

“I thought I’d give you the gifts you gave me back, and the receipt for the… sex education books. Condoms aren’t returnable, though. So…” you handed the bag to him. He grabbed it, opening it slowly.

“I didn’t use any of the things you got me—so if you wanted to return that as well, you can. And you can use the money to get the gray socks and neckties you wanted instead.”

Bucky set the bag down on the desk, pulling the receipt out slowly. He mentally read your purchase back, the Sex for Dummies Volume One and Two and the small condoms taunting him yet again.

“So, I guess we can consider this a clean slate?” you rested your hands primly in front of you, flashing the most innocent-looking smile you could muster in front of your asshole of a boss.

“A clean slate…” he scoffed. “Is that what this is now?”

“Look, Congressman. Since Secret Santa, you’ve been working me to the bone. Things have been tense between us, and I know now it’s because of the gifts I got you,” you sighed. “So… can you just please take this as a peace offering so we can move on—”

Your voice trailed off as you saw Bucky dig into the bag, fishing out the vibrator box and holding it up for you to see. Your face immediately burned.

“You really didn’t use this?” he asked, even though the wrapper was still intact.

“No, sir.”

He kept his eyes down at the box, unwrapping it. He nodded toward the lingerie inside the bag. “And you didn’t wear that?”

“No, sir,” you repeated, your face flushing.

A deep, almost disappointed exhale escaped his nose. “That’s a shame,” he mumbled, unwrapping the plastic layering and tossing it somewhere on the floor. “I carefully hand-picked these items because you always seem so tense and worked up around the office—I figured this could’ve helped you relieve your stress.”

Your face was crimson as you watched him unbox the vibrator, pulling out the toy slowly and carefully before setting the box gently back down on the table.

How the hell was he not dying of embarrassment right now? To say this was inappropriate would be an understatement. You loathed your boss—you guys weren’t even friends, and his actions in front of you, knowing how flustered you were getting while he kept his cool, only seemed to pour salt right into the open wound.

“Help me?” you recoiled, making a face. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Congressman, but how the hell could this ‘gift’ possibly help me—”

“Don’t act smart,” he cut in sharply. “You don’t mean any disrespect—but that’s all you’ve been throwing in my face since I walked in here.”

He lifted the toy up so you could see it, though you wanted so badly to look away from how shameful this was.

“I drag my feet into this building every morning,” he continued, “because I know you’re going to be here—already in a mood, rolling your eyes at every little task I give you. You stomp around like there’s a permanent raincloud hovering over your head, always trying to make my already stressful workday a living hell.”

Your jaw almost hit the floor.

You were making his workday a living hell? Meanwhile he strutted around with a permanent stick wedged so far up his ass? You couldn’t take it anymore. Here you were, trying to make amends, and he had the gall to say this to you as if he weren’t the problem.

“I’m sorry,” you scoffed. “What did you just say to me?”

You snaked around your desk, your heels clicking angrily against the floor before you could think. When you finally met him face-to-face, body-to-body, you jabbed a finger square into his hard chest.

“I have a permanent rain cloud over my head?” you laughed, humorlessly. “You make my life hell. You treat me like crap compared to the other staff. You act like I’m some dispensable, mindless assistant who’s on-call twenty-four seven to fix your crises, clean up your messes, and read your mind.”

Each end of a sentence was exaggerated with a hard jab to his chest—a jab that left him unwavering and unmoving, as he stood completely still with the vibrator tucked between his fingertips.

“So, I’m sorry—actually, no. I’m not sorry for getting bitchy when you push me around. I act the way I do because of how hard you keep pushing me! ”

He looked down at you, his expression still unreadable, brows slightly narrowed. “Sit down.”

You huffed, moving your finger away. “What?”

He tapped the edge of your desk with two fingers. “Sit. Down,” he repeated. “Let’s take a breath and talk like two functional adults. Can you do that for me?”

You gave him a doubtful look, but you listened. He was your boss, after all.

Hesitantly, you took a seat on the desk, perched awkwardly as you tried to pull your skirt down. But despite the vulnerable position, he kept his eyes on yours.

“You’ve been stressed, I see that. And these gifts,” he lifted the vibrator again. “You were supposed to use them to make yourself feel better.”

Your eyes flickered to the toy, then back to him. He continued speaking as if it were a lecture.

“You were supposed to go home that night, unwrap this box, and take care of yourself.” He walked around to the other side of the desk.

You looked over your shoulder to watch him, and he caught you.

“Keep your eyes forward,” he instructed, and you did.

He stood behind you, his presence large and heavy as he leaned in, his breath tickling against your ear as he spoke. “And the lingerie? You were supposed to wear that when you took yourself out for a night out. Maybe show it off to a lucky man after he took you to a fancy dinner. But you didn’t use any of my gifts, and that hurts, you know?”

“Funny for you to say,” you mumbled. “I bet you didn’t use any of the gifts I got you either.”

“You mean the extra-small condoms? No. That wouldn’t fit. I would burst right through,” he sighed, shaking his head disappointingly. “But I’ve read the book you got me. How to Sex for Dummies? I’ve gotten through the first few pages, and I gotta say, I’ve learned quite a bit of… valuable stuff.”

You barked out a harsh, mocking laugh.

“You actually read the book?” you snorted. “I bet the lucky lady you used those ‘skills on’ had a great time.”

Bucky planted his vibranium hand on the empty space next to you with a heavy thud. You flinched at the soft, metallic whirring sound it made, and how much closer his body was now pressed to yours.

“That’s the problem,” he rasped against the sensitive shell of your ear. “I don’t have anyone to practice what I’ve learned. But you’re right here, and I have this.” He lifted the vibrator from behind so that it was clearly in your peripheral view. “How about I help relieve my poor, overworked assistant’s stress? Show her, firsthand, what I’ve learned from this very important book she gifted me?”

You swallowed hard, a shiver shooting down your spine at your boss’s indecent proposition.

“Sir—”

Your words got cut off, replaced with a startled yelp as he wrapped his left arm around your body, dragging you away from the edge of the desk and closer to him. Your skirt rose up as your back pressed against his chest.

“Congressman!” you gasped as you squirmed awkwardly, but his vibranium arm kept your body tight and close to his hard body. “Congressman, someone might see—”

“No one will see,” he murmured, low and raspy against your ear—it was ticklish. “I’ll make sure of it.”

With one strong vibranium arm holding your body still, he reached over with his other hand and let his knuckles trail down the smooth surface of your leg, nudging them open and teasing the vibrator along your inner thigh.

“Open up, doll,” he gruffed. “Let your Congressman relieve your stress.”

Your entire body was shaking with humiliation and a shameful, dreading arousal from the close proximity and the exposed position he’d left you in. As much as you hated him—he was right.

These past few days, you’d been nothing but a pent-up mess waiting to explode. And with your conventionally attractive—and equally annoying—boss’s body pressed up behind you, touching you in places you normally hadn’t been touched other than by yourself, the bomb was ticking by the minute.

“Congressman,” you let out a breathy sigh. “We can get into so much trouble for this.”

“In trouble?” he clicked his tongue. “How could I get in trouble? When I’m just your boss, looking after my sweet, little assistant?”

A soft little gasp left your lips at the sound of the vibrator being clicked on.

“Would you look at that? It came already charged.” He said, amused.

Bucky felt you tense up, and his metal arm gave your body a reassuring squeeze, cool vibranium fingers splaying over your clothed stomach.

“Relax,” he cooed into your ear. “You need to be taken care of. I can feel your tension here…” His vibranium fingers trailed down from your stomach to the hem of your skirt, lifting it up and letting his fingers play along the fabric against your thigh.

“Oh,” he sighed. “You’re wet. That means you like this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his fingers insistently pressed against your panties, already damp and sticking to your sensitive folds. It was embarrassing, almost humiliating, but what was worse was that you actually liked it.

“Yeah?” you mocked, trying to act unfazed. “Did the book tell you that?”

A harsh, low laugh rumbled from his chest as his left hand hooked the side of your panties, trying to push them aside, but he ended up shredding the thin fabric with one hard, unexpected tug. You let out a sharp gasp as your warm, wet cunt was immediately kissed by the cool office air. He was completely indifferent to the fact that he’d torn your underwear clean off.

“It did,” he said. “The book also told me that this—” with his other hand, he pressed the vibrator against your clit “—was a woman’s sweet spot. Is that right?”

“Ah—!” you whined, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle your moans as you felt the cool, vibrating silicone stimulate your core.

“Oh, look at you,” he chuckled, pressing the vibrator harder against your hypersensitive spot—making you squirm. “Finally staying quiet for me. Got nothing smart to say with this toy pressed against you, huh?”

You shook your head, still defiant. “Fuck you, Congressman.”

With a low groan, his vibranium hand found your blouse, his fingers fumbling clumsily at the buttons. Lacking patience, he instead gave your top a harsh tug, sending one or two buttons flying and clattering to the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, your body moving with his rough movements. “Are you out of your mind? That shirt was expensive!”

“There’s that goddamn mouth again,” he snarled. “You’ve always got something to say that’ll piss me off.”

He moved the toy up and down, your mouth falling open into a helpless O-shape as he stimulated your sensitive folds. The silicone toy was soaking up your arousal, making embarrassingly wet noises you wished you could drown out.

“Fu-fuck, Congressman!”

He pressed the toy against your clit again, making your head tip back against his shoulder. His fingers coyly probed against your entrance, and you immediately started fluttering around him. Your hips moved before you could control them—bucking up to meet his fingers, wanting him, begging for him.

“Please,” you breathed so quietly, as if it were a plea to yourself.

His fingers stilled, tucked between your folds and pressing against your entrance—but not with enough pressure to slip inside.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re begging?” he smiled cruelly. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘please’ in the office.”

He upped the speed of the vibrator, and your eyes shot open wide. You moved your hips in rhythm with the vibration, your cunt fluttering against his finger, trying to sink yourself onto his touch.

“I hate you,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “I fucking despise you—”

“So, now you hate me?” he cut you off, his voice disappointed as he turned the vibrator off and pulled it away from your clutching heat. “I can never get through to you, can I?”

Bucky took a step back from the desk, and the warmth from his arms and chest that had once enveloped you disappeared, leaving you immediately aching for him. You quickly turned around, your clothes rumpled and your legs trembling.

“Hey! W—wait, what are you doing—!” you gasped.

Before he could take another step back, your hand shot out to grab his tie.

“Don’t go,” you hissed, frustrated. “You can’t just—touch a woman like that and leave her like this. For fuck’s sake, did the book teach you nothing, Barnes?”

Bucky looked down at you, his eyes trailing over your body sprawled out on the desk. Your hair was tousled, your skirt was pushed up messily around your thighs, your blouse was torn open, and you were wet.

Soaked. Dripping all over the desk.

Yet, here you were, a hand tight around his necktie, demanding him.

“I’m sorry?” he narrowed his brows, setting the vibrator down on the desk. His hand circled around your wrist, giving it a tight squeeze to pry your hand away from his tie. “You’re barking demands at your boss?”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes dropped to his hand—his fingers wrapped around your wrist making your pulse thud faster. The contrast was startling as his grip was firm and steady, while your wrist looked almost delicate between his fingers.

You hated that. You hated feeling small next to him.

And yet, your stomach flipped anyway.

His expression didn’t help either. Bucky’s face was tense with irritation. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes so dark in a way that should’ve warned you to stand down. But instead, it only made you want to test him more.

You wanted to see how far you could get under his skin, after all the times he had gotten under yours.

Even though you were clearly in the more vulnerable position, a wicked little smile tugged at your lips.

“I see how it is,” you spoke coolly. “You’re chickening out because you don’t have it in you to finish a job you started.”

Your eyes trailed down from his brooding face to his chest, then lower, to the unmistakable tent straining against the fabric between his legs. He was hard—that much was painfully obvious. The heavy outline of him twitched against his slacks, almost as if he were begging to touch you as much as you were begging for him.

“Is it the lack of confidence,” your eyes fluttered back up to his, meeting a gaze that was equal parts angry and hungry, “or… the lack of experience?”

An agitated tick in his eyebrow caught your attention. It was small, subtle enough that anyone else could easily glaze over it, but to you, it was a victory—motivation to keep going.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you grinned wider, voice turning into a purr. “Did I upset you—?”

Before you could finish, the vibranium hand around your wrist tightened. He hauled you forward until your chest collided with his, and then, with a sudden force, he shoved you backward. You let out a small cry as your back hit the hardwood of the desk again, the impact rattling the pens and papers scattered around you.

By the time you blinked your eyes open, he was already over you. His metal arm slammed onto the desk right next to your head, caging you in while he supported his weight. He leaned even closer, his full, heavy weight pressing into you—right in between your legs, pinning you flat against the surface. His other hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Lack of experience?” he snarled.

He rocked his hips, the feeling of his erection pressing against your bare split making you gasp.

“You think that’s what this is?” He rocked his hips again harder this time, making your body jolt against the desk. “You think I’m some pathetic, incompetent man who gives you tasks all day—that I don’t have the ability to please a bratty woman like you?”

“Barnes—”

He released your face, standing up straight as his hands flew down to the buckle of his belt, then to the zipper of his pants. With a clumsy, eager fumble, he pulled himself out, one strong hand circling his shaft as he gave himself slow, steady pumps.

You tried to sit up to get a good look, but he was back on you before you could move. His left arm caged you against the table again, his body completely enveloping yours as he pressed his weight into you. Bucky rubbed his cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your sweet arousal.

“That book wasn’t meant to taunt me,” he rasped, his eyes locked on yours as he continued torturing you with his teasing. “It was an invitation—an invitation to fuck you. Is that right?”

His tip would catch against your entrance, but it was never enough to push himself in. Every time, you would buck your hips up for that sweet sensation, but he never gave it to you.

You choked out a laugh despite your desperate movements. “You’re so full of yourself, Congressman. I would never—”

He pushed his hips forward. You were already so wet—it was easy for him to slide right in. Once his tip stretched past your entrance, your walls immediately fluttered around him.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, still desperately refusing to let him hear you.

“Fuck,” he grunted in frustration. “You’re wet, but you’re still so tight. Too damn tight.”

He tried pushing his hips forward, trying to let himself sink deeper into you, but your walls were restricting around him, clenching instinctively. You hadn’t pleased yourself in a long time, and you hadn’t let anyone else do it for you, either. The sheer size of him suddenly stretching you out like this was almost more than you could take.

But you would never admit defeat in front of your boss.

“Maybe you just—” you swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, “don’t know how to put it in right.”

Another irritated snarl escaped his lips as he bucked his hips harder this time. He pushed himself halfway in with one shallow, punishing thrust that made you arch your back against the desk. Your chest pressed flush against his as his heavy body completely covered yours.

“That stupid book told me to go slow,” he mumbled against your skin. “That I gotta ease my way inside. Be gentle with you. Savor you. Make it last—but fuck, when you’re taunting me like that, I don’t want to be gentle.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes defiantly locking onto his. “Oh, please. I don’t think you know how to fuck a woman hard, even if you wanted to.”

“You goddamn brat.”

Without a second of warning, Bucky pulled back slightly. Your cunt was already grasping for him as just his tip remained inside, and then he slammed his hips forward, burying himself in one heavy, punishing stroke. He bottomed out so hard your breath hitched in a silent, high-pitched scream. The impact rattled the desk, the wood groaning under the sudden violence of his weight.

“A woman like you doesn’t need ‘gentle,’” he hissed, his body collapsing on top of yours as you were sandwiched between his heavy frame and the cold hardwood.

“A woman like you, with that smart mouth and fucking attitude, needs a good dick inside you—fucked so hard until you’re a babbling mess.”

Bucky didn’t wait for an answer.

He began to fuck you with a desperate, angry rhythm, each thrust growing deeper and more frantic. He wasn’t being gentle; he wasn't easing his way in like the book told him to.

He was claiming every inch of you, his large frame smothering yours against the desk. His vibranium hand clamped down on the edge of the wood right next to your head, the metal clicking sharply as he used it for leverage to drive himself even deeper.

“Is this hard enough for you?” He hissed, his voice ragged. “Answer me, doll,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Does this feel like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

You couldn’t answer.

Your hands, which had been jabbing a finger into his chest moments ago, were now clawing desperately at his shoulders, your nails digging through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

You were a mess of contradictions—hating him, hating the position he had you in, but your hips were bucking up to meet him with a shameful, starving urgency. Every time he slammed into you, your head knocked back against the desk, your eyes rolling back in sheer overstimulation.

He was relentless. His other hand found your waist, his fingers bruising your skin as he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him. The sounds in the room were a chaotic blur—the wet, frantic slapping of skin on skin, the creak of the desk, and his heavy, jagged breathing in your ear.

“You piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever worked with,” he rasped, his pace turning fast and mean. “You’re a nightmare. And that should make this easy. It should make you disposable—fuck, but it doesn’t. It only makes me want you more—and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.”

“Congressman,” you gasped, trying to collect your words, but only a rambling mess came out instead. “I—ah!”

He shifted his grip, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even more. The new angle was devastating. He was hitting so deep it made your entire body vibrate, a white-hot pressure building behind your navel that made you want to shatter your pride once and for all.

“Tell me,” he commanded. “Tell me who’s in control in this office.”

Even with your body shaking and your walls spasming around him, you forced a sharp, mocking sound from your throat—a jagged imitation of a laugh.

“Did… did the book tell you that you had to talk this much during sex?” you wheezed, trying to sit up with your elbows. “You should—hah—spend your efforts learning how to talk right in interviews instead of wasting them here, buried deep inside your assistant—”

The sound that left Bucky wasn’t a growl or a pant. It was a pure, animalistic snarl of rage. His hand shifted from your waist to the center of your chest, pinning you down.

“Jesus, you never fucking learn.” His hips snapped harder and faster against yours, the velocity so intense it made your vision go white. “You want to see what happens when I stop caring about being a Congressman and start being the man who owns you?”

He leaned down, his mouth inches from your ear. His voice was smooth and calm, a terrifying contrast to the way he continued to punish your body with every heavy slam of his pelvis.

“I’m going to fill you so deep that you won’t be able to stand straight,” he rasped, his teeth grazing against your earlobe.

“I’m going to pump you so full of my cum—I want to see it drip down your pretty legs while you take notes in the next meeting,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, and violent. “I want every man in this building to smell me on you. I want you to feel it sliding down your thighs while you look them in the eye, knowing that your Congressman claimed you right here on this desk.”

You let out a broken whimper as he hit your sweet spot again and again, his pace becoming a blur of friction and heat. The way he was filling you, combined with the nasty, filthy litany of words leaving his lips, was enough to make you feel dizzy.

Bucky groaned, desperate and uneven breaths hitting the crook of your neck as he felt you clench around him.

The book mentioned that the man would likely feel a fluttering, uneven clenching sensation around his manhood when the woman was close to climax—it was hard to imagine that when he jerked himself off with his hand, but now, deep inside you, he was feeling exactly that.

“God, you’re gonna cum for me, baby?”

But despite how close you were, you remained stubborn. You squeezed your eyes shut, a jagged, defiant breath catching in your throat as you fought the sensation off. Refusing to give him the satisfaction, you hissed through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shook your head, glaring up at him. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that.” You added, your voice trembling slightly.

Bucky gave you a sharp, threatening look. He realized exactly what you were doing—denying him the one victory he wanted most. “You think you can play games now?” he snarled, his vibranium arm shifting to pin both of your wrists above your head. “You think you’re in control of your own body right now?”

His other hand swept across the desk until his fingers brushed against the silicone toy he had discarded earlier. He snatched the vibrator, thumb clicking it onto the highest setting.

“You’re going to cum,” he threatened into your ear. “And you’re going to do it while I’m buried deep inside you.”

He pressed the buzzing head of the toy directly against your sensitive, swollen clit while simultaneously slamming his hips forward to bury himself to the hilt. The double-sided assault was overwhelming. The vibration combined with his thickness stretching you out sent a violent jolt through your body, your fingers grasping helplessly at nothing as he pinned your wrists down.

You writhed pathetically beneath him, trying to keep yourself from coming—but fuck, it was impossible.

“Ah!” you cried out, your legs shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m not—I’m… not…”

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he commanded, his own face twisted with the sheer effort of trying to hold back. He kept the toy pinned on your clit, vibrating relentlessly against you. “I feel you getting close, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. Shit—I’m going to cum too—”

Your pride was the first thing to go, followed immediately by the control of your own body.

A loud, broken cry ripped from your throat as your whole body tremored beneath him. You clenched down, convulsing as you came hard and violently around his cock. It was hot, blinding, and enough to make your head spin.

But Bucky didn’t stop.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, your body bouncing against the wood as he kept fucking you deep.

He kept the toy pressed against your clit. The overstimulation, the way his cock was twitching inside you and hitting you in all the right, oversensitive spots, was enough to make you cry out. You looked at him, your brows furrowed in a silent, desperate plea.

“C-congressman,” you gasped, the sound ragged. “P-please…”

Bucky’s eyes, which had been burning with rage, suddenly glazed over with a desperate, almost hopeful look. He didn’t hear the word please; he only registered that your defiant voice had finally broken.

“Goddamn,” he grated out. “I love it when you sound broken like that.”

He pulled the vibrator away, tossing it aside, but only to free up his grip for the final, ruinous thrust. He grabbed your hips and slammed into you one last, violent time, his thick shaft hitting your core as he completely unloaded inside you.

“Fuck—take it, doll. Be a good girl for once and take it all for me.”

He shuddered uncontrollably, tucking his nose into your neck as his muscles tensed. Your body shook as warm cum pumped deep into your core, spilling down your slit.

You could feel his cock twitching deep within you, pulsing the last of his seed inside, marking you in the way he promised. He stayed buried, his breathing turning into rough, staggered gasps.

You figured he’d pull out soon and leave you here to clean up the mess he made.

That was the kind of boss he was.

But instead, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. One hand trailed up to your face, his thumb swiping gently to wipe a tear that had trickled down your cheek without you even noticing.

“Are… are you okay?” He asked, voice shaky.

And for some reason, the sudden tenderness in his voice—that soft, shaky tone coming from your usually cold-hearted boss—made a silent sob hitch in your chest.

“I’m okay.”

His body stiffened, his eyes going wide at the sudden sight of tears slipping down your cheeks from his simple question. He slowly slid out of you, the wet, suctioning sound of his withdrawal replaced by the immediate, empty rush of cold air. His big, strong arms circled behind you and hauled you up, settling you gently at the edge of the desk. His metal arm gently supported your back as he pulled your ruined blouse closed over your exposed chest.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his fingers moving from your chest to cup your face gently in his palm. “Don’t cry. Shit. I’m sorry for hurting you. Fuck—”

“You didn’t hurt me, Congressman,” you shook your head, the denial weak. “I just—I didn’t expect—” You hiccuped. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”

“You didn’t expect me to stay,” he repeated, the words slow and hollow.

His mind raced back over the last several months; the impossible deadlines, the late nights, the constant demands and dismissive tone he had used with you in the office.

He had treated you like a machine, not a human, and certainly not the person he now had ruined on this desk.

“Fuck. I am an idiot,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been working you like a dog. I’ve been crushing you with all this meaningless work, I know. I can see it now. I see you in here at six a.m and still here at ten. You’ve been living in this office because of me.”

He looked at you with deep regret in his eyes, his lips tugging down into a faint pout as he ran his fingers over your cheek reassuringly.

You instinctively leaned into his touch.

“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and soft. “I’m sorry for all the work. I’m sorry for the immature gifts. And I’m sorry for—” he swallowed. “Ruining you. And I’m even more sorry for making you think I was the kind of asshole who would just leave you like this.”

He sighed softly as he leaned in, his touch now entirely different. He was gentle and soft, as if you were a fragile little thing.

Hesitant, he settled his lips softly on yours—a slow, sweet kiss that held none of the demands and frustration he had earlier.

It was a kiss that told you he was truly sorry, and it was an apology you knew you were going to forgive.

He pulled back, looking into your eyes, but as you lifted your head to look into his, your gaze snagged on the clock perched right above and behind him.

“Sir,” you quickly scrambled up, but his arm held you still. “Your Oversight Committee is in less than ten minutes! I need to finish the packets you—”

He held you tighter against his chest, the air nearly knocked out of your lungs as he practically crushed your frame against his.

“No,” he mumbled into the top of your head, his nose tangling in your hair. “No meetings. No packets. Just relax, and stay with me. Okay?”

The last gasp of air escaped your lungs in a shaky sigh of surrender and relief. You didn’t fight his hold; instead, your arms slowly rose from your sides, circling his waist and pulling him closer. You nestled your face against his collarbone, allowing yourself to be utterly supported by his strength.

The silence was uncomfortably thick, very awkward, and filled only by the uneven rhythm of your joined breathing.

The tension, however, was too profound to last.

The need to regain some semblance of normalcy, some piece of the defiant, joking assistant he thought he’d crushed, finally came crawling back.

“I guess that vibrator isn’t returnable now, huh?” you mumbled against his chest, trying for lightheartedness, though your voice was still shaky.

A slow smile, one you felt stretching against your temple, spread across his mouth. “Never planned on returning it,” he murmured. “And especially not the lace lingerie. I’m still planning on having you wear that for me.”

Your face flushed, but your pride—though crushed a long time ago—couldn’t help but want to tease him right back.

“Are you sure the extra small condom won’t fit—”

“Shut the hell up.”

chest naurts roapin on an open pire.... merry christmas, erin. i hope you enjoyed this fic thank you for being my friend and thank you for reading. hit that like and subscribe button while you're at it. jack prost nipping at yur nosee.....

Bucky’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of his desk lamp and the faint blue light of his phone as he pressed it to his ear. He lay sprawled across the narrow twin bed, sweatpants bunched around his ankles, one hand wrapped tightly around his bare shaft.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, his hand working faster around his cock. “Let me hear your voice, pretty girl.” 

“Pretty girl?” your voice purred through the receiver, sweet as sin. “You don’t even know what I look like, Sergeant.”

A low moan escaped his lips as he pressed his head deeper into the pillow. God, he loved your voice—sultry, husky, and filled with temptation. Hearing you call him “Sergeant” sent a jolt of desire straight to his core. And his dick.

“I know, baby,” he hissed. His thumb circled the slick head of his cock, spreading pre-cum across the swollen tip. “But just from your voice, I already know you’re a pretty girl.”

Your soft giggle on the other end made his dick pulse in his hands. 

“Tell me,” you teased, “how hard are you, Sarge?”

He grunted, his breathing heavy. “So fucking hard, baby.”

“You know, it’s kind of pathetic, really…” your voice was breathy, sweet, yet dripping with lust. “Spending Halloween night all by yourself… fucking your own hand. You really have no one else to take care of you, Sergeant?”

His mouth hung open as a low and almost pathetic whimper escaped his lips. 

“Fuck… I know it’s pathetic—but I can’t help it, baby. I love your voice so damn much—fuck… I’m sorry…”

Bucky had never thought of himself as the kind of guy who would get off on being degraded. In truth, he didn’t really know what he wanted when it came to sex.

Because he never actually had it.

And it was pathetic—him, a college virgin, lying alone in his dorm bed, jerking off to the intoxicating sound of a phone-sex operator’s voice. Every time he called, it was always you.

Your voice was addicting. You were addicting.

If only there were girls at his school with a voice like yours.

“I have no one else,” he grunted, his hand working faster on his cock. “No one else to take care of me.”

“Yeah?” you drawled out, teasing. “Only me, baby?” 

“Only you—fuck…”

He gave his shaft a squeeze, biting down on his lower lip as his hips bucked up desperately to meet his hand. His breathing grew heavier, the dorm room air stifling with heat as his legs trembled with pleasure.

“Oh, Sarge… are you getting close?” you taunted.

He moaned at the sound of your voice. “Shit, yes, baby. I’m getting so close. Fuck, your boy’s getting so close.”

You hummed low and raspy, the sound of it making Bucky’s mind run wild. The sound alone could’ve made him come undone.

“That’s a good boy,” you cooed, saccharine and cruel. “I want to hear you cum for me, baby boy.”

He panted hard, his cock throbbing and pulsing in his fist, pre-cum slicking over his aching tip at your praise. Every fiber in his body screamed for release, but he didn’t want to give in just yet. He wanted to draw this out for as long as possible. 

He wanted to hear you unravel too. 

“I… can’t—” he gasped, pausing his hand around his shaft to steady himself, yet his hips still jerked up instinctively. “I… I want to hear you come, too. Are you… are you touching yourself?”

Bucky swallowed, anticipation burning in his chest. 

He knew what your job was—sex operators weren’t there for their own pleasure. They were there to please the customer. Their sole purpose is to keep the client wanting and to keep them paying. But some small, pathetic part of him hoped you were different. That you weren’t just saying the words for a paycheck.

That… maybe you found him pleasurable, too.

Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, your fingers paused over your keyboard, cursor blinking on the half-finished political science article due tomorrow night. 

You blinked at the screen in front of you. Guys on the line rarely asked about you. They wanted to talk about themselves—how hard they were, how good you made them feel, how they were about to cum. It was always about them.

You probably should’ve felt flattered, or even appreciated that someone was looking out for your pleasure.

But to you, it felt like an inconvenience.

You had a paper due tomorrow, for god’s sake. This side job was supposed to be easy money with minimal effort. At the end of the day, guys like him didn’t really care if you felt good. What they wanted was the ego boost of believing they could make you feel good, too.

Rolling your eyes, you cleared your throat and leaned back in your chair, trying to force out that sickly sweet voice that these boys craved.

“Don’t worry about me, baby boy,” you cooed. “I’m here to please you.”

On the other end of the line, there was an awkward pause. You were about to type another sentence on your laptop when his voice cut through, breathy and rough. 

“I can’t… I can’t cum unless you do.” 

You froze, blinking at the glowing cursor on your screen. A disbelieving and almost annoyed laugh escaped your lips. 

“Sarge,” you forced a purr, “don’t be silly. You don’t need to worry about me, just keep stroking yourself like a good boy—” 

“No, I mean it,” he groaned, his voice tight with frustration. “I can’t—fuck, I… I don’t wanna finish unless you’re with me. Please.” 

You pressed your lips into a thin line as you let out an exasperated sigh. He was persistent and straight up desperate. You glanced at the clock on your laptop, then back at the unfinished article mocking you from the screen. 

“If you need it that bad… then just be a good boy and imagine me touching myself right now—just for you. Can you do that for me, Sarge?” 

You laid it on thick. Your voice was laced with the kind of sweetness that usually sent men over the edge fast. 

Easy, efficient, done. 

But instead of falling for it, his breathing only grew heavier. 

“N-no, I need more,” he whined, voice cracking with pleas. “I need to hear you. Please, baby—tell me you’re really doing it. I want to hear you touch yourself too…” 

“Sergeant…” you sighed, leaning back in your chair, eyes narrowing at your blinking cursor. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I do! I do, it’s just—” his voice broke into a breathless moan. “I can’t… I can’t cum unless you’re with me. Please. I don’t wanna do it alone. I don’t wanna feel alone.” 

The pathetic whimper at the end of his sentence made your stomach twist—not just with unwanted sympathy, but, annoyingly, with arousal. Something in that desperate little whine made your pussy clench, against your better judgment.

He sounded like he really needed you.

And God, you really didn’t have time for this. Not with a Halloween party to get ready for in less than an hour. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the glow of your laptop screen burning into your eyes. 

The more you resisted, the more he pushed—meaning the longer the call would drag on. If faking it was the only way to get him to finish and off the line, so be it. You needed a break from sitting down at the desk anyway.

With a tired huff, you shoved your wooden chair back and stood, making sure the sound of your movements were loud enough to catch on the mic. The scrape of the chair legs, the stomp of your steps, before dropping onto your bed with a heavy plop. You wanted to make sure he heard it all. 

“Okay, Sarge,” you breathed, putting that sultry voice back on. “Since you’re begging so sweetly… I’ll touch myself for you.” 

On the other end, his sharp intake of breath was followed by a choked moan, needy and raw.

“Fuck—yes. Thank you, baby. That… that makes me so happy.” 

You stretched out across the bed, phone pressed to your ear, and for a moment there was nothing but silence. The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Were you supposed to… keep leading him? Guiding him on? That’s how it usually went. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, already tempted to get a quick nap in before the party. But before you could even fall into slumber, his voice snapped you awake. 

“Touch yourself for me,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid you’d say no. “Please… slip your hand down your tummy—slow. I want to hear you.” 

Your brows furrowed as your lips parted. “Okay…” you said, despite not even moving an inch.

“Go on,” he urged, “I know you’re not actually doing it.”

You froze, lips parting slightly in surprise. No one had ever called you out like that before. Usually, a fake moan or two was enough to send guys spiraling. And usually, your loyal client always sounded whiny and submissive—not firm and unshaken like he does now, cutting through your act without a single stutter. 

“Spread your thighs for me,” he ordered, the rasp in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Do it right. I wanna know you’re actually touching yourself.”

You swallowed, pulse quickening. With nothing else to distract you, why not indulge him, and maybe yourself too? Letting out a soft sigh, you parted your thighs and trailed your fingertips down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“Okay,” you spoke softly. “I’m… touching myself.” 

“Fuck, baby… just the thought of you touching yourself has me throbbing,” he groaned, voice rough and raspy. “I can see it so clear in my head. Your pretty thighs spread out, your hand moving slow, and your pussy glistening just for me.” 

He continued on. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he panted. “I bet you’re so soft, so fucking tight… I’d get on my knees just to taste you. Lick you until you’re begging me to stop… fuck… until—until you’re shaking all over my tongue…” 

Your lips parted, a sharp inhale slipping through as your fingers pressed down against your clothed clit without you thinking. 

Normally, this kind of dirty talk would slide right past you—you had probably heard every filthy line in the book. But it was something about the way he sounded—utterly desperate, whiny, and raspy—that made your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Shit…” you whispered under your breath, rubbing slow and teasing circles over the already damp fabric. 

On the other end, his moans grew rougher and more desperate, like he could hear you touch yourself. 

“Are you… fuck, are you really touching yourself?” his voice cracked on the other end with excitement. “God, baby, tell me you are. Please… I need to hear it.” 

You shuddered at the sound of his voice. His words rambled out so fast and breathless, like he couldn’t hold them back. 

“Y-yeah,” you admitted softly, surprising yourself with your own honesty. “I am, Sarge. It… it feels so good…” 

The sound he made in response was a groan and whimper—the sound resonating straight in your core. A picture of him spawned in your mind before you could stop it—strung out on his bed, cock in his fist, completely undone with just the thought and sound of you. 

“Fuck, that’s—oh God, that’s so hot…” he whined, the desperation in his voice making your clit throb under your fingers. “Wish I could see you—wish I could taste you, baby.” 

“Sarge—” 

“Baby…” he panted, “you don’t get it. The way I picture you right now—my God—it’s driving me insane.”

You couldn’t understand why he, of all people, was the one making your core flutter with every whimper and whine. You’d been praised plenty of times before, sure. But there was something about him that sounded like borderline obsession, and you craved every ounce of it.

Slowly, you pushed your shorts down along with your panties, your hand sliding through your slick heat as your finger circled your bare clit.

“I bet you’re such a messy little slut when you cum,” he groaned, words coming out fast and unfiltered. “Bet your pussy gets all sloppy, dripping down your thighs… fuck, just begging for me to stuff it full.” 

A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hips jerking at his words as your finger probed at your wet entrance. 

“Sergeant…” you breathed, “tell me… what would you do to me if you were here?” 

You would’ve thought calling him Sergeant would turn you drier than a desert, but the words that came out of him next were so filthy, so raw, you clenched tight around your finger as you slid it in.

His breath caught on the other end, ragged and needy. “If I was there,” he rasped, voice breaking with hunger, “I’d have you spread out for me. I would get down on my knees and bury my face between your thighs, baby. Lick you until you’re shaking, until you can’t even remember your own name.”

He let out a hiss and a low moan, like he rubbed a sensitive spot with his hand.

“I’d keep going, even if you begged me to stop because of how sensitive you are. I want to hear you crying for me to give you more," another broken moan trembled from his lips, “then… I’d slide into you—slow. So slow just to feel how tight you’d squeeze me. Fuck, I’d ruin you, baby.”

“Fuck,” you moaned as your finger curled inside you. A shiver rippled through your body as his filthy words painted picture after picture in your mind.

You shouldn’t have been curious—or you shouldn’t have even cared to begin with, but the question slipped before you could even stop it.

“H-how… how big are you, Sarge?” you breathed, heart beating in anticipation as you waited for his answer.

On the other end, he let out a ragged laugh—low and dark. You’ve never heard your most loyal client laugh like that, and the sound sent an arousing shiver straight down your spine.

“Big enough to stretch that pretty pussy until you’re crying for me to stop—but you won’t want me to, baby. You’ll beg me to keep going. You’ll take it all.”

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you squeezed your legs together, slipping another finger in and fucking yourself as deep as you could as you pictured him in your mind. “My God, baby…”

“You’d split open so sweet around me, and I’d watch you struggle to take it, watch that greedy little cunt stretch wide and swallow me down.”

Your slick fingers pumped in and out, curling and hitting that sweet spot. The stretch made your back arch, your mouth falling open as you let out a ragged moan. “Y-yes, Sarge… fuck…”

“Bet you’d look so pretty stuffed full,” he went on, voice desperate. “So fucking tight… I’d barely be able to move—and still, I know you’d beg for more. Tell me you’d take it, baby. Tell me you’d let me ruin that pretty pussy with my cock.”

Your breath hitched, fingers plunging faster and deeper as your hips bucked against your hand. You tried to answer, but fuck was it difficult. The words kept breaking apart into mewls and moans.

“I’d take it… take… take all of you—” you whimpered as your fluttering walls squeezed around your fingers.

On the other end of the line, he let out a choked and wrecked sound that made your clit throb. “Oh my God, yes! You’re really doing it—you’re really touching yourself for me.” His voice pitched higher with joy and desperation. “Fuck, baby, you’re making me so happy. Please—please cum with me. Let’s cum together, baby.”

His words became whinier, needier, and each word that came out of his mouth drove you closer over the edge.

“How many fingers, baby?” he panted.

“Two, Sergeant,” you moaned, the wet squelching catching on the mic as you moved your fingers faster. “I feel so full—”

He let out a strangled moan, like he could hear every bit of it. “Yes… two fingers? You’ve got two inside you, baby?” his voice cracked with disbelief and bliss. “Fuck, that’s so hot. If you already feel so full with just two fingers, you might not be able to take me.”

You moaned louder, hips rocking into your hand as your wet slit throbbed under the drag of your knuckles.

“I’m getting close, Sarge. Fuck… feels so good.”

His voice jumped in excitement. “Really? Please—please cum for me! I wanna hear it, I wanna hear you fall apart, all because of me.”

Your fingers pumped harder and faster, two knuckles deep as you curled against the spot that made your vision blur. The wet sounds of your pussy filled the air, mixed with your ragged and breathy moans.

Bucky heard every delicious sound that came from you. Spurred on by the filthy noises, he pumped himself faster, working his sensitive shaft. “Baby, oh fuck,” he moaned. “I’m so close… please cum with me. I need it, need you…”

His begging only pushed you further, your hips bucking against your hand as your walls clenched tight around your fingers.

“S-Sarge, fuck!” you cried out as a jolt of hot pleasure shot through your body. Your orgasm crashed over you, sharp and overwhelming, pulling a desperate sob from your lips as your body shook.

His groans came immediately after. “Fuck—yes, yes, baby! oh my God—” he whimpered into the receiver, the sound of slick strokes and broken cries filling your ear. “Cum with me, cum with me… ohh, fuck!”

You writhed against the sheets, listening to him fall apart right along with you. His panting, his desperate whimpers—all of it blended into your own moans until you both sagged in silence, completely wrecked and breathless.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your whole body trembled as you came down from the high, chest heaving, and fingers buried inside your slick heat. Your legs were twitching, and your wet folds were pulsing from how hard you had been grinding against your own hand.

And then the thought hit you.

Damn.

This guy actually made you cum.

You stared up at the ceiling, dazed, and almost annoyed at yourself. You have done this job long enough to know better. Most callers barely lasted five minutes, just eager to unload and hang up. But this guy…

He dragged you under with him. Every desperate whine, every filthy word worming its way into your head until you were gasping and shaking like he was actually there with you—like he was actually in your bed, touching you and stuffing you full.

Your fingers slipped out of you with a wet squelch, and you let your phone drop to your pillow as you dragged the back of your hand across your forehead, sweaty and amazed.

You couldn’t help it—your lips twisted into a disbelieving laugh.

Out of all the men who’d ever called, him?

The one who got off on being called “Sergeant,” unironically. The one who sounded so needy, so broken down by his own desperation? He was the one who actually made you cum. It didn’t make sense. You had faked it through entire sessions without breaking a single sweat. But his whines, his begging, his obsession—it all crawled under your skin, bypassed the script, and ignited something inside you.

The thought of getting attached to a caller never crossed your mind. Not even once. And now, as you’re laying here, your pussy still clenching around nothing, you’ve come to realize you hated this feeling. You knew this man was loyal enough to keep coming back for more—but now, a shameful part of you wondered if you’d be the one calling him back, even if you weren’t getting paid.

The silence stretched on, surprisingly comfortable, as you were lost in the haze of what just happened. Your breathing was still uneven, your body warm and limp against the sheets. Finally, you broke it with a soft and almost incredulous laugh.

“That was… amazing,” you admitted genuinely.

Against every rule you lived by on these calls, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“…Whats your name, Sarge?”

Bucky laid there, chest still heaving, his hands slack around his spent cock. His body felt heavy and boneless. But his chest felt light and warm—like he couldn’t stop the giddy and flustered smile tugging at his lips as he stared up at the ceiling.

You wanted to know his name?

He has called several times before, and not once did you bother asking him for personal details past the typical “Sarge” or “Sergeant.”

It wasn’t supposed to matter—this was just a call line, for fuck’s sake. It was just a fantasy. But the way you said it—soft and breathless—right after you both had come together… it made his heart thump faster in his chest, like he was some lovesick teenager with a stupid high school crush.

He cleared his throat. “My name is—”

But before he could even finish, his door slammed open without a single knock or warning.

“Bucky!” Steve’s voice barked, followed by Sam’s heavy footsteps.

Bucky froze, eyes wide as he scrambled upright. The phone slipped from his shaky hands as he tried to tug his sweatpants back over his hips. “Shit, shit—” he muttered under his breath, his thumb quickly pressing down on the ‘end call’ button on his screen.

Steve stepped inside, brows furrowed. “Why are the lights off in here?”

“Wait—”

Before Bucky could warn them, the small dorm room flooded with a harsh fluorescent light.

He squinted against the sudden brightness, heart lurching in his throat as Steve’s gaze swept over him and the mess of his rumbled sheets. Steve’s eyes narrowed, glancing between Bucky’s flustered face and, mussed hair, and the suspicious way he was clutching at the blanket.

“Real subtle, Buck.”

Sam chuckled. “Don’t tell me you were on the phone again,” he teased, smirk widening. “You callin’ your little make-believe girlfriend?”

Bucky’s throat went dry. “N-no! I wasn’t—shut up, Sam.”

“Does she still call you Sarge?”

Steve blew raspberries as he gave Sam a playful nudge. “Sarge? As in Sergeant—”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he pressed his face into his hands out of embarrassment. “Would you guys shut the hell up?”

“Man, you make it too easy,” Sam taunted as he wiped a tear. “Does she even know your name, little bro—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Steve cut him off with a groan, waving a hand. “The Halloween party already started, Buck, and you’re in here jerking off in the dark? Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, slumping back against the pillows and getting comfortable under the warm blanket. His cheeks still burned, but he forced his voice to sound steady. “I told you, Steve. I’m not going to that party.”

Steve crossed his arms, his expression not moving. “Buck, come on. It’s the annual Halloween party. Everyone’s there. You can’t keep hiding in this room forever.”

“What?” Bucky scoffed, as if he even had the audacity to after being caught in a compromising position. “I’m not hiding. I just don’t feel like going.”

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped forward, grabbing the blanket and yanking it off him.

“Sam—what the hell!”

Sam let out a bark of laughter. “Are you sweating? My God, you were really in here working yourself over!” He pointed at Bucky’s flustered face, doubling over in glee. “Unbelievable. Our boy’s in here giving himself a special Halloween treat.”

“Sam,” Steve warned, though even he couldn’t stop the smile twitching on his lips. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re wasting the night in here when you should be out there. Tonight’s the night, Buck. You need to let loose. Have some fun. Hell, maybe even finally lose your virginity.”

Bucky made a sour face. “Steve—”

Sam clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t give us that look, man. Tonight’s the perfect chance. Chicks in costumes, booze flowing—you’re not walking back into this room a virgin.”

Bucky swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. He wanted to dig his heels in, tell them both to shove it, and stay right here in the safety of his dorm room.

But he knew better.

Steve could be relentless when he thought he was “helping.” And Sam lived for this kind of thing. He’d never let Bucky live it down if he skipped the biggest party of the year. They’d just keep pressing, pushing, and dragging him out the door if they had to.

And every time they said the word “virginity,” his ears burned hot, like the shame was tattooed across his forehead in big bold letters. He hated how flustered it made him. He hated how easy it was for something so little to get under his skin.

He wasn’t proud of being a virgin, but he wasn’t ashamed either.

Not until they reminded him.

He let out a tired sigh, forcing his eyes away from them. If only they knew the truth—that just a few minutes ago, he’d come harder than he ever had in his life. Not to a porn clip or a magazine, but to you. A stranger whose voice can turn his entire world upside down.

And as pathetic as it may sound—part of him didn’t want anyone else to touch him now.

“I don’t even have a costume.” Bucky protested weakly, grasping for anything that might buy him a chance for a way out.

Sam rolled his eyes and hooked an arm through Bucky’s. “Oh, please. You’ve got a handsome face, head full of hair, and broad shoulders. Congratulations, you’re already a chick magnet. Nobody’s gonna care about a costume.”

Steve approached, grabbing his other arm and ignoring Bucky’s half-hearted struggle. “He’s right. Party’s already packed, so no one will care. You’ll be fine, just show up,” he yanked at his arm, “come on, punk.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky dug his heels into the carpet, though it was no use against both of them hauling him towards the door. “I’m not—guys, I don’t wanna go!”

Sam just smirked, tightening his grip. “Yeah, yeah. You can thank us later when you finally stop jerking off alone in the dark and actually get some.”

Bucky’s face flamed so hot, he thought his ears might catch on fire.

And the next thing he knew, his dorm door was swinging shut behind him, and he was being marched down the hall, out the building, and to the chaotic noise of the Halloween party.

The frat house was already alive when they shoved him through the door.

The bass was thumping so hard, it nearly rattled his damn ribs. Obnoxious strobe lights flashed over a sea of costumes and sweaty bodies were pressed too close together. The smell of beer, cheap perfume, and fake fog hit him all at once, and it took everything in Bucky to resist the urge to turn right back around.

Steve gave him a gentle clap on the back, steering him deeper into the crowd. “Buck, just relax. Have a drink, talk to people. It’s Halloween—nobody’s judging.”

Sam walked next to him, scanning the room like a hawk. His grin widened when he spotted a girl in the corner dressed up as a sad excuse of a mouse. All she had on was a short skirt that barely covered her ass and a pair of mouse ears.

How was that a costume, exactly?

Bucky couldn’t understand it.

Sam nodded towards the girl. “There. Exactly your type.”

“My type?” Bucky scoffed. “You don’t even know what my type is.”

“She’s a real, breathing human woman who’s not hiding behind a phone to help boys jerk off,” Sam teased, tilting his head toward him tauntingly.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could even hear Steve trying to smother a laugh behind him. His face started to feel warm with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. And at this point, it was mostly irritation. He was tired of being the punchline.

With a sharp exhale, he stepped away from them, yanking a beer out of the ice-filled tin and popping it open. If they wanted to treat him like some awkward virgin who’d never make a move—fine.

He’d prove them both wrong.

Bucky tipped the beer back, downed a long swallow, and let out a sigh. Tonight, he was finally getting laid. And Steve and Sam were going to shut the fuck up with their relentless teasing and nagging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the cool burn of the beer settling in his chest as he turned back to his friends.

“Stop worrying about me,” he said, his voice rough with a forced confidence. “I’m getting laid tonight. You’ll see.”

They both stared at him blankly—as if they hadn’t heard him right.

Then Sam threw his head back once the words registered, letting out a loud laugh. “Oh, this I gotta see.”

Steve, on the other hand, just blinked. He raised a warning hand to Bucky. “Okay, hold on. You can’t just have sex with the first person you see.”

“I know,” Bucky waved him off, taking another swig of beer. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

As Bucky started walking away, eyes narrowed and trying to find his prey, Sam couldn’t help but let out an even louder laugh at how ridiculous he looked. Sam nudged Steve in the shoulder. “Bold of you to assume that the first person he sees will even want to have sex with him.”

And unfortunately for Bucky—Sam was right.

The entire time, he tried to spark up conversations with girls. And by trying, he mostly just stood next to them and asked about their costumes. It was a great icebreaker, he thought—that is, until he went up to one girl with messy, teased hair and a green and white dress with olive hair-clips and asked her, “What are you supposed to be?”

The girl then replied with an enthusiastic smile, “I’m a dirty martini!”

Bucky just eyed her up and down and said, “You just look dirty.”

He had meant for that to be a flirtatious comment—but based on the girl’s scrunched-up face and the way she turned on her heel, it clearly didn’t land. Every girl he talked to after that seemed to trail away from him the minute he opened his mouth. Bucky knew he wasn’t unattractive, but after tonight, he was also realizing that he wasn’t a great talker either.

After several minutes of walking around like a lost puppy, he tried to reconvene with Sam and Steve. Apparently—as told to him by other partygoers—they were somewhere in the corner of the house with a girl on each hip. Getting some.

Getting something that Bucky definitely wasn’t.

He was just about ready to head out on his own, but he needed one more beer for the walk back to his dorm. As he approached the kitchen, muttering a couple of quiet “excuse me’s” and “can I get past you?”, he finally made it to the cooler. There was a couple making out right next to him, and he felt pathetic kneeling down, trying to ignore them as he fetched a bottle of beer.

Tonight was miserable.

Tonight was a humiliation ritual set up by his very own best friends.

If only he had the night to himself—uninterrupted, left completely alone in the comfort of his dark dorm room. Left in the comfort of your sweet, sultry voice. His bed, your voice, a wild imagination, and his hand.

That was all he needed for a perfect night.

He twisted the cap off the beer, the sound barely audible over the thumping bass echoing through the house. He lifted it halfway to his lips—then froze.

A voice floated from somewhere down the hall to his left. It was quiet and soft, but then came a laugh. That raspy, sultry voice that could make his dick hard in a matter of seconds. That laugh that could make his ears perk up and catch, even amidst the loud house music.

Bucky felt his chest tighten. It couldn’t be.

There was no way.

Was the alcohol already getting to him? Was he so down bad that he was starting to imagine your voice? But even muffled under the music and chatter, he’d know that voice anywhere. The same smooth tone that had whispered filth into his ear just an hour ago. The same one that made him come undone in his dark dorm room.

His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, heartbeat spiking, though he tried his best to keep his cool. He scanned the area, waiting until you spoke again.

“No way—” that delicious voice rang through his ears, “did he really do that?”

He turned slowly toward the sound, and there you were. Leaning against the wall, laughing with what seemed to be a friend, wearing a little black dress and devil horns. Your voice, his late-night addiction, was coming from the flesh-and-blood woman standing right there.

He didn’t know what came over him—but his feet started moving before he could stop himself. His heart was beating so loud in his chest, it was like the music and all other conversations were completely drowned out by his heartbeat alone. The only thing his ears could focus on was your voice. The more you talked with your friend, the more you laughed—it was like a siren calling for him.

He didn’t even realize he was standing in front of you until you stopped talking, staring blankly at him like he was a lost puppy.

You gave your friend a side-eye, a silent look that clearly asked, “do you know this guy?” to which your friend simply glanced briefly at Bucky—then shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” you chuckled awkwardly. “Can I… help you with something?”

Bucky cleared his throat, wiping his free, clammy hand on his jeans. “I…” he hesitated, swallowing hard. “I… think I know you.”

The strained, politely forced smile slowly faded once the familiar baritone of his voice rang in your ears. Your grip tightened on your solo cup instinctively, almost like a defensive reaction, as you stared at the mysterious man in front of you.

You recognized his voice. Your loyal customer. Sergeant.

But you were in denial. Seriously—what were the odds of being at the same party as one of your callers? And Sergeant, no less?

So, you cleared your throat and shook your head, forcing out an awkward laugh. “No, I don’t think so,” you lifted the cup and mumbled behind the rim, “Must be mistaking me for someone else—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice suddenly more determined. “I know you.”

Your friend cleared her throat, awkwardly interrupting the already tense conversation. She grabbed your arm gently, pulling you closer. “I think we should go.”

Any other normal person would probably agree. Any other normal person would feel uncomfortable when an unknown man approaches you at a party, claiming he knew you. But as you glanced back at him, he looked completely harmless.

The way he stood there, shoulders slumped and awkwardly holding a beer bottle. The way his brows were furrowed, eyes glued to yours, and his jaw was set in a way that made it seem like he was determined not to let you go even if you walked away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to move. You felt drawn to him.

“Uh—actually, you go on ahead,” you said to your friend, who only gave you a skeptical look in return. “I’ll meet you outside.”

She raised a brow, giving one last side glance to him before pulling you closer and whispering in your ear so he couldn’t hear, “Be careful. Make sure you use protection.” With that, she walked away—leaving you alone with the man standing awkwardly in front of you.

Bucky cleared his throat, watching her go as he swayed stiffly on the soles of his shoes. “So, I—”

“You said you know me?” you crossed your arms, leaning against the wall as you eyed him carefully.

If your hunch was right, if this was really the person you had been phoning with, then a part of you couldn’t help but want to see him stumble and falter underneath your gaze. This was you testing him—because the real Sergeant would be—should be—a babbling mess before you.

And you were right.

“I—um,” he stammered. “I do know you, I think. Well… actually—I’m pretty sure I do know you—”

“Know me from where?” you tilted your head, playing dumb.

He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from yours as he looked down at a random spot on the floor. “I…”

“Don’t look away,” you said, your voice soft and sweet as you took a step closer, invading his personal space. You were close enough to hear the breath get stolen from his lungs. “I want to see your face. I want to see if I recognize you from somewhere,” you added with a coy smile.

Bucky looked back up hesitantly, his teeth timidly strumming against his bottom lip. He was clearly nervous, and he couldn’t find the words. He half expected you to be weirded out by him, run off with your friend, and for him to never see you again. But he couldn’t let this chance go. He knew you were his girl.

He just needed to gather the courage to blurt it out.

“You probably haven’t seen my face before—”

“So, then how do you recognize me?” you leaned closer, batting your lashes at him.

You knew the answer, of course. You just wanted to hear it come out of his mouth.

“Is it my voice that you recognize, Sergeant?”

He didn’t need to say anything for you to confirm it. The way his shoulders stiffened after the word ‘Sergeant’, his eyes slightly widened, and the flush creeping up his face told you everything you needed to know. Standing in front of you was him, the man who paid to call you nearly every night, the man who got off on the way your tongue rolled every time you called him a good boy.

If it were any of your other callers, you would have turned on your heel and been long gone. But the man in front of you was the same man who made you cum on the phone for the first time just an hour ago.

So, how could you leave?

And it was clear he didn’t want you to leave either.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, shifting in his stance as he already felt the beginning of an erection creeping on him from just your voice alone. “It is you…”

“Would you look at that,” you said with a breathless laugh. “Who would have thought that my good boy would be here—at the same party?”

His tongue swiped at his bottom lip, eyes flickering all over your face—like he was trying to trace every curve and pattern of you. His reaction was so unbearably cute, you couldn’t help but grin as you pressed a finger against his chest, slowly trailing it up and down teasingly. “You hung up on me earlier, you know.”

He shuddered underneath your touch. The beer bottle damn near slipping in his hands. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

You hummed, tilting your head. “I asked you for your name before you left me hanging.”

“B-bucky…” he mumbled quietly—so quiet you couldn’t hear him over the music.

You laid your hand flat against his surprisingly solid chest, leaning closer to hear him better. “Bugy?” you asked with a frown.

“No,” he shouted a bit louder over the music. “Bucky.”

You met his eyes and flashed him a smile. “Oh, that’s a cute name!”

“Thanks,” he grinned, looking boyish—and the sight made your heart feel warm. You watched as his eyes deliberately took you in, traveling up and down and pausing at the curve of your hip and breasts. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, and he didn’t seem ashamed in the least.

“I… I like your costume.”

The hallway was starting to get packed—bodies pressed everywhere, music blaring, and people shouting over one another. You had to lean closer again just to hear him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I like your costume!” he repeated even louder, his grin widening when you laughed again.

“Oh, thanks.”

The sound made him relax a little… that is, until someone bumped into his back, nearly spilling his drink all over you. You caught his arm on instinct and shouted, “Careful!” to steady him.

His cheek immediately flushed. It was the first time all night that a girl had touched him—much less the literal girl of his dreams. That touch alone was enough to send a jolt of desire straight to his cock, which twitched helplessly against his jeans. He glanced around the room, cheeks still flushing.

“Kind of loud in here, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, eyes flicking down the rest of the hallway.

The coat closet door was cracked open, a quiet, shadowy corner compared to the chaos that filled the halls. You were also pretty certain a couple had just left that closet.

“We could—uh,” you shouted over the loud music, “talk somewhere else. If you want.”

Bucky’s eyes followed yours, trailing to the same closet you were just looking at. He let out a shaky breath, a bashful finger pointing in that direction. “Over there? In the closet?”

You shrugged, smiling. “Why not?”

Before he could reply, he got bumped into again—hard. He nearly crashed into you, but he held his arm up and planted it firm against the wall, steadying himself before he collided right into you.

“Shit,” he mumbled, flustered over the close proximity. “It’s… it’s so crowded here—”

You chuckled, grabbing his wrist and prying it away from the wall, already leading him toward the closet. “I know, so let’s get out of here before you spill beer all over my dress.”

As you led him, Bucky couldn’t help but stare at the way your dress clung tight to your curves—barely covering your ass. He had made fun of a girl dressed like that just mere minutes ago, but seeing you, dressed like this—like a filthy slut—was the most beautiful and refreshing thing he’d seen all night.

You pushed him in, following soon after and shutting the door—leaving the two of you confined in this tight, dark space. You giggled softly—the kind of giggle that never failed to get Bucky riled up.

“Now you’re trapped with me.”

Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. “Ha…” he chuckled as he stood awkwardly—good thing you couldn’t see him. “Isn’t that unfortunate?”

You assumed that was him trying to crack a joke. You didn’t laugh because you thought it was funny, but because he sounded so adorable and helpless. You grabbed the bottle out of his hands, setting both your drinks somewhere on the floor and out of the way. You took a step closer to him, closer and closer until he stumbled back against the wall, letting out a startled gasp as his hands found your waist, steadying himself.

“Shit…” he muttered. “You’re so close.”

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol making you bold, or the atmosphere of a party where everyone around you was making out, or if it was simply the boy in front of you making you feel worked-up.

But the heat pooling in your lower belly was undeniable. What you needed was to get fucked—and with your good boy standing in front of you, knowing how much he’d dreamed of this moment, now was the perfect time.

“Oh, Bucky,” you sighed, your hands coming up to caress his large arms. “You’ve been dreaming of this moment, haven’t you? You told me that all the time over the phone…” You grazed your hands down his forearms, feeling his goosebumps. “All the things you wanted to do to me in person… is that still true?”

If Bucky wasn’t hard before, he was straining so hard it might as well be painful. His cock was throbbing—likely already leaking—in his denim. He wanted more of you, but a shameful part of him prayed that you wouldn’t get closer to feel how embarrassingly hard he got just from your voice, just from being so close to you.

But it was too late. You pressed against him until there was no space between you two, and you let out a soft, surprised gasp at the feel of his straining, clothed cock pressed up against your thigh.

You couldn’t help your hand trailing down to his bulge, palming him through his jeans. “Jesus, Sarge. You’re so hard.”

His cock pulsed against your hand. “Fuck, baby…” he groaned. “I—I’ve been dreaming of this… for so long. You have no idea—fuck—wait, what are you d-doing… oh!”

Bucky’s words died in his throat as you swiftly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and freed his cock from his clothes. Your hand wrapped around his achingly erect shaft, giving it a light squeeze as you began to move your hand up and down.

“Oh my god,” his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the wall as you started pumping him slowly. “Fuck—that feels so good.”

It felt so good he didn’t know if he could last long. Your touch, your soft giggles, the smell of you—it was enough to make him explode all over your fingers right now.

“That’s a good boy,” you cooed, knowing how much he loved the nickname.

“Shit,” he grunted, his legs going stiff as he snapped his eyes open. “Shit, shit, shit…” he repeated, his hands coming up to wrap tightly around your wrist—tight enough to make you gasp. “H-hold on, fuck.” He pried your hands away, catching his breath.

You furrowed your brows. “Did I…? Did I hurt you—”

“No,” he shook his head rapidly. “T-that… that was close. Fuck. Too close.”

Your eyes widened once the realization hit you. It could only mean one thing when a man comes undone in less than five minutes by a girl’s hand.

It meant that Bucky was a virgin.

“Oh, shit,” you gasped, taking a step back. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were a virgin.” The sudden guilt of potentially taking his virginity—something that should be sacred and only shared with a special person—came crashing over you hard. Your face flushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I’ll—uh, I’ll go—”

As your hand reached for the closet knob, you felt Bucky’s presence behind you—suddenly large and looming. His breathing was hard and heavy, giving you the kind of presence where you didn’t know if you wanted to turn around or not.

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice suddenly deeper and hungrier. His hand circled behind you, finding your wrist and pulling it away from the knob. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “Don’t go, please. I need you so fucking bad—you have no idea.”

He slowly, and timidly, rocked his hips from behind, your dress hiking slightly up from the movement. “Please. Don’t leave me here like this. Fuck, baby. I’m so hard… it fucking hurts.”

You shuddered, the feeling of his bare cock poking against you from behind making you clench. You let out a soft gasp that only spurred him on. He rocked his hips again, breathing heavy as his hands started to roam your body—your waist, your thighs, your stomach, to your chest—groping you through your dress and wrinkling it.

“It’s okay if I touch you, right? You’ll let your good boy touch you?”

You let out a shaky breath, legs tightening together just to ease that building ache between your legs. You started moving your hips back, meeting his thrusts with yours. “Fuck, you’re such a dirty boy, huh?” You rocked your hips back again, looking over your shoulder.

Through the light cracked from the closet door, his eyes were already hazy with lust. “Losing your virginity to someone like me—in a filthy closet,” you rocked your hips back again. “You’re just so desperate, aren’t you?”

He whimpered, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

“N-no, I’m not desperate… I’m—fuck,” he grunted, panting near your ear as his nose stayed nestled against your shoulder. “I’m not desperate, baby. I’m a good boy—I just… I want to give you everything.”

“Yeah?” you purred, your hand coming up to tug on his hair as you rocked your ass against his throbbing cock. “Then what are you waiting for, baby?”

“D-do you…” he stiffened slightly, swallowing hard. “Do you want me to take your…” he gulped again, as if the next word was dirtier than what you two were doing, “panties… off?”

You couldn’t help but smile at the innocence in his voice. You turned around slowly. He groaned in frustration at the sudden loss of the curve of your ass that his cock had nestled against. You slowly lifted the hem of your dress up, revealing your lacy underwear to him.

Bucky felt like the wind got knocked out of his throat at the sight of your bare thighs—your sweet pussy barely hidden by the lace.

As if you cast a spell on him, he wrapped one hand around his shaft, giving himself a few pumps as he slowly dropped to his knees. He brought up one shaky hand, his fingertips gentle against your calf and up your leg, as if he were scared to touch you.

“My god,” he rasped, looking up at you lovingly from his knees as he jerked himself and trailed his fingers up to the waistband of your panties. “You look so fucking beautiful. I can’t believe you’re actually real…”

You smiled softly as he stared up at you lovingly—like you were the only thing important in his life, like he needed you to breathe. He swallowed hard, both his hands hooking onto the waistband of your underwear. He looked up at you, puppy-eyed and breathing heavy.

“Can I…?”

“Beg for it, Bucky.”

“Fuck, please let me take them off, baby. I’ll do anything… anything you want—” Before you even gave your approval, he started to tug them down, exposing your mound to him, the slit peeking just slightly.

“No,” you grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Slow down.”

He let out an agitated groan, but he nodded eagerly. “I will—I’ll slow down, I promise!”

Hesitantly, he started to tug your panties down slower. Not being able to control himself anymore, he began to slowly grind his bare cock against your soft leg, pulling your panties down excruciatingly slow—torturing himself at your command. He dragged them all the way down until they pooled at your ankles. Once you stepped out of them, he couldn’t help but admire you while he was on his knees.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Can I have a taste, please?”

You lifted a leg up, wrapping it around his shoulder and nudging him closer. He nearly stumbled, landing on his hands as his face nuzzled against your wet slit.

“Oh my god,” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut at your scent. His tongue dragged along your dripping cunt, letting out a groan that rumbled from his chest and vibrated against you.

Your hands flew down to tug at his hair, pulling him closer. “Fuck, yes, Bucky. Just like that—fuck, you’re such a good boy.”

Spurred on by your praise, one hand slid up your thigh and behind you, giving your ass a firm squeeze as he ate you out. His tongue and mouth started to move sloppily—messy, and desperate to please you. His other hand wrapped around his cock again, pumping himself as he fucked you with his tongue.

“Oh, yes, baby… keep going—” you gasped, legs trembling over his shoulder.

The tip of his tongue flicked up against your clit, and he pulled your ass firmly, holding you close so that you were forced to take his brutal tongue. You threw your head back, moaning through the music as your pussy clenched around nothing—craving to be filled with more than just his tongue.

Bucky pulled away slightly to catch his breath, giving you a boyish grin and puppy eyes, his lips and chin sheen with your arousal and his saliva. “You taste so good, baby. Did you like that?”

“That was good, baby boy,” you let out a shaky breath, dropping your leg from his shoulder. “But I need you inside, baby. I need you to fuck me deep and hard—will you be good and do that for me?”

His eyes lit up and he rose to his feet, nearly stumbling over himself. “Yes, God—I would love to. Fuck, this has been my dream.”

He was on you before you could say anything else, closing the space between you as his hands found your waist, gripping it tightly and spinning you so that your back was facing him. You let out a startled gasp as your cheeks pressed against the door. He bent you over slightly, exposing your bare ass to him.

“Christ, look at you…” every sound or word that left his mouth was whiny and breathy, yet his hands moved eagerly and with a strength that was enough to position you for his pleasure and hold you in place at the same time.

Bucky stepped up behind you, rubbing the tip of his head against your entrance as he tilted his head down, inhaling the scent of your hair again as he probed against you. “Please…” he rasped like a man starved, “can I put it in? I’ve never done this before, but I swear, I’ll be a good boy for you. I’ll fuck you so good—you’ll only want me from now on. So, can I? Please, baby? Will you let me?”

You felt him shudder against you as his tip continued to probe against your entrance, groaning as the slick of your arousal coated his head. You were so unbelievably wet, it would be so easy for him to slip it in—but you could tell it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“You think you—a virgin—can fuck me good?”

He moaned, your taunt only urging him to push his tip past your entry. His grip on your hip tightened, almost painfully, as he slowly sunk into you, rocking his hips slightly so you took more than just his tip. He was big—unbelievably so. You knew he was when you felt him in your hands, but now that he was pushing inside you inch by inch, the delicious stretch was burning you.

“Fuck!” you moaned, pressing your hands against the door to steady yourself. “I didn’t even give you permission to—”

“I know, baby…” he grunted, pushing in even deeper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Not when you’re finally here in front of me, looking so pretty—fuck, I knew you were a pretty girl from just your voice alone.”

A small whimper escaped your lips as he filled you, half of his length inside you. He paused his hips, his hands coming up to caress your chest through your dress, giving them a firm and hungry squeeze. “I’m sorry, baby. A-am I hurting you?”

“No,” you let out a shaky breath. “You’re just… big.”

Another moan left his lips, followed by a disbelieving chuckle. “You think so? You think I’m big? Fuck—” He grabbed your hips, holding you still as he completely sheathed his cock inside you. Your tight warmth enveloped him, and he tossed his head back, moaning helplessly behind you as he began rocking his hips. “That makes me so happy.”

Determined to please you, he held your hips tight against him as he started rutting into you. The feel of his cock throbbing inside you as he fucked you hard, the whiny babblings of “thank you,” and “you feel so fucking good,” leaving his lips in a litany was enough to make your head spin with desire.

You guided one of his hands down in front of you, pressing his fingers against your clit and rubbing it in small circles. “Here,” you gasped, hips jerking into his touch. “Rub here—that’s it… just like that. Fuck, you’re doing so good for me, baby boy.”

“Oh my god!” he choked, his cock pulsing at your praise. “It feels so good—being inside you like this. My god, I don’t ever want to fucking stop… shit.”

He continued fucking into you, his hips slapping against yours as you bounced back and forth from his thrusts. Each delicious moan and whimper that left your lips was like music to his ears, only making him rock his hips harder and his fingers rub against your clit faster.

The closet door rattling from his thrusts, the sound of his heavy breathing and moans, the way his fingers moved fiercely against your clit—determined to please you—it was all overwhelming your senses.

Bucky claimed he was a virgin, yet his cock was hitting all the right spots, and his fingers played with your clit like he owned it. You were dripping all over him, feeling yourself getting close. His thrusts started to lose their rhythm—getting sloppy as he felt you clench and flutter around his shaft.

“A-are you getting close, baby?” he moaned into your hair. “Fuck… I’m getting close too—shit, I’ve been n-needing to cum since we started,” he admitted pathetically. “But I’ve been holding out for you… I want to cum together—like we did on the phone. Oh fuck, baby. Please tell me you’re going to cum soon?”

You clenched hard around him, his grumbling and whimpers not helping you in this situation. “I’m gonna cum, Bucky—”

“God, yes,” he whined. “Please, please cum. Fuck—let me fill you up, baby. Don’t you want that? Your good boy’s cum inside you? Stuffing you deep and full?”

You tossed your head back, a loud cry escaping your lips as his relentless fingers, his cock inside you, and his filthy words sent you over the edge. Your warm, velvety walls clamped around him and you were so unbelievably tight—it made Bucky’s hip jerk one last time before he hilted completely inside you, his cock pulsing as he fucked you full of his hot cum.

“Yesss,” he hissed through his teeth, his grip on your waist tight, causing you to wince. He rolled his hips lazily, letting his release seep deep inside you as his grip on you forced you to take it all. “Yes, baby! God, thank you so much—thank you…” he panted, his legs trembling.

His body tired out, slumping behind you as his cock pulsed and began to soften inside you.

Both of you were breathing hard, catching your breath. You and Bucky slid down, tangled together on the floor, breathless and flushed. For a long moment, neither of you spoke—his head resting against your chest as you sat against the door.

Then, you let out a soft laugh, brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “Guess that was not how you expected the night to go, huh, Sergeant?”

Bucky looked up at you, dazed, still trying to catch his breath. “I can’t believe you’re actually real—and I can’t believe you’re here, in front of me.”

You smiled, your heart swelling in your chest at his innocence. You tangled your fingers in his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your touch. Before either of you could say another word, the doorknob rattled.

“Buck? You in there?” Steve’s voice came muffled through the door and the music.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no—”

“Don’t tell me you’re jerking off in the closet of a party, Buck. Jesus—”

“Who the hell is that?” you hissed at Bucky.

“Just ignore them,” he groaned. “I do—”

But before he could finish his sentence, the door swung open. You let out a startled gasp as you stumbled backward, Bucky tumbling down on top of you. From the floor, you looked up to see a tall man filling the doorway, with another standing just behind him.

Sam’s grin froze halfway when he saw the two of you. “Holy—”

“Uh,” Steve cleared his throat awkwardly, hand still gripping the doorknob. “We thought you were… uh—”

Bucky shot them both a look, his face flushed a deep, embarrassing red. He scrambled to his feet, hands slipping around your waist to help you sit up. “Shut the fucking door, Steve!”

“Right—okay—yeah, I’ll do that,” Steve stammered, quickly slamming the door shut before glancing over at Sam.

On the other side of the door, Steve and Sam both stared at each other for a moment, dumbfounded in silence.

Then, slowly, matching grins spread across their faces.

“Damn,” Steve muttered.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Our boy actually got laid.”

guys im so sorry. this fic is not my proudest work (or nut) but of course, i had to lock in for bwa-nation. if you actually stuck through this slop, thank you. and thank you for reading 🥀

After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.

But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.

When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.

“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.

“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”

Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.

She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.

You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.

“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.

But she didn’t.

Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.

“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.

And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.

“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.

They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.

You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.

You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.

Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.

“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”

“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”

“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”

Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”

You felt your body go rigid.

“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.

“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.

“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”

You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.

They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.

But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.

“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.

Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.

“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.

“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”

“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”

“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”

Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.

“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”

They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.

You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.

To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.

Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”

You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.

From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.

He had called you his girl.

He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.

But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.

“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.

“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”

Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.

You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.

His girl.

And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.

You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.

Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.

In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.

Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.

How dare you leave him?

He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.

He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.

Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.

A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.

Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.

“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”

“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”

Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.

Jamie.

His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.

“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.

“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”

The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.

He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.

But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.

He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.

“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.

“You called for me?”

Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.

Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.

Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.

“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”

Jamie stayed quiet.

Bucky took a step closer.

“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”

Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.

“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.

“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.

A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.

“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”

“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”

Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.

“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.

“Son—”

“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.

His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”

Princess Barnes?

Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.

No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.

Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.

“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”

It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.

He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.

“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.

“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”

“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.

Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.

“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.

But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.

“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”

And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.

Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.

“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”

Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.

“Son. Enough—”

“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”

Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.

“Jamie. Stop it—”

“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”

Propose?

Give you the world?

He wanted to give you the world?

Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.

Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.

The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.

His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.

Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.

“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”

“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.

“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.

“Jamie, that isn’t—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”

Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.

He had hit his own son.

In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”

“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.

His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.

“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”

“Son, I—”

Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.

“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.

He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.

You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.

Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.

At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.

They weren’t just watching; they were searching.

You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.

They were looking for someone with very specific features.

They were looking for you.

You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.

You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.

A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.

“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”

The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.

“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”

“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”

The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”

The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.

“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”

The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.

“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”

The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.

“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”

Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.

He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.

“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.

He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”

The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.

“Thank you, miss—” he began.

As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.

The Barnes eyes.

Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.

The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.

It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.

If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.

You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.

To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.

Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”

He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”

“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”

Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.

“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.

You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.

If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.

“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.

You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.

Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.

You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.

You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.

Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.

You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.

“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.

He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.

He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.

“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”

Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.

“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.

A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.

“Hush now,” you murmured.

Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.

Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.

You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.

“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.

You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.

Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.

“Here,” you whispered.

You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.

Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”

There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.

Safe simply because of your presence.

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.

He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”

You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.

“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”

You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.

With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.

It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.

“Your Highness—”

“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”

Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.

“What happened, Jamie?”

Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.

“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”

You held your breath, not daring to speak.

“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”

“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.

“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”

Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.

“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”

He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'

“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”

He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”

“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”

Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.

“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”

You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”

“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”

You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.

To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.

With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.

“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”

You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.

“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.

But Jamie didn’t budge.

“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”

For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.

“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.

“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”

You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”

“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.

“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”

“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”

Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.

“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”

“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.

He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.

“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”

You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, but I am.”

You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.

You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.

If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.

You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.

“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”

Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.

Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.

“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”

Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.

As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.

“Is that Prince Jamie?”

“Look at the bruises on his face!”

“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”

“Is that why there are so many guards?”

One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.

“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”

Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”

The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”

Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”

But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.

You were nowhere to be seen.

You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.

“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.

“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.

It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.

With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.

Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.

He was looking for his son.

Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.

It was selfish.

It was sad.

It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.

As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”

You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?

As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.

Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.

The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.

Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.

It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.

Your glove.

“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.

You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.

You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?

He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”

As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.

“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.

At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.

“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.

“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”

Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”

“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.

They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.

Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.

“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”

Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.

She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”

Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.

His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.

“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”

Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”

Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.

“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”

As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.

“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.

Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.

In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.

Please, don’t be mad at me.

She’s going to kill me.

Save me, Bucky.

His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.

Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”

But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”

You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.

“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.

“I…”

“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”

Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”

But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.

Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.

You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.

In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.

“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.

His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.

It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.

“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.

You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.

Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.

He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.

“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”

As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.

You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.

Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.

He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.

“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”

Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.

To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.

She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.

“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”

“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”

He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.

“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.

“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”

Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”

“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”

He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”

All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.

Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.

Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.

“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”

You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.

Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.

“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”

Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.

“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”

Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.

“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”

The room suddenly went very quiet.

You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.

Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”

As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.

Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.

Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.

Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”

“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.

“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.

“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”

“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”

“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”

“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”

“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.

After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.

“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.

With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.

As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.

Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.

You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.

“Your Majesty—”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”

He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.

“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.

He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.

“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.

“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”

Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”

You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”

Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.

“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”

Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.

“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”

While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.

“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”

His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.

“I finally get to have you.”

Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.

He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.

A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.

“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.

“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”

“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.

With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.

Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.

It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.

“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”

He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.

“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”

Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.

“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”

He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.

“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”

A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.

“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”

Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.

“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”

You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.

Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.

A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.

“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.

Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.

His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.

He wanted everything.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.

Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.

“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”

He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.

He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”

“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”

Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.

The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.

“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”

He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”

Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.

“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”

But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.

Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.

“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”

He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”

His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.

“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”

Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.

You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.

“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”

You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.

“Good.”

He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.

You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.

He wanted to savor all of this.

He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.

But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.

As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.

“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”

You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”

“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.

He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.

His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.

“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.

“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.

The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

He needed more.

“Bucky! Ah—!”

The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.

“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”

He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.

“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”

Wife.

You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.

The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.

Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”

He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.

“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.

“M’gonna—mph—cum…”

Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.

He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.

“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.

“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”

Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.

He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.

“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”

He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.

“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”

The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.

You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.

“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”

Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.

“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.

“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”

He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.

For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.

Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”

When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.

Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.

“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.

Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.

“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.

“You guys look rough.”

thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!

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After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.

But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.

When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.

“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.

“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”

Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.

She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.

You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.

“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.

But she didn’t.

Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.

“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.

And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.

“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.

They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.

You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.

You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.

Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.

“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”

“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”

“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”

Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”

You felt your body go rigid.

“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.

“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.

“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”

You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.

They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.

But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.

“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.

Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.

“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.

“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”

“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”

“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”

Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.

“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”

They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.

You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.

To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.

Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”

You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.

From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.

He had called you his girl.

He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.

But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.

“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.

“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”

Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.

You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.

His girl.

And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.

You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.

Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.

In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.

Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.

How dare you leave him?

He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.

He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.

Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.

A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.

Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.

“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”

“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”

Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.

Jamie.

His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.

“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.

“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”

The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.

He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.

But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.

He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.

“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.

“You called for me?”

Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.

Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.

Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.

“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”

Jamie stayed quiet.

Bucky took a step closer.

“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”

Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.

“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.

“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.

A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.

“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”

“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”

Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.

“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.

“Son—”

“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.

His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”

Princess Barnes?

Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.

No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.

Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.

“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”

It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.

He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.

“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.

“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”

“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.

Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.

“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.

But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.

“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”

And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.

Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.

“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”

Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.

“Son. Enough—”

“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”

Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.

“Jamie. Stop it—”

“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”

Propose?

Give you the world?

He wanted to give you the world?

Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.

Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.

The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.

His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.

Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.

“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”

“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.

“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.

“Jamie, that isn’t—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”

Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.

He had hit his own son.

In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”

“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.

His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.

“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”

“Son, I—”

Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.

“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.

He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.

You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.

Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.

At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.

They weren’t just watching; they were searching.

You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.

They were looking for someone with very specific features.

They were looking for you.

You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.

You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.

A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.

“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”

The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.

“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”

“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”

The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”

The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.

“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”

The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.

“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”

The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.

“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”

Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.

He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.

“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.

He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”

The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.

“Thank you, miss—” he began.

As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.

The Barnes eyes.

Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.

The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.

It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.

If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.

You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.

To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.

Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”

He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”

“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”

Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.

“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.

You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.

If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.

“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.

You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.

Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.

You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.

You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.

Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.

You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.

“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.

He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.

He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.

“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”

Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.

“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.

A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.

“Hush now,” you murmured.

Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.

Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.

You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.

“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.

You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.

Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.

“Here,” you whispered.

You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.

Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”

There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.

Safe simply because of your presence.

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.

He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”

You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.

“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”

You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.

With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.

It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.

“Your Highness—”

“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”

Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.

“What happened, Jamie?”

Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.

“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”

You held your breath, not daring to speak.

“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”

“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.

“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”

Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.

“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”

He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'

“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”

He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”

“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”

Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.

“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”

You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”

“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”

You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.

To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.

With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.

“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”

You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.

“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.

But Jamie didn’t budge.

“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”

For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.

“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.

“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”

You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”

“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.

“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”

“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”

Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.

“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”

“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.

He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.

“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”

You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, but I am.”

You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.

You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.

If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.

You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.

“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”

Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.

Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.

“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”

Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.

As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.

“Is that Prince Jamie?”

“Look at the bruises on his face!”

“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”

“Is that why there are so many guards?”

One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.

“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”

Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”

The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”

Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”

But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.

You were nowhere to be seen.