jaderabbitt

[jaderabbitt]

blood ledger (three) | b.b.

✮ series summary: 1940s Brooklyn. You owe the Barnes crime family money you don’t have. When their enforcer comes to collect, he offers an alternative form of payment that has nothing to do with cash.

✮ pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader

✮ word count: 10.9k ✮ warnings: 18+, mob/mafia AU, 1940s setting, power imbalance, coercion, isolation, grief/depression, period-typical misogyny, sexual tension, possessive behavior, public humiliation, graphic descriptions of violence (gunshots, stabbing, blood, oh my!), gross men being gross (not bucky), dead bodies, inappropriately timed praise kink, once again everyone needs therapy but they're getting bourbon (let me know if I missed any major triggers pls and ty <3)

✮ a/n: gif idea credit to the wonderful 23727sierravista who sent me this and told me it reminded them of blood ledger bucky (i mean DUH)

and as always, a gentle and loving reminder to take a deep breath and leave your feminism at the door because this is all for FUN !!!!! 1940s mob bucky is not real and cannot hurt you (unfortunate for some i.e. me)

series masterlist // previous chapter

The cardboard box nearly sent you sprawling.

Your shin caught its edge as you stumbled from your room, sleep-drunk and disoriented in the pale morning light. The impact jolted you fully awake: a sharp bark of pain that had you hopping on one foot, cursing under your breath. The box sat there, innocuous as a landmine, no note or explanation. Just brown cardboard against dark wood flooring, waiting.

You dragged it into your room, muscles protesting the weight. Your hands trembled slightly as you knelt beside it, recognizing the faded Campbell's Soup logo on the side. The same box that had held canned goods in your father's pantry. The familiarity of it made your chest constrict.

Inside: your life reduced to essentials.

Three housedresses, folded with military precision. Your mother's hairbrush, silver backing tarnished but bristles still good. Undergarments that made heat crawl up your neck at the thought of Bucky Barnes handling your worn cotton slips and mended stockings. Your good shoes, the ones you'd saved six months to buy, wrapped carefully in yesterday's newspaper. A bar of Ivory soap. Your father's shaving kit, though why he'd grabbed that, you couldn't fathom.

Each item pulled from the box felt like archaeology. Excavating the remains of a life that already felt ancient. A little over two weeks since your father's death. It might as well have been two years.

At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a winter slip, your fingers found worn leather.

The prayer book was small enough to fit in a coat pocket, edges soft from years of handling. The binding had started to separate from the spine, held together now by habit more than glue. Your father's prayer book, though calling it that felt like a lie. He'd attended church exactly twice a year: Easter and Christmas, and only then because your mother had insisted while she was alive.

But he'd written in this book nearly every day.

You opened it with careful fingers, throat already tight. His handwriting sprawled across the margins. Cramped, slanted, sometimes in pencil when ink ran out. Not prayers but observations. Thoughts. Sometimes just lists: Eggs, milk, thread for her coat. Other times, fragments of memory, small pieces of your mother: She wore yellow on our wedding day. Not white. Said white was for rich girls with nothing to hide.

Halfway through, the entries shifted. Became letters addressed to you, though he'd never mentioned them while alive.

My girl—Watched you at the factory gates today. Proud of you. Scared for you too. This world eats soft things.

You look like her when you sleep. Same way of curling up, like you're protecting something precious in your chest.

I'm sorry for the debt. Sorry for the mess. Sorry I couldn't be the father you deserved.

The last entry was dated three days before he died:

If you're reading this, I'm gone. The men I owe won't forget. But you're stronger than you know. Your mother always said you had steel in your spine. Don't let them break it.

"Planning to pray for your soul?"

Your head snapped up. Bucky leaned in the doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame, watching you with an expression smooth as still water. He'd appeared silently, a skill that made your skin crawl. He was already dressed for the day: charcoal trousers, white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his hips. His hair was damp from a bath, slicked back but not yet locked into place with pomade.

You tucked the prayer book behind you, pointless though it was. You swallowed thickly. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He pushed off from the doorframe, movements liquid. Everything about him was like that: controlled, economical. Even his violence had precision to it. "I'm heading out. Business."

"What kind of business?" The question came out before you could stop it.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "The kind that pays your debt, dollface. You want details? Want to know whose legs I'm breaking, whose thumbs get crushed? Would that make you feel better about your situation?"

You looked away, stomach turning. Through the window, you could see the street coming to life. Milk trucks rattling past, women in housedresses sweeping stoops, normal people living normal lives. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"Whatever you want." He shrugged, the gesture too casual. "Read a book. Take a bath. Count the flowers on the wallpaper. I don't give a shit."

"Can I leave?"

"No." The word came out flat, final. He moved toward the door, then paused. "There's food in the icebox. Don't answer the door. Don't go into the basement. Don't touch anything in my room."

The list of prohibitions made something hot and defiant rise in your throat. "So I'm a prisoner."

"You're collateral." He glanced back, and for a moment something flickered across his face, gone too fast to read. "There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Prisoners know their sentence."

The front door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed through the empty house. You sat there, still clutching the prayer book, listening to the brownstone settle around you. Somewhere, pipes groaned. The radiator hissed. The sounds of a building breathing, alive in its own way.

You thought about crying. About screaming. About throwing yourself against the door until your fists bled. Instead, you stood on unsteady legs and got dressed in one of your retrieved housedresses. Gray with small blue flowers, mended at the hem where you'd caught it on a factory nail. The fabric smelled wrong. Like his house. Like leather and tobacco instead of the lavender sachet you kept in your drawer at home.

Home. As if that place existed anymore.

The first three days passed in a haze of careful routine.

You woke when you heard him moving around, usually before dawn. The floorboards above your head would creak in a specific pattern: bathroom, bedroom, stairs. By the time you dressed and made your way down, he'd have coffee brewing, the smell sharp enough to cut through morning fog.

He'd acknowledge you with a nod, nothing more. You'd sit across from him at the kitchen table, nursing your cup while he read the paper, the silence between you thick as wet wool.

He never looked at you directly. His gaze would skip over you like you were furniture, something to navigate around but not worth focusing on. It should have been a relief after that first night, after the things he'd said against your door. Instead, it made your skin prickle with awareness.

You caught yourself cataloguing details: how he held his cup with his left hand while turning pages with his right. The way his jaw worked when he read something that displeased him. How those hands that had broken Marcus's thumb could be so careful with newsprint.

After breakfast, he'd leave. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for the entire day. You'd drift to the window and watch him go, noting how the street seemed to part for him. Even in daylight, even doing something as mundane as buying cigarettes from the corner store, he moved like a man expecting violence.

Alone, you mapped the boundaries of your cage.

The brownstone revealed itself in layers. Surface first: dark wood, leather furniture worn soft in specific places, minimal decoration. But underneath, if you looked, there were tells.

A photograph tucked behind books on a shelf showed two young men in Army uniforms, one clearly Bucky before whatever happened to carve those lines around his mouth. The other unfamiliar but grinning wide, arm slung around Bucky's shoulders.

Sheet music on the piano bench in the parlor, Chopin nocturnes with fingering marked in careful pencil. A woman's handkerchief forgotten in a kitchen drawer, lipstick stain on the corner faded but visible.

You shouldn't have been building a picture of him from these fragments. But boredom was its own kind of torture, and your mind needed something to chew on besides the weight of your situation.

By the fourth day, you'd started cleaning.

Not because he'd asked. He hadn't asked anything of you since that first night. But idle hands made your thoughts spiral, made you feel like your skin might split from the pressure building inside.

So you organized his books by author, then by subject when that wasn't satisfying enough. You scrubbed the kitchen until surfaces reflected light. You even stood outside his bedroom door for five full minutes, hand on the knob, before remembering his warning. The flatness in his voice when he'd marked it off limits.

He never commented on your tidying, but you noticed things. How his fingers would pause on the newly polished table. The way he'd stand in front of the reorganized shelves, head tilted like he was reading something written in the spines. Once, you'd left his mail stacked neatly by the door, and his mouth had twitched. Almost a smile before his expression shuttered like a slammed door.

The fifth night, he didn't come home at all.

You lay in the narrow bed, counting heartbeats. Every sound became footsteps. Every distant door became his. By three AM, the pillow was damp with sweat and something else you wouldn't name. He could be dead somewhere, bullet in his brain or knife between his ribs. Could have finally pushed the wrong person, taken one risk too many.

The thought should have brought relief. Freedom from this limbo, from the weight of his presence and absence both.

Instead, your chest went tight. Breathing became work.

When grey dawn finally crept through the window, you gave up pretending to sleep. Made your way downstairs on unsteady legs, started coffee with hands that shook only slightly. You set out two cups without thinking. Only realized what you'd done when you saw them side by side on the counter: one poured, one waiting.

He found you like that, staring at the empty cup like it held answers.

"Expecting someone?"

You jerked, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He stood in the doorway, looking like he'd fought his way through hell and lost. Shirt untucked, jacket torn at the shoulder. A bruise bloomed along his jaw, purple-green like rotting fruit.

Heat crawled up your neck. You wrapped your fingers tighter around your mug, ceramic warm against palms gone suddenly cold. "Wasn't sure you'd be back."

The words came out carefully neutral, but something must have shown on your face. His eyes sharpened, fatigue momentarily forgotten.

"Worried about me, dollface?"

The suggestion made your stomach flip with indignation and something softer you refused to examine. Your spine straightened, clicking into place like armor.

"Worried about my debt. If you die, what happens to me?"

"Smart question." He moved to pour coffee, movements slightly unsteady. Exhaustion or injury, impossible to tell. "The old man would collect. Probably put you to work in one of his establishments. You know what kind of work that would be?"

The words conjured images you didn't want: perfumed rooms and strange hands and your mother's voice warning about girls who fell too far. Your silence was answer enough.

"So yeah," he continued, dropping into his chair with less grace than usual. "You should probably hope I stay alive."

The bruise drew your attention like a magnet. In the morning light, you could see the individual fingerprints where someone had gripped his face. Violence made intimate. Without thinking, you reached across the table, fingers hovering near but not quite touching the discoloration.

"You should put ice on that."

The air between you went electric. His eyes tracked your extended hand like it was a weapon.

"Should I?" His voice had dropped, gone soft in the way that meant danger.

You pulled back, face burning. Busied yourself with your coffee to avoid seeing whatever was in his eyes. "It'll heal faster."

"Concerned about my pretty face?"

The teasing edge made something defensive rise in your throat. You pressed your lips together, tasting bitter coffee and bitterer words.

"Concerned about you looking disreputable. Doesn't that reflect badly on me? As your..." The word wouldn't come. Prisoner felt dramatic. Guest was laughable. Property was too close to truth. "...whatever I am?"

"My whatever." His laugh was hollow as old bones. "That's one way to put it."

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against floor loud enough to make you flinch. "I need a bath. Try not to reorganize the entire house while I'm gone."

So he had noticed.

The admission hung in the air after he left, settling over you like dust. You sat at the table, studying the empty cup you'd set out for him.

Upstairs, pipes groaned as water started. You imagined him peeling off clothes stiff with dried blood, cataloguing new damages. Did he think about the violence while he washed it away? Or was it just another morning routine, like reading the paper?

You poured the waiting coffee down the sink and tried not to think about why you'd expected him to come home at all.

By the end of the first week, you'd developed a routine that felt almost like living.

Wake, breakfast, watch him leave. Clean something that didn't need cleaning. Read from his extensive library (mostly history, some philosophy, a surprising amount of poetry tucked behind other books like he was hiding it). Lunch alone. Afternoon spent at the window, watching the neighborhood rhythm. Dinner, sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

Sleep, eventually, though it came harder here than it ever had at home.

You were going slightly mad with it.

"I could work," you tested one morning, apropos of nothing. He was reading the paper, you were pushing eggs around your plate. "At the factory. I could keep working, pay you back faster."

"No."

The word landed flat between you. Your fork scraped against ceramic, a sound that made your teeth ache.

"Why not?"

He lowered the paper enough to look at you directly. Rare these days. His eyes were the color of winter mornings, cold and clear. "Because I said no."

Heat prickled along your spine, indignation rising like mercury in a thermometer. Your fingers tightened on the fork until your knuckles went white.

"That's not a reason."

"It's the only fuckin' reason you need."

The casualness of his authority made something snap inside you, sharp and sudden as breaking bone.

"So I'm just supposed to sit here? For how long? Months? Years?"

"For as long as I say."

You stood so fast your chair tipped backward, caught it before it could fall. The sudden movement made your head swim, pulse hammering in your throat like a trapped bird. You felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. "You can just kill me, you know. Instead of wasting both our times."

He studied you for a long moment, and you saw something shift in his expression. A crack in that careful blankness. The corner of his mouth lifted, revealing teeth. He smiled then, all sharp edges, the predator showing through.

"What a fucking waste that would be."

The words hit low in your belly, made heat pool there despite yourself. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking relief from the sudden ache.

Some days you could forget what he'd said that first night, the promises he'd made against your door.

Then he'd look at you like this—like he was remembering exactly how you'd sounded, breathless and confused—and your body would betray you all over again.

"I need something to do." Your voice came out steadier than you felt, though your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the back of the chair. "I'm going crazy in this house."

"Join the club." He went back to his paper, but you caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words. The muscle there jumped once, twice. A tell you'd learned meant he was holding something back. After a moment, he spoke again, not looking up. "There's a bookshelf in the basement. More poetry, if you're interested. Since you seem to like going through my things."

It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered in days. You took it for what it was: a bone thrown to a restless dog.

The second week passed faster.

You started cooking elaborate meals just for something to do. He'd come home to find pot roast with vegetables carved into perfect spheres, or a cake decorated with careful precision. He never commented, but he ate everything you put in front of him.

Sometimes he'd stay in after dinner, reading in his study while you did dishes. The domesticity of it sat strange on your shoulders, like wearing someone else's coat. You'd catch yourself humming while you worked, then stop, guilty at finding even a moment's contentment in this situation.

One night, you found him asleep in his chair, book open on his chest. In sleep, the hard lines of his face softened. He looked younger, less like a weapon and more like a man. You'd stood there too long, studying the vulnerable curve of his mouth, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He'd woken suddenly, hand going to the gun you hadn't even known he carried. The metal caught lamplight as his fingers found the grip, body coiled and ready before his eyes had fully opened. For a moment, you'd stared at each other, both caught in something you couldn't name. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths that seemed too measured for someone just waking.

"Go to bed," he'd said roughly, voice still thick with sleep.

You'd fled on unsteady legs, feeling his gaze follow you all the way to the stairs.

Two weeks to the day since you'd moved in, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making a simple dinner, when you heard his key in the lock. But instead of his usual path—straight to his study or upstairs to change—he came to find you.

"Here." He tossed something at you. Fabric, dark blue, expensive by the feel. "Put it on. We're going out tonight."

Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it. A dress, nothing like the conservative things he'd retrieved from your apartment. This had clean lines, a neckline that would show your collarbones, fabric that would cling rather than hide.

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already heading upstairs. "Be ready in an hour."

You stood there holding the dress, heart hammering. Two weeks of careful routine, of pretending this was something survivable, and now what? What did he need you for that required a dress like this?

The fabric was soft against your fingers, whispering against itself when you moved it. It probably cost more than you made in a month at the factory. More than your father had owed, maybe.

You climbed the stairs to your room, each step feeling like a decision you weren't ready to make. The dress lay across your bed like a question, like a test, like a door you weren't sure you wanted to open.

Outside your window, Brooklyn was settling into evening. Golden light going purple at the edges, the sound of families calling children inside for dinner. Normal life happening just beyond these walls, close enough to see but too far to touch.

You had an hour to decide who you were going to be tonight. The girl who cowered and hoped to survive? Or something else, something harder, something that might actually endure what was coming?

Your reflection in the mirror had no answers. Just a woman in a shabby housedress, holding something that might transform her or might just be another kind of cage.

Somewhere in the house, you could hear Bucky moving around, getting ready. The sound of water running, a door closing, footsteps that had become familiar in their rhythm. He was humming something. Low, almost inaudible, but there.

It was the first time you'd heard him make any sound that wasn't words or violence.

You touched the prayer book on your nightstand, your father's handwriting a talisman against whatever came next. Then you started getting ready, fingers steady despite the tremor in your chest.

The dress slithered over your skin like water made fabric, each inch of navy silk a confession against flesh that had never known anything finer than cotton.

Your fingers trembled as they smoothed the material over your hips, feeling how it clung to curves you'd spent years hiding under shapeless work dresses. The neckline exposed the delicate architecture of your collarbones, that vulnerable hollow where your pulse fluttered like something caged and desperate to escape. Without your usual slip—it would have shown through the delicate fabric, creating lines where there should be only smooth flesh)—you felt naked despite being clothed. Each breath made the silk whisper against your skin, a constant reminder of how exposed you were.

The mirror threw back a stranger. Someone who belonged in those moving pictures at the Rialto, not standing in a borrowed room with fear sitting like stones in her stomach. Your mother's pearls lay cold against your throat, each bead a small weight that made swallowing difficult. The clasps fumbled under your shaking fingers, metal warming slowly against your nape where baby hairs already escaped the careful pins.

Your hands moved without conscious thought. Each pin slid home with mechanical precision while your mind spun like a penny on edge. The exposed curve of your neck made you feel peeled, vulnerable, like something soft-bellied turned over to show its weakest parts. Wisps of hair immediately rebelled, framing your face in a way that looked almost intentional if you didn't think about it too hard.

No lipstick. It felt like a small defiance. But you caught your bottom lip between your teeth, bit down until blood rushed to the surface.

The small pain grounded you, pulled you back from the edge of panic that threatened to spill over. In the mirror, your mouth looked bee-stung, flushed. Like you'd been thoroughly kissed, though no one had touched you in...

"Two minutes."

His voice carried through the door like smoke, seeping into every corner. Your stomach clenched, a fist of anxiety and something else, something that made heat pool low and insistent between your thighs. You pressed them together, feeling the silk of your last good stockings catch and release against skin that felt too sensitive, like you'd been flayed open and rebuilt wrong.

The shoes—your good ones, the ones you'd saved six months to buy—slipped on like armor that wasn't enough. The single inch of heel changed your posture, made you aware of the length of your legs, how much of them showed beneath the dress's hem. Everything about this costume made you hyperaware of your body as a body, as something that could be looked at, wanted, taken.

Your fingers found the prayer book one last time, pads barely grazing worn leather. Your father's words inside, his cramped handwriting that got worse as his eyes failed. You're stronger than you know.

But standing there, dressed like something you weren't, about to walk into God knew what? You felt about as strong as wet paper.

The doorknob was cold under your palm. You turned it slow, like maybe if you took long enough, the night would pass without you having to live through it.

Bucky waited at the bottom of the stairs.

The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, making your diaphragm spasm and forget its job.

He'd transformed himself into something from those gangster pictures, except this was real, close enough to smell, to touch if you were stupid enough to try. The black suit had been cut by someone who understood that clothes could be weapons, every line designed to emphasize the controlled violence of his body. His hair, slicked back with pomade that caught the light, exposed the brutal architecture of his face. Sharp enough to cut yourself on if you weren't careful.

He looked up at your approach, and his eyes...

"Stop." The command froze you three steps from the bottom. His gaze traveled down your body with deliberate slowness, lingering on the exposed curve of your throat, the way silk clung to your breasts, the nervous flutter of your hands against your thighs. "Turn around."

Your face burned, but something in his tone made refusal impossible. You turned slowly, hyperaware of his eyes on you, of how the dress moved against your skin with each small movement. The back was cut lower than you'd realized when you'd put it on, exposing the delicate ladder of your spine.

"Again. Slower."

The words sent heat pooling between your thighs, shameful and immediate. You turned again, even slower this time, feeling like a prize horse being evaluated. Or prey being circled. When you faced him again, his expression was unreadable, but there was something dark in his eyes that made your breath catch.

"Come here."

You descended the remaining steps on unsteady legs. The second to last step caught your heel, and you stumbled.

His hand shot out, catching your elbow before you could fall, fingers wrapping around bare skin. The contact was electric, sending sparks racing up your arm and down your spine, pooling hot and liquid in your belly. He steadied you, but didn't let go immediately. Instead, he pulled you closer, until you stood on the bottom step, eye level with him for once.

"Careful." The word rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Can't have you damaging the merchandise before I show you off."

The casual cruelty of it made you flinch, but his thumb was pressing against the sensitive inside of your elbow, feeling your pulse hammer against thin skin, and the contrast made your head spin.

This close, you could see the fresh shave that revealed the cleft in his chin, could count individual lashes that threw shadows on his cheekbones. Could smell his cologne: bergamot and cedar and something darker, muskier, that made your hindbrain recognize predator and male in equal measure. Your body's reaction was confused, caught between flee and something else, something that made you want to tilt your head and offer your throat.

"You clean up better than expected." His voice had gone rough, gravel over velvet. "Almost look like you belong in that dress."

The backhanded compliment might have stun, if his eyes were cruel. Instead, they tracked over you with weight, with intent, cataloging every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it for later. They lingered on the curve where your neck met shoulder, the delicate wings of your collarbones, the way the dress clung to your breasts, your waist, the flare of your hips.

You felt that gaze like hands, possessive and appraising.

"The dress is beautiful." Your voice came out breathier than intended, like you'd been running.

"The dress is expensive." He released your elbow only to trail his fingers down your arm, barely touching, raising goosebumps in his wake. "You're what makes it worth looking at."

The honesty of it hung between you like a blade. His jaw worked, muscle jumping beneath skin, and you watched him rebuild his walls in real time. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted to something harder.

"Let's go. We're already late because you took forever getting ready."

You hadn't—he'd only given you an hour—but protesting would mean admitting you'd been ready early, been waiting for him. He offered his arm, but when you reached for it, he pulled back slightly.

"Ask nicely."

Heat flooded your face. "I... what?"

"You want my arm? Ask for it." His eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement or cruelty. "Say 'please, Bucky, may I take your arm?'"

Your throat felt like sandpaper. Around you, the house felt too quiet, like even the walls were waiting to see what you'd do. Pride warred with pragmatism. You needed his protection tonight, needed to play whatever game this was.

"Please, Bucky." The words came out barely above a whisper. "May I take your arm?"

"Better." He finally let you take it, and your fingers curled around his bicep, feeling the coiled strength through expensive wool. "But next time, look me in the eyes when you beg."

His words sent liquid heat straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. The heat of him soaked through fabric, making you aware of every point of contact, every breath that brought you infinitesimally closer.

The car waited outside, engine purring. The night had turned cold while you'd been dressing, October showing its teeth. Wind cut through the silk dress like it wasn't there, raising goosebumps along every exposed inch. Your nipples tightened painfully against the delicate fabric, clearly visible through the thin silk, and you crossed your arms, trying to hide your body's betrayal.

"Don't." He caught your wrists, pulling your arms back down. "You're dressed like that for a reason. Let them look."

"Bucky..."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" He helped you into the car, his hand at the small of your back, but the touch was anything but gentlemanly. His palm pressed flat against silk, fingers splaying wide, thumb stroking one deliberate line up your spine that made you arch involuntarily. "No? Then keep quiet."

You expected him to take the front seat, to put distance between you.

Instead, he slid in beside you, crowding you against the door.

The bench seat shrank to nothing. His thigh pressed against yours from hip to knee, solid muscle that radiated heat like a furnace. When you tried to shift away, to put even an inch between your bodies, his hand landed on your thigh, keeping you in place.

"Sit still." The command was quiet but absolute. "You move every time I touch you. Makes you look skittish. Weak."

You clenched your teeth. "I'm not."

"You are." His hand slid higher, fingers curving around the inside of your thigh, tips pressing into soft flesh through silk. "You're soft. Sheltered. Everything about you screams victim."

A burning sensation pricked at your eyes, but beneath the hurt, something else stirred. Something dark that liked the weight of his hand, the cruel truth in his words.

"Where are we going?" You kept your eyes fixed on the driver's headrest, afraid of what your face might reveal if you looked at him.

"The Stork Club."

Your stomach dropped through the floor of the car.

Everyone knew about the Stork Club. It was in the society pages your coworkers read aloud during lunch breaks. Where celebrities went to be seen, where deals that shaped the city were made over champagne that cost more than you made in a month.

"I'm not... I don't know how to..." The words tangled on your tongue, panic making you frustrated and inarticulate.

"You don't need to know anything."

His hand was still on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles that made thinking impossible. The heat of his skin seared through silk stocking, making every nerve ending from knee to hip spark to life.

"Just smile pretty and keep your mouth shut unless someone asks you a direct question. Can you do that?"

There should have been rebellion in you. Some spark of pride that railed against being ordered around like a child. Instead, his thumb pressed harder, finding the sensitive inner thigh, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to ease the sudden ache, but that only trapped his hand more firmly between them.

"I asked you a question." His fingers tightened, not quite painful but close. "Can you do that?"

"Yes." The word came out steady. Too steady.

"Yes, what?" His voice had dropped an octave, velvet over gravel.

Your throat clicked as you swallowed. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good girl." The praise was mocking, but your body didn't care. It hit you like a shot of bourbon, warm and dizzying. Your nipples tightened further, visible through the silk, and you knew he could see it, could see exactly what his words did to you. "At least you can follow simple instructions. More than most can manage, these days."

The city blurred past in streams of light. His cigarette smoke filled the car, mixing with cologne and leather into something that made you dizzy. His hand stayed on your thigh, possession and threat in equal measure, fingers occasionally flexing like he was testing how much pressure you could take.

"There'll be other families there." His fingers walked higher, stopping just before indecency. "The Lombardis, definitely. Maybe the Rileys. Some legitimate businessmen who like to play at being dangerous."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The heat between your legs had become an ache, insistent and shameful.

"They're going to look at you and know exactly what you are. A factory girl playing dress up. Debt payment dressed in silk." His hand slid back down to your knee, the loss of contact making you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. "Let them think that."

"Why?" The question slipped out despite your better judgment.

"Because the truth would be worse." He turned to look at you then, and his eyes in the passing streetlights were dark as the river. "The truth is you're starting to like this. The danger. The way I touch you. The way your body responds even when your mind says no."

You open your mouth to protest, but he interrupts.

"Don't lie." His hand lifted from your knee entirely, leaving cold silk in its wake. "I can see it all over you. The way you're pressing your thighs together. The way your breath catches every time I move my hand. How badly you want me to put it back on your thigh. Higher this time."

You turned your face to the window, cheeks burning with shame at your own thoughts, at how accurately he'd read you. In the reflection, you could see him watching you, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry, dollface." His voice was mockingly gentle. "Your secret's safe with me. Though by the end of tonight, everyone's going to know anyway. The way you look at me gives it all away."

The Stork Club materialized from the Manhattan night like something from a fever dream. Art deco and neon, beautiful people in beautiful clothes, doormen who looked like they could kill you with their white gloves still on. The crowd parted for Bucky's car without question, velvet ropes might as well have not existed.

"Mr. Barnes, welcome back."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes."

"Your usual table, Mr. Barnes?"

They spoke to him with careful deference, the kind reserved for people who could end you with a phone call. Bucky emerged from the car first, then turned back for you. His hand engulfed yours, calluses rough against your palm—working hands despite the expensive suit. You tried to exit gracefully, hyperaware of the dress riding up, of all the eyes tracking your movement.

Someone in the crowd whistled, low and appreciative.

Bucky's hand moved to your waist faster than your eyes could track, fingers splaying possessively across silk. He pulled you against his side, hard enough that you stumbled, catching yourself against his chest. His other hand came up to steady you, but it was deliberate—palm flat against your lower back, pressing you flush against him from hip to sternum. You could feel every line of his body through the thin dress, the barely contained violence radiating from him like heat from a forge.

He held you there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting everyone see. Letting them understand. His jaw muscle ticked, eyes scanning the crowd with predatory focus until whoever had whistled melted back into anonymity.

The crowd went silent.

When he finally let you step back—just an inch, his hand still iron on your waist—the message had been received. The doormen looked anywhere but at you. The crowd found other things infinitely more interesting than the woman on Bucky Barnes's arm.

Inside was all golden light and cigarette smoke, jazz that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Crystal and velvet and perfume so thick it made your eyes water. Beautiful people arranged themselves artfully at tables, each one performing for everyone else in an elaborate dance you didn't know the steps to.

Heads turned as Bucky guided you through the room. You caught fragments of whispers, each one landing like a small cut:

"Barnes's new girl—"

"—won't last the month—"

"—pretty enough, but did you see those shoes? Department store—"

"—must be somethin' special in bed if he's bringing her here—"

Your face burned, but Bucky's hand on your waist kept you moving forward. His thumb stroked one small circle against your ribs, and somehow that tiny gesture gave you enough strength to keep your chin up.

The corner booth held court like a throne. George Barnes sat at its center, those flat eyes tracking your approach with measured interest. The other men around him deferred without seeming to, letting him hold the center of gravity.

"James." He didn't rise, didn't smile. Just watched with that calculating stare that made your spine straighten involuntarily. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Change of plans." Bucky's tone was carefully casual.

George's gaze shifted to you, taking in the dress, the pearls, the careful positioning of Bucky's hand. "The girl from dinner. Interesting choice, bringing her here."

The words were neutral but the undertone wasn't. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into palms.

"She's with me," Bucky said simply.

"So I see." George lit a cigarette with deliberate movements. "Sit. Both of you."

Bucky guided you into the booth, the horseshoe shape trapping you between him and the wall.

"Business has been good this week," George said, eyes still on you. "Though I heard there was some trouble at Marcus's table earlier."

This was news to you. You recall the first warning to Bucky's brother-in-law. The broken thumb at dinner, the threat of something worse.

Bucky's hand squeezes your thigh.

"Misunderstanding," Bucky replied. "It's handled."

"It better be. Can't have people thinking we've gone soft." George's attention shifted to his son. "Or distracted."

The implication was clear. Your presence was a distraction, a liability.

"I know what I'm doing, Pop."

"Do you?" An older man across the table leaned forward—Italian, well-dressed, with the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to announce itself. "Because from where I sit, looks like you're making statements. Statements have consequences."

"Everything has consequences, Lombardi." Bucky's thigh pressed against yours under the table, a silent message to stay quiet. "Question is whether they're worth it."

Lombardi smiled, thin and knowing. "That's always the question, isn't it? What something's worth. What someone's willing to pay."

A waiter appeared with champagne. The crystal flute was pressed into your hand before you could refuse.

"To business," George said, raising his glass. "And knowing the price of things."

"Drink." Bucky's voice was low, meant only for you. "Slowly. Don't drain it, but don't ignore it either."

You took a small sip, letting the champagne fizz on your tongue. It tasted like wealth: complicated and golden and nothing like the beer your father sometimes brought home. The crystal felt foreign in your grip, too delicate, like it might shatter if you held it wrong.

Conversation flowed around you in currents you couldn't follow. Talk of shipments and territories, percentages and protection, all in code that barely masked the violence underneath. Bucky's hand found your thigh under the table, just resting there, weight and warmth through silk. Not moving, but impossible to ignore.

You tried to make yourself invisible, to become part of the booth's velvet backdrop. But you could feel eyes on you: assessing, calculating, determining exactly what you were worth. Some looked at you with desire, some with contempt, some with the kind of interest that made your skin crawl.

"Your boy hit our numbers hard last week," Lombardi said to George, tone deceptively casual. "Three of our runners taken out."

"Your runners were skimming." George sounded bored. "We did you a favor."

"Some favor. Cost me two grand in lost product."

Under the table, Bucky's hand shifted slightly on your thigh. His pinky finger pressed harder, a silent signal to stay still, stay quiet. You pressed back into the booth, trying to become smaller.

"Cost you nothing. We delivered the full take to your people, minus our handling fee."

"Handling fee." Lombardi's voice went cold as winter stone. "That what we're calling theft now?"

The tension ratcheted up so fast you could taste it, metallic on your tongue. Every muscle in Bucky's body coiled tight, ready for violence. His hand on your thigh became a brand, holding you in place when every instinct screamed run.

They stared at each other across the table. Two apex predators deciding if territory was worth bloodshed. The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating.

Finally, Lombardi laughed. The sound was like glass breaking in reverse, sharp pieces coming together wrong.

"You always were a ballsy fuck, George." He raised his glass. "To Brooklyn."

They toasted, crystal chiming like funeral bells. The tension eased but didn't disappear. It never fully disappeared here, you realized. Just waited, coiled and ready, for the next provocation.

A hand touched your shoulder.

Not Bucky's.

You flinched so hard champagne sloshed in your glass. A young man leaned over the booth, all slicked hair and hungry eyes that traveled down your body like he was unwrapping a present.

"Wanna dance, sweetheart?"

Bucky's hand tightened on your thigh hard enough to bruise. The pain made you gasp, quiet enough that only he heard. "No, she doesn't."

"I wasn't asking you, Barnes." The man's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Lady looks bored. Thought I'd show her a good time."

"Tommy." Lombardi's voice carried warning. "Don't be stupid."

But Tommy was drunk on youth and bravado and whatever else was coursing through his bloodstream. His hand slid down your bare arm, fingers trailing over skin like he had every right to touch. The contact made bile rise in your throat, made your skin try to crawl away from your bones.

"Come on, doll. One dance. What's the har—"

The world exploded into motion.

Bucky moved faster than your eyes could track. One moment he was beside you, the next Tommy was pinned against a marble pillar with Bucky's forearm across his throat. The entire club stopped. Conversations died mid-word, the band faltered into scattered notes, even the cigarette smoke seemed to freeze in the air.

"Touch her again," Bucky said very quietly, voice carrying despite its softness, "and I'll mail pieces of you to your mother over the course of a year. A finger here, an ear there. Let her collect you like trading cards."

Tommy's face was turning purple, eyes bulging as he clawed at Bucky's arm. The muscles in Bucky's forearm stood out like iron cables, not giving an inch.

"Bucky." Your voice came out as barely a whisper, throat tight with fear.

His head turned slightly. Not enough to look at you, just enough to acknowledge he'd heard.

"Ask nicely." The command was soft but absolute.

Your face burned with humiliation.

Everyone was watching, waiting, eager to see you perform. You could feel their eyes like hands, grabbing, assessing, determining exactly how much degradation you'd accept.

"Please." The word tasted like copper pennies.

"Please what?" He pressed harder against Tommy's throat, making him wheeze.

The power dynamic was so clear it might as well have been written in neon above your heads. You swallowed your pride like broken glass, feeling it tear all the way down.

"Please let him go."

For a moment, you thought he wouldn't. His arm tensed further, and Tommy made a sound like air leaving a punctured tire. Then Bucky stepped back, letting him drop to the floor in a gasping heap.

"Apologize to the lady."

Tommy massaged his throat, eyes watering, face still purple-red. "S-sorry," he wheezed.

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry for touching you." The words came out strangled. "Won't happen again."

"No," Bucky agreed, straightening his cuffs with deliberate calm. "It fucking won't."

He turned back to the booth, offering you his hand. You took it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet. Your legs felt like water, knees threatening to buckle.

"We're leaving." He announced it to the table at large.

George watched with those flat eyes, expression unreadable. "Night's young."

"Not for us."

Bucky's arm went around your waist, and this time the possession in it was blatant, a clear warning to anyone thinking of approaching. He guided you through the club, past the staring faces and whispered speculations. You could feel the weight of their judgment (whore, property, thing, toy) but underneath it, something else.

Fear. They looked at you and saw Bucky Barnes's willingness to commit violence, and they were afraid.

The night air hit like a slap, cold and sharp after the club's smoky warmth. You gulped it gratefully, trying to steady your racing heart. Your skin still crawled where Tommy had touched you, phantom fingers leaving invisible stains.

"That was—"

"Get in the fucking car."

The order was flat, emotionless, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was imagining them around someone's throat. You slid into the backseat, expecting him to give the driver an address.

Instead, he got in beside you and pulled you roughly against him.

His hands moved over your arms, checking for damage with clinical efficiency. When he found none, his touch gentled but didn't stop. Fingers traced the path Tommy had taken, as if trying to erase the unwanted contact with his own.

"Did he hurt you?" The question came out rough.

The question stopped you in your tracks. "No, I'm—"

"Don't lie to me." His hand came up to cup your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. In the dim light, they looked almost black.

"I'm not hurt." You caught his wrist, feeling his pulse race under your fingers. "I'm fine."

He stared at you for a long moment, something raw flickering across his face. Possession, maybe, or something deeper, more dangerous. His thumb traced your cheekbone, the touch so gentle it made your chest ache.

"You should be terrified right now." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I am."

"No." His thumb moved to your bottom lip, pressing slightly. "Not of the right thing."

You swallowed audibly. "What should I be afraid of?"

"Me." The word came out like a confession. "What I wanted to do to him. What I want to..."

He cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough that you could hear his teeth grind. This close, you could smell him: cigarettes and violence and that cologne that made your head swim. Could feel the barely leashed control in every line of his body.

"Driver," he called out, never looking away from your face. "2847 Fulton Street."

Your father's address. He was taking you home. Relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

His hand moved from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your pulse flutter against his palm like a trapped moth. "You did well tonight," he said, voice strange. Almost surprised. "Didn't rise to the bait. Didn't make a scene."

"I'm getting good at being degraded in public." The words came out sharper than intended.

His thumb pressed against your pulse point, and you felt him smile more than saw it. "That mouth is going to get you in trouble."

The car slowed. Too soon. You looked out the window to see an unfamiliar street, industrial buildings looming like broken teeth. The driver was turned around, speaking urgently to Bucky in Italian. Your stomach clenched.

"What's happening?"

"Shut up." But his hand tightened on your throat, protective rather than threatening. He leaned forward, listening to the driver, and his entire body went rigid. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Bucky—"

"Someone's at your place. Three cars." His jaw worked, mind calculating. "They knew I'd take you home. They're waiting."

Your blood turned to slush, cold and thick in your veins. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" He was already redirecting the driver, barking an address. "Pier 47. Now."

"The docks?" Panic crawled up your throat. "Why—"

His hand moved from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. He pulled, firm enough to make you look at him. "Listen to me very carefully. We're about to walk into something bad. You stay behind me. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions, no hesitation. Understood?"

Your mouth had gone dry as sand. "What kind of bad?"

"The kind where people die." His grip tightened, and you felt the tremor in his hand that he was trying to hide. "I didn't plan this. Didn't want you anywhere near this. But we're out of options."

The drive took forever and no time at all. Manhattan dissolved into industrial wasteland, all rust and shadow and the smell of the Hudson creeping through the windows. Bucky's hand had moved to your thigh, higher than before, fingers pressed into the soft inner flesh hard enough to bruise. Every time the car hit a bump, his grip tightened, and heat shot straight to your core despite the terror.

"You're shaking," he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh through silk.

"I'm scared," you croaked. It felt like the understatement of the century.

"Good. Terror keeps you alive." His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your underwear. "When we get there, you stay close enough that I can feel you breathing. Someone approaches you, you scream. Someone touches you..." His fingers flexed, and you bit back a whimper. "You fight like your life depends on it. Because it will."

The warehouse materialized from the darkness like something from a fever dream. No lights except weak moonlight filtering through broken windows. Your heels sounded like gunshots against the concrete as Bucky pulled you from the car, his hand immediately going to your waist, fingers splaying wide enough to span from ribs to hip.

"I don't like this," you whispered.

"Neither do I." He pulled you tighter against his side, and you could feel the gun tucked into his waistband pressing against your hip. "But Gallo's here. Has to be dealt with tonight."

"Who's Gallo?"

"Someone who should've stayed in fucking Chicago."

The inside was a cavern of shadows and echoes. Your eyes couldn't adjust fast enough, dark shapes moving in peripheral vision that might have been men or machinery or nothing at all. Bucky's hand on your waist was the only solid thing in a world suddenly made of smoke.

Then lights blazed on, harsh and blinding.

"Barnes!" The voice boomed from somewhere above. "Right on time."

You blinked repeatedly, vision swimming back into focus. Five men stood in a loose semicircle, all armed, all staring.

At you. Only at you.

"Gallo." Bucky's voice was perfectly neutral, but his fingers dug into your waist hard enough that you knew there'd be marks tomorrow. "Thought we were meeting alone."

"Plans change." Gallo stepped into better light. Scarred face like a topographical map of violence, dead eyes that reminded you of Bucky's father, smile that didn't reach past his teeth. "Well, well. Didn't know you were bringin' party favors."

His gaze traveled down your body, slow and deliberate. You could feel it like hands, like a violation. Your skin tried to crawl off your bones. Bucky shifted, putting himself partially in front of you, but Gallo just laughed.

"What's the matter, Barnes? Worried we'll damage your toy?" He took a step closer. "Pretty thing like that, all dolled up... Lombardi sends his regards, by the way. Says you owe him for the disrespect tonight. Says maybe the girl could be part of the payment."

The trap snapped into focus. You'd been bait without knowing it. The dress, the club, all of it leading here. Your knees went liquid.

"Lombardi can—"

The first gunshot was impossibly loud, sound that felt like a physical blow.

Bucky moved faster than thought, his body slamming into yours, driving you behind a concrete pillar. Your knees hit concrete with a crack that sent lightning up your thighs. Your palms skidded across rough ground, skin peeling away like tissue paper. Wetness bloomed across your knees, hot and immediate.

More gunshots, so many they became one continuous roar. Concrete exploded inches from your face, sharp fragments cutting across your cheek like tiny razors. You pressed yourself against the pillar, trying to become part of it, trying to disappear.

Then, sudden silence that was somehow worse.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice, close and rough.

You opened eyes you didn't remember closing. He was crouched in front of you, gun in hand, his other hand running over your body, checking for holes. A cut on his cheek leaked steadily, blood running down his jaw to drip on your silk dress.

"I—" Your voice wouldn't work properly. "I think—"

"Office. Now."

He hauled you up, and your legs barely held. The room spun. You could hear shouting, footsteps running, getting closer. Bucky half-dragged you toward a door, your heels catching on debris, ankles turning. The office door slammed behind you, and immediately Bucky was shoving furniture against it. Desk, filing cabinet, another desk.

"Barnes!" Gallo's voice, muffled but too close. "Send out the girl and we'll call it even."

"Fuck you," Bucky snarled, checking his ammunition. You watched his hands move, efficient and steady despite the blood now soaking his sleeve.

"Come on, be smart. She's nobody. Just some factory cunt you're slumming with. Worth what, a few nights of fun? I'll give you five grand for her."

Your stomach heaved.

Being sold. Priced. Reduced to meat.

"Ten," another voice called out. "Ten grand and we all walk away. You can find another piece of ass tomorrow."

Bucky looked at you then, and for one horrible second, you saw him calculating. Saw him weighing your life against whatever this was. Then he crossed to you in two strides, caging you against the wall with his body.

"Stay down," he said against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "No matter what happens, you don't move. You don't make a sound." His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your lips. "If I die, you play dead. Understood?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the pressure of his thumb.

"Good girl." The praise was grim. "Such a good girl."

He started toward the door—

The window exploded in a shower of glass.

A man swung through, young and wild-eyed, gun already tracking toward you. Your body moved without permission, hand finding the letter opener on the desk, driving it into his calf before conscious thought caught up. The blade slid in with horrifying ease, catching on something that might have been bone.

His scream was high, animal. The gun swung toward your face, and you could see your death in the black eye of the barrel—

Bucky's fist connected with the man's jaw with a sound like wet concrete breaking. The man crumpled, but more were coming. Two, three, climbing through the shattered window.

Something silver flashed in Bucky's hand. When had he pulled a knife? He moved like liquid mercury, the blade becoming part of him. An artery opened in a graceful arc, blood hitting the wall, hitting you. Hot drops across your face, in your mouth. The taste of copper and salt.

You should have screamed. Should have vomited. Instead, your hand found the dropped gun, fingers curling around the grip like you'd done this before.

"Safety's on the side," Bucky barked out without looking, currently using someone's tie to strangle them. "Red means dead."

Your thumb found the safety. The gun was heavier than expected, cold and solid.

The door exploded inward despite the barricade. More men, too many—

"Down!"

You flattened yourself as Bucky spun, firing over your head. The sound was deafening, made your ears ring. Bodies fell, but one shot caught Bucky in the shoulder, spinning him back. Blood sprayed across your dress, across your face, hot and thick.

"No!" The word ripped from your throat.

He grimaced, switched the gun to his left hand, kept firing. But you could see him slowing, could see the blood soaking his shirt, could see death walking into the room wearing familiar faces—

The man in the doorway was different. Calm in the chaos, suit somehow clean despite stepping over corpses. Dark skin, easy gait, professional eyes that catalogued the scene in an instant.

"Barnes," he said conversationally. "You look like shit."

"Wilson." Bucky's smile was all teeth and blood. "Took your fucking time."

Wilson raised his gun and shot two men trying to flank Bucky without looking at them. "Traffic was a bitch. That her?"

"Yeah."

Wilson's gaze found you: huddled against overturned furniture, gun clutched in shaking hands, blood that wasn't yours painting you red.

"Huh. Thought she'd be taller."

They moved together then with practiced synchronization. You stayed frozen, watching them work with terrible efficiency. When Gallo tried to run, Wilson caught him at the door like it was choreographed.

"Leaving so soon?"

"This wasn't the deal," Gallo gasped. "Lombardi said—"

"Lombardi says a lot of things." Bucky approached slowly, favoring his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked through his jacket now, dripping steadily onto concrete. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to deliver a message for me."

The knife appeared again. Then it was in Gallo's shoulder, buried to the hilt. The scream echoed off the walls, off the ceiling, seeming to go on forever.

"The message," Bucky continued, twisting the blade slowly, "is that my girl is under my protection. Anyone who touches her, looks at her wrong, even thinks about her too hard—" Another twist, and Gallo sobbed. "—they'll end up like your friends here. But it'll take days. We clear?"

"Y-yes! Clear!"

Bucky yanked the knife free. Gallo crumpled, clutching his shoulder.

"Run," Bucky said softly. "Before I change my mind."

Gallo scrambled out, leaving blood smeared across the floor like a child's finger painting.

Wilson surveyed the carnage. Six bodies. Walls painted with arterial spray. You, still frozen, gun still clutched in white-knuckled hands.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"Shut up, Sam."

"I'm just saying, most people do dinner and a movie."

"Most people aren't me."

"Thank Christ for that." Sam approached you slowly, hands visible. "Hey there. You can put the gun down now."

You looked at the weapon like it was foreign. Your fingers had locked around it, knuckles gone white. They wouldn't let go.

"It's okay," Sam said gently. "You're safe. It's over."

Bucky crossed to you, gently prying the gun from your grip. His fingers were so warm against yours, steady despite everything. You could feel his pulse through his palm, too fast but strong.

"That's it, sweetheart" he said quietly, just for you. "You did good. The letter opener was smart. Quick thinking."

"There's blood on my dress." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears, distant.

"Shame, that. I'll buy you a new one."

"It's your blood."

Something shifted in his expression. "Yeah. Some of it is."

"You're hurt." Your hands reached for his shoulder without permission.

He caught your wrists, gentle but firm. "I've had worse."

"That's not reassuring."

Sam snorted. "Tell her about Budapest."

"Shut up, Wilson."

"Or Prague. Prague was a shitshow."

"I said shut up."

The banter washed over you, surreal after the violence. Bodies on the floor. Blood pooling black in moonlight. They'd been alive five minutes ago. Now they were nothing.

"We need to clean this up," Sam said, already pulling out a lighter. "You got accelerant in here?"

"Storage closet." Bucky hadn't looked away from your face, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "Give us five minutes."

"Make it three. Cops have been paid to be scarce, but fire department's harder to buy."

Bucky guided you out, past the bodies, through blood that made your shoes stick to the floor with each step. Outside, the night air hit like cold water. You gasped, gulping it down, but couldn't get the taste of copper out of your mouth.

"Your car's fucked," Sam called out. "Gallo's boys shot it to hell."

"Fucking hell. Fine, we'll take the sedan around back," Bucky replied, already steering you toward it. "Red Hook safehouse?"

"You've got it, boss."

The drive to Red Hook passed in a blur of streetlights and silence. You sat between them, trying to stop shaking. Every breath tasted like copper. Every blink brought back the image of that man's throat opening, the surprised look on his face like he couldn't believe his body had betrayed him. Your dress was starting to stiffen where the blood had soaked through, silk turning to cardboard against your skin.

"She's in shock," Sam said, clinical but not unkind.

"I know."

"She needs—"

"I know what she needs, Wilson."

Bucky's hand found yours on the seat between you. Not holding, just covering it with his own. The weight of it was grounding, something solid in a world that had gone liquid at the edges.

The safehouse materialized from the darkness: a narrow brownstone that looked abandoned from the outside. Peeling paint, dark windows, the kind of place the city forgot on purpose. Sam helped you both inside, Bucky's good arm heavy around your waist.

"Three hours," Sam said from the doorway. "Then I'm checking in."

"Four."

"Three." Sam's eyes found yours in the dim light. "You did good tonight. Most people freeze their first time. You didn't freeze."

First time.

The words followed you up the narrow stairs, Bucky's hand at your back, guiding you through the darkness. The safehouse smelled like dust and old smoke, like a place where people came to hide from their mistakes.

He pushed open a door to reveal a bedroom that had seen better decades. A bed with military corners, a dresser missing half its handles, streetlight filtering through yellowed curtains.

"Sit," he said, guiding you to the edge of the bed.

You sat, hands still trembling in your lap. He knelt in front of you, started unlacing your shoes with careful fingers. The domesticity of it made your chest tight. When he looked up at you, his eyes were dark in the half-light.

"We need to get you cleaned up," he said softly. "Get the blood off."

"I can still taste it." The words came out small, broken.

Something shifted in his expression. He rose, cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, and you realized he was wiping away tears you hadn't known were falling.

"Listen to me," he said, voice low and steady. "What happened tonight changes things. Changes you. And we're going to deal with that. But right now, you need to let me take care of you. Can you do that?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Good girl." The praise was gentle this time, lacking its usual edge. "That's my good girl."

He helped you stand, turned you toward the bathroom. "Shower. Hot as you can stand it. I'll find you something clean to wear."

At the bathroom door, you paused. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"After. Will you..." You couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't articulate what you needed.

But he understood. He always understood.

"I'll be right here," he said. "Not going anywhere."

You closed the door behind you, started peeling off the blood-stiffened dress with shaking fingers. Through the thin walls, you could hear him moving around. The creak of drawers opening. The soft curse when his shoulder caught wrong. These ordinary sounds in extraordinary circumstances.

As hot water finally hit your skin, washing pink spirals down the drain, you thought about what he'd said. Changes you.

You could feel it already—something fundamental shifted, some innocence you'd never get back. You'd stabbed a man tonight. Watched others die. Felt relief instead of horror when they stopped moving.

But underneath the shock and trauma, something else stirred. Something that recognized the predator in Bucky Barnes and wanted to learn how to show teeth too. Something that had picked up that letter opener not in panic, but with intent.

Tomorrow, you'd have to reckon with what you'd become.

Tonight, you just had to wash the blood off and trust that the man in the next room—dangerous, complicated, morally gray Bucky Barnes—would keep you from falling apart completely.

Through the wall, you heard him pour bourbon. Heard the soft hiss of pain as he tried to deal with his shoulder one-handed.

"I'll be right here," he'd said.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

tag list: @intothesoul @loganficsonly @porcenina @w-h0re @pattiemac1 @k1tk4ttt @adangerousbalance @cb97gng @hannah9921 @mrsnikstan @greatenthusiasttidalwave @sweetserendipity65 @fluorjscent @readscreamrepeat @mirrae @technicallytinyheart @messageforthesmallestman @sinistersnakey @lemoniceteee @heymydearheart @katfaceu @itsjusthowmymindworks @buckyssbestgirl @delulu4bucky @daddysbitchybaby @steph88x @humbug5 @p3ach-h0nu @chloepatricia99 @latenightmatilda @akiyhara @dracosathenaeum @mylittlestan @wandabillywrites @senatorpadmeamidala @bobbdylan

[jaderabbitt]

imagine: you receive a call from the pre-k/elementary school yours and Bucky’s daughter attends. it’s the Friday before Father’s Day.

“Hello, I’m Miss Brewster calling on behalf of Montessori Elementary for Missus Barnes? There were some…concerns raised about what Rebecca had written on her Father’s Day card, so we would like to have a meeting with you as soon as possible. Thank you.”

what is it your daughter writes about Bucky that raises flags for school admins?

bonus points: misunderstanding trope, mentioning his age, his weapons, his ‘job’ (punching people)

feel free to use for inspirations! please tag me if used xoxo

[jaderabbitt]

Lavender

Summary : The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

Pairings : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) with a sprinkle of Bob Reynolds x John Walker (Sentryagent)

Warnings/tags : Royal AU. Lavender Marriage AU, Medieval AU, Forbidden Love. Fluff, angst, domestic abuse, Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol and drug abuse, withdrawal symptoms. Death (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : For context, a lavender marriage is mixed-orientation marriage used to hide one or both partner's sexual orientation, in this case, it's Bob's. I have been way too Sentryagent lately lol. Enjoy!

You were eight years old when you met Robert Reynolds, the Viscount’s only son.

Your father, the King, had just finished praising the Viscount in front of the court. “A man of unwavering loyalty,” he said, “and discipline enough to raise a boy a family can be proud of.”

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes. 

And you met his son that day. 

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father —  looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class. 

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course. 

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty. 

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured. 

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege. 

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep. 

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket. 

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James. 

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel. 

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.  

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it. 

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing. 

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded. 

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast. 

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery. 

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm. 

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.” 

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time. 

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent. 

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness. 

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams. 

Queen. 

You were Queen. 

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father. 

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges. 

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed. 

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all. 

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening. 

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage. 

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing. 

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep drinking, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press. 

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it. 

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm? 

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him. 

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit. 

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him. 

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers. 

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door. 

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls. 

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes. 

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night. 

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence. 

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running. 

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits. 

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful. 

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take. 

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James. 

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded. 

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs. 

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly. 

The gown was next. Then the jewels. 

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised,  He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded. 

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it. 

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought. 

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile,  — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked. 

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze 

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching. 

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks. 

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move. 

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you. 

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes. 

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin.  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once. 

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin. 

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world. 

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes. 

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not. 

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own. 

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked. 

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John. 

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders. 

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

-end.

[jaderabbitt]

job hunting is not going well and the only things getting me through the days rn are bucky fanfics, so I wanted to thank all my fellow writers committed to sharing our mutual love for everyone who may be struggling right now 💚

- rabbitt

[jaderabbitt]

fuel for the cinders - teaser

cinderella au - CEO!bucky x Assistant!reader

proof of concept for corporate cinderella au, as I nervously cope in light of the fact that I have an interview for a corporate position tomorrow afternoon. ate a whole pint of ben & jerry's strawberry cheesecake while writing this. i have this entire story planned out, but undecided on if it'll be multi-chapter or very long one-shot, as I'm horrible at actually continuing the series I start

This house was once your home, too. They say home is where your heart is, but your heart hasn’t been anywhere for some time now. The place that was supposed to bring you comfort and safety within its walls was now a prison with wooden banisters and a foyer. You couldn’t pinpoint when exactly it had begun to feel this way, but you assumed it was some time between your father passing and your stepmother finally inheriting what was supposed to be yours by right. You were too young to bear the burden of proof that she had forged your father’s will, but you remembered stoking the hearth’s fire that dreadful night. The wood was accompanied by remnants of paper, too burnt out to read what remained.  Looking back on it now, you couldn’t help but chuckle humorlessly at the irony. It was absolutely something she’d do–make you watch as your future burned right before your eyes, without even knowing it. You were so caught in the memory, you hadn’t realized that your eyes burned–not from being in front of smoke for too long, but because you had dissociated without blinking. You desperately wanted to rub at them, but knew you’d just end up smudging the makeup you haphazardly applied in the bathroom of the office this morning. It was simply one of those days. You had been kept up with cleaning all night, only to have to get up before the sun peeked over the horizon, courtesy of your boss being a morning person. You would’ve cursed Bucky Barnes up and down the streets of Brooklyn, carrying his coffee just the way he likes it, if it weren’t for the fact that any thought or mention of his name had you absolutely swooning. He had you wrapped around his fingers, and he didn’t even know your name. At least, you don’t think he did. He always accepted your offerings of coffee or paperwork with a “thank you, doll,” or “is this all, sweetheart?” Most days he wouldn’t even glance up from what he was working on. You wished he would, just so those steel blue eyes would meet yours. It’d make you weak in the knees, sure; and yeah, maybe you’d daydream about it for a month, but that secret would stay between you and the pretty pink thing in your nightstand drawer.  Despite having worked for the man for a few years, he never so much as acknowledged your presence past necessary interaction. Keeping it strictly professional, you supposed. That never stopped you from feeling the jaded grip of jealousy whenever he turned his attention to the inhabitants of a room, taking on that carefree smile and roguish charm. Invisible. Just as you always have been. The world had forgotten your name, and you were hoping that someday soon, you would too.

[jaderabbitt]

guys i know i just put out a poll but new sleep token dropped and im so fucking ASDFKRMEMDMF

i might make a Bucky 2k+ drabble challenge for myself with themes from every song in Even in Arcadia bc i already have works in my head hahajdnfmfmlw

[jaderabbitt]

returning to my roots of writing for vampires, but this time featuring bucky barnes 😌

i’ve got two different AU’s working simultaneously, but can’t decide which to finish first!

[jaderabbitt]

thinking about bucky finding nearly all shapes, sizes, and color of women attractive-- but specifically having a thing for curvy women / curvy!reader (as I mentioned in A New Kind of Love)

holy fuck I got carried away LMFAO OOPS, explicit content under the cut!! mdni!!

he was an avid bachelor in the 40s, and some things never change. he may not be as good as he once was when it comes to flirtations, but he's still got charm and he knows it. what has changed is the women who walk down the streets of new york city.

women wearing trousers was not unheard of, but was unusual. now, women wear clothes that are skin tight and accentuate all the right places.

bucky considers himself a respectful man, but even he is not above temptations.

his eyes would be trained on your figure as you walked around the apartment in your sleep shorts and a fitted tank top. you weren't intentionally trying to tease him--in fact, this was simply the most comfortable thing you had to wear around the house on a hot spring day. new york weather is temperamental; one day it's 80 degrees fahrenheit and sunny, and the next it's high 50s with rain for 5 days in a row.

humidity is also rampant, given the city is essentially interconnected islands. the climate is humid subtropical, meaning there's spring tropical storms as well.

put all that together and you get humid, hot days where a thin sheen of sweat coats your skin near permanently. you're sweating in places you didn't even think you could sweat in before. your thighs are chafing from the moisture combined with friction, the undersides of your breasts cling to cotton as you forego a bra. your ass is damn near eating your shorts with how they ride up, but you could never be bothered to find ones that fit loosely.

bucky, however, is too damn caught in how you must've been carved in venus' image. your skin glistens as if it were tempting him to have a taste, your clothes cling to your curves so beautifully that he might as well already have you nude beneath him. he's already painfully hard at the thought of fucking his cock in between your closed thighs, abusing your body's natural lubricants. his hands would grip the fat of your waist, clinging on to your softness like a lifeline.

he'd absolutely eat your pussy like a man starved, reveling in the salty addition of the sweat mixed with your slick that had been gathering from the minute you saw his dark, lazy gaze roving over your shape. his hands would knead the plush fat of your stomach as he dips his tongue inside of you. he gets so worked up over how sexy he finds your full figure that he'd have to grind against the sheets to relieve some of the pressure.

bucky still worries about losing control over his strength during sex, but the natural padding of your body eases a lot of that concern. he allows himself to get lost in the act--he knows that you can take him. one hand is calloused and hot against the expanse of your belly, the other cold and hardened, gripping the sheets tight enough to rip apart seams by your head. his hips piston into yours as he sheathes his length into your wet, aching heat. he adores the whines and gasps he forces out of you--he knows that he's the only one who ever has, and ever will, fill your cunt so completely that you can feel him all the way to your cervix. most men simply don't have the equipment to do so with your body, and he loves that thought.

when he knows he's getting closer to the edge, he'll wrap his arms around the curve of your back, slotting them between the pillowy rolls of skin and lift. it comes at no strain to him; his only goal is to press the soft curves of your figure as close to the hard, muscled planes of his own as he can. the change in angle has him hitting right into that special spot that makes you keen and arch into him even further. he'll press his temple into the space between your neck and shoulder and become very vocal all of a sudden, grunting and groaning by your ear. but, it isn't because of the effort it's taking him to hold you up, oh no--it's because he's trying not to blow his load before he's made you come one last time.

"Need you to come, baby-" he'd hiss, "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

he genuinely might tear up because he's unintentionally edging himself while trying to make sure he gives you the pleasure you earned by doing absolutely nothing but being so goddamn pretty.

he'd thank you for letting him worship you as he cleans up his spend from your thick thighs with a warm rag. you're just a bit confused because all you did today was clean up around the apartment in the loungewear you've probably worn for three nights straight and he's acting like you gifted him the sun and stars.

[jaderabbitt]

he's trying!! lmaoo still debating if I wanna slut it tf up next chapter or not

Marching Forward / A New Kind of Love (I)

warning!! slight thunderbolts* spoilers under the cut! this chapter is mostly just the gala + flashbacks, so nothing that people haven't already been writing for pre-release of the movie.

pairing: Bucky x ex-girlfriend/ex-widow!Reader tags: pre-established break-up, flashbacks, idiots still in love, idiots still in lust, angst, hurt+comfort, canon-level comedy, curvy!reader*, grownasswoman!reader, slightly bratty but funny reader

*I specifically wrote reader as having curves/meat on her bones because she's supposed to be around 30-35 by thunderbolts*. MILF era reader but subtract the child is upon us. I also generally head canon that Bucky would prefer a curvier woman bc she's soft and can take more iykwim warnings: suggestive content, dirty talking, mentions of death, mentions of hopelessness, slightly toxic relationship (will get fixed later also reader is kinda the toxic one), mentions of domestic abuse*, self-deprecation, reader is explicitly a woman, slight physical descriptors for reader but nothing drastic like hair skin or eyes, playing fast and loose with timelines

*reader was trained by the Winter Soldier in the Red Room, like in the comics. obv, he has laid hands on her bc he had to. reader also comments in a flashback that she expects Bucky to get mad and hit her, but he would never post!WS.

summary: after being separated for three years, you and Bucky finally see each other once more. lots of things have changed - but, have you?

word count: around 2.2k

note: see end of fic for footnotes!

It was a wonder that they let six-year-olds as small as Yelena play a sport.  Most likely, it had something to do with the fact that you lived in a small town in Ohio—there probably weren't many six-year-olds around to sign up. The soccer team was interspersed with girls her age and a year above.

You and Natasha sat next to Melina on the field’s bleachers, watching Alexei coach what had to be the worst children’s soccer team in existence. There were a couple girls who just plain looked confused, as if they didn’t know how to play soccer—despite this being the team’s fourth game.

The sun beat down onto the field, making you squint and hold a hand over your eyes to see past the reflections off metal bleachers. You watched as your youngest sister crouched to catch the ball with her comically large goalie gloves on, ending up missing the ball by the tips of her fingers. The parents on the other team cheered and clapped, while Alexei had to try and damage control the disappointed parents and young kids on your side of the field.

You and Natasha fooled around, cracking jokes about the girl who had a mishap on the field last game. Melina had pinched your arm in condemnation when she overheard you two snickering about it.

It was days like these that you’d end up missing the most. You had many pains in your life, ones that you’d remember during witching hours of restless nights.

You could still feel Dreykov’s nasty hands gripping you to separate you from your sisters. 

You could still remember how it felt to snap a neck for the first time.

You could still remember the betrayal you felt when Natasha defected, and left you and Yelena behind.

You could still remember the salted taste of your tears as you stood at her grave.

But the one that hurt most of all?

You could still remember the glisten of Bucky’s grey-blue eyes when you glanced back at him that last night in your shared apartment. He made no move to stop you from leaving, and there was a finality to that.

He had given up. On you, and on your relationship together. 

—————————

“If you do not succeed, then you have no purpose. The Red Room does not keep things without purpose.” ¹

Madame B’s voice rang through your mind like a scourge—an affliction, threaded deep through the hollows of your soul.

Purpose.

A simple word, but one which haunted your waking moments.

What purpose did you have in this life? An assassin, reared from birth, was all you’d ever be.

You had been given a short taste of what it would’ve been like, had you been birthed by a womb which cared. One where your purpose was to be a loving daughter and sister, who could do whatever she wanted with her life. Maybe, one day, you would’ve even been a wife.

Maybe, just maybe–

Your sister would still be alive. And, maybe, you wouldn’t have this cavernous, yearning hole within your being, swallowing everything you are. 

“And where does that leave me, James?” You had finally broken. Your voice raised, a finger pointed accusingly at his chest. “I’m not like you. I’m not like Natasha was. I can’t pretend to be anything other than a killer wearing a hero’s face.” ²

You immediately regretted your choice in words when Bucky’s face fell. There was no anger, no frustration. 

It was nauseating. You wanted him to yell back at you, to get furious. Hit you, even. 

Instead, he looked at you as if you had just shattered his fragile heart– broken it into tiny shards that pierced from within his chest cavity.

“Is that how you see me?” 

You escaped your subconscious in the backseat of a car service, digging your nails into the meat of your exposed thigh and leaving white scratch marks behind, soon to be raised welts. The dress you wore had a slit, cut high enough to show skin when you walked, but low enough to not be considered indecent. Your garter held an inconspicuous dagger on the inside of your thigh; you weren’t going to be caught without any sort of weapon, but even you weren’t bold enough to attempt bringing a firearm within reach of several government officials. The brush of the blade’s handle against the skin of the opposite thigh when you walked brought a consistent comfort, a subtle reminder it was there.

A figure, curved and matured with age, filled out the dress’ silhouette like a second skin. The ripples of fabric followed your body’s command as a stilettoed foot hit the pavement of the sidewalk. Adjusting the void of black wrapped around your skin and gripping your clutch tightly to your side, you let out an exhale that you didn’t realize you were holding. The car that had dropped you off had pulled away the minute you shut the door, and the nearest subway entrance was at least a ten block walk that you weren’t going to attempt in four inch pumps.

Alas, all arrows pointed to you being unable to escape what was sure to be an exhausting night.

The black-tie event had since been underway by the time you arrived. Though, you figured that may work better in your favor; not many people would be looking for a late entry to the party. Your stilettos clicked against polished marble, eyes scanning the room with a practiced gaze. Your glasses were set low on the curve of your nose, letting the false lashes you wore flutter against skin uninterrupted. The makeup you had applied suddenly felt heavy on your pores as you spotted the reason for your attendance.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine–what a mouthful–stood at the opposite balcony, seeming to be having a heated discussion with her assistant. Over what? That wasn’t your business. Your business with the Contessa began whenever she opened her mouth to give you your assignment, and ended whenever you completed the contract. You refused to associate with the avaricious woman more than was necessary. 

And, so, you began to work your way over.

You barely made it halfway before an arm had shot out and pulled you into a side hall. Either your reflexes have dulled in your time away from the field, or the arm that gripped yours was inhumanly fast. You were hoping it was the latter–you aren’t sure you could translate your skills to other fields if you were losing your touch.

You struggled against the arm around your waist, which only furthered the strength of the grip. Your backside collided with the soft, lean muscle of a man’s front. You were truthfully attempting not to make a scene–there were a very many violent options that you had been trained in to break a hold like this, but you had been trying not to bring attention to yourself.

“Again,” you panted out, your ribcage surely bruised from being thrown around with ease likened to a child throwing a toy. The man in front of you didn’t care, however. Neither would an opponent in the real world. So, you once again assumed your position. The mechanical whirr of his silver arm echoed within the walls of the old Belarusian training room as he readied his stance.

You darted towards him, using your smaller stature to your advantage–he may have more advanced reflexes than a normal human, but his bulky mass and metal arm weighed him down. He had anticipated you to jump him head on again, so you knew you had to find a way to break his focus. As he reached out to grab you with his metal hand, you slid in between his spread legs. His arm instinctively went to grip your waist behind him once he felt your arms on his shoulders, so you used that to boost your momentum and twist your body up and around to his front. Your thighs closed around his head and squeezed, blocking his sight and hearing. As you brought an elbow up to slam down on his–quite frankly–hard head, you felt his hands reach up and grasp the curves of your backside. The boldness of the touch had shocked your system frozen. ³

A grunt left his lips, muffled by your crotch, and that was the only warning you received before the tingle of your spine communicated that gravity was approaching, and fast. You could only gasp for air as your back hit the training mat, stealing what breath you still had away.

The impact had loosened the vice grip of your thighs, but the Soldier’s body stayed in what you could only describe as a compromising position. His gaze locked onto yours, lips parted and breathing hot puffs of air into your intimate area, knees buckled underneath him, and palms still flat against your bottom. The black of his pupils nearly engulfed the blue of his irises–he looked ready to devour you.

“Hey, hey!,” a low rasp grumbled in your ear, the sound of your name breaking you out of your stupor, “It’s me!”

You almost fought his grip even harder, now knowing who it was that held you. “Bucky, what the fuck!” You hissed, his grip finally loosening enough for you to break out and spin around to face your unwanted captor. His arms raised and his shoulders hunched in, he tried to make himself look smaller–or innocent, rather–in a placating manner.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “force of habit.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, using the hand not clenched around your clutch to rub at your temple; you knew you would have to have this moment eventually tonight, you just hadn’t thought it would happen immediately.

“You look…good,” were the words that came out of his mouth. He winced immediately after, as if kicking himself for saying it.

One brow quirked up, you couldn’t help the quip from leaving your mouth.

“You look…older. Is that grey I see in your beard?” You pretended to squint and pushed your glasses up your nose, as if you were trying to get a closer look. ⁴

He let out a huff–the closest you’d get to a laugh–and the side of his lips curled up a bit. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re not put on ice for years at a time.”

His brow furrowed suddenly, pointing at the glasses on your face. “What’s with the…?”

You let out a chuckle at that, the back and forth between you feeling natural. Like old times.

“Creature comfort,” you shrugged. ⁵

Your eyes roved up and down Bucky’s body, inspecting the changes. The way he clearly had been less rigorous with strength training, but his body clung to muscle mass naturally. “It’s a good look on you. I’d say you age like fine wine, but considering you’re probably older than most aged wines being sold currently, I think I might insult some vineyards.”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised at that, a smug smirk slowly lifting on his lips–

“That right?”

You could’ve sworn your heart skipped a beat as he leaned in closer, the notes of bergamot and cedar in his cologne suddenly becoming clear to your olfactory senses. You tried swallowing down the nerves growing in your throat, his eyes glancing down to the motion before slowly inspecting down your full figure and back up.

“You have no idea just how much you’re testing my restraint right now,” he murmured lowly, eyes hooded over as he looked down at you as if you were his prey for the night. Despite the added four inches from your stilettos, the bastard super soldier still towered over you.

“Bucky, I–”

“Ah, ah. You’re gonna turn that ass around, go do what you came here to do, and when you’re done, you’re gonna come back to my apartment with me and we’re gonna have a little chat.”

The commanding tone of his voice left no room for argument, but you found yourself testifying anyway.

“James, it’s been almost three years–”

You found yourself being manhandled, again, by your ex-boyfriend. He spun you around so that your back pressed against his chest again, his vibranium hand groping the swell of your ass. You had to bite down on your lower lip to prevent an embarrassing moan from escaping, watching people mingle around the hall without a notice or care in the world of what was happening just across the hall from them.

“And whose fault is that, hm?” He growled into your ear, “I haven’t seen my girl in three years. Not one call, text, or even a fucking email.”

“I’m not your girl anymore, remember?” You hissed out, rolling your eyes, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I haven’t been your girl since you let me walk out that door.”

“I didn’t let you do anything. You’re a grown fuckin’ woman and I respected your decision. If I were in the business of letting you do things, you’d be bent over that railing right now.”

“And become a scandalized Congressman? Is that truly worth it?”

“If it meant that I’d finally get a message through that thick fuckin’ skull of yours, then yes. I assassinated a U.S. President and still got voted in. A sex scandal could hardly scrape the bottom of the shit I’ve done.” ⁶

“Oh, please. You could’ve assassinated Hitler himself and there would still be a population of the American people who would try to get on your ass for having premarital sex.”

“Interesting foreplay this has been, I must admit–but you’re avoiding consequence by talking around the point.”

Well, shit. You were kinda hoping he hadn’t noticed.

¹ This is a line from “Sucker Punch” ! Dr. Gorsky fits the Red Room characterization so well imo.

² This was internal monologue from Bucky in Winter Soldier: Devil’s Reign. 

³ This is my poor attempt at describing the move Black Widow does on Bucky after he gets activated by Zemo in CA:CW. I always thought it’d be fun to make it more heated, seeing as how intimate of a position it looks without the context of a fight.

⁴ In my headcanon (bc truthfully I don’t know if they’ve ever confirmed this?), Bucky’s body ages with Sebastian Stan’s. So he’d be physically around his early 40s by the time Thunderbolts* happens. He’d be physically in his late 20s in Winter Soldier flashbacks, mid 30s in FATWS ones.

⁵ Can be implied that Reader doesn’t actually need glasses; this is relevant for later. If you do need glasses, this will also still work; it would just imply that Bucky was used to seeing her with contacts in. Could also just be read as a “Clark Kent Effect” where people don’t recognize a spy with glasses lmaoo.

⁶ I love Bucky “I Assassinated JFK And Got Away With It” Barnes.

[jaderabbitt]

Marching Forward / A New Kind of Love (I)

warning!! slight thunderbolts* spoilers under the cut! this chapter is mostly just the gala + flashbacks, so nothing that people haven't already been writing for pre-release of the movie.

pairing: Bucky x ex-girlfriend/ex-widow!Reader tags: pre-established break-up, flashbacks, idiots still in love, idiots still in lust, angst, hurt+comfort, canon-level comedy, curvy!reader*, grownasswoman!reader, slightly bratty but funny reader

*I specifically wrote reader as having curves/meat on her bones because she's supposed to be around 30-35 by thunderbolts*. MILF era reader but subtract the child is upon us. I also generally head canon that Bucky would prefer a curvier woman bc she's soft and can take more iykwim warnings: suggestive content, dirty talking, mentions of death, mentions of hopelessness, slightly toxic relationship (will get fixed later also reader is kinda the toxic one), mentions of domestic abuse*, self-deprecation, reader is explicitly a woman, slight physical descriptors for reader but nothing drastic like hair skin or eyes, playing fast and loose with timelines

*reader was trained by the Winter Soldier in the Red Room, like in the comics. obv, he has laid hands on her bc he had to. reader also comments in a flashback that she expects Bucky to get mad and hit her, but he would never post!WS.

summary: after being separated for three years, you and Bucky finally see each other once more. lots of things have changed - but, have you?

word count: around 2.2k

note: see end of fic for footnotes!

It was a wonder that they let six-year-olds as small as Yelena play a sport.  Most likely, it had something to do with the fact that you lived in a small town in Ohio—there probably weren't many six-year-olds around to sign up. The soccer team was interspersed with girls her age and a year above.

You and Natasha sat next to Melina on the field’s bleachers, watching Alexei coach what had to be the worst children’s soccer team in existence. There were a couple girls who just plain looked confused, as if they didn’t know how to play soccer—despite this being the team’s fourth game.

The sun beat down onto the field, making you squint and hold a hand over your eyes to see past the reflections off metal bleachers. You watched as your youngest sister crouched to catch the ball with her comically large goalie gloves on, ending up missing the ball by the tips of her fingers. The parents on the other team cheered and clapped, while Alexei had to try and damage control the disappointed parents and young kids on your side of the field.

You and Natasha fooled around, cracking jokes about the girl who had a mishap on the field last game. Melina had pinched your arm in condemnation when she overheard you two snickering about it.

It was days like these that you’d end up missing the most. You had many pains in your life, ones that you’d remember during witching hours of restless nights.

You could still feel Dreykov’s nasty hands gripping you to separate you from your sisters. 

You could still remember how it felt to snap a neck for the first time.

You could still remember the betrayal you felt when Natasha defected, and left you and Yelena behind.

You could still remember the salted taste of your tears as you stood at her grave.

But the one that hurt most of all?

You could still remember the glisten of Bucky’s grey-blue eyes when you glanced back at him that last night in your shared apartment. He made no move to stop you from leaving, and there was a finality to that.

He had given up. On you, and on your relationship together. 

—————————

“If you do not succeed, then you have no purpose. The Red Room does not keep things without purpose.” ¹

Madame B’s voice rang through your mind like a scourge—an affliction, threaded deep through the hollows of your soul.

Purpose.

A simple word, but one which haunted your waking moments.

What purpose did you have in this life? An assassin, reared from birth, was all you’d ever be.

You had been given a short taste of what it would’ve been like, had you been birthed by a womb which cared. One where your purpose was to be a loving daughter and sister, who could do whatever she wanted with her life. Maybe, one day, you would’ve even been a wife.

Maybe, just maybe–

Your sister would still be alive. And, maybe, you wouldn’t have this cavernous, yearning hole within your being, swallowing everything you are. 

“And where does that leave me, James?” You had finally broken. Your voice raised, a finger pointed accusingly at his chest. “I’m not like you. I’m not like Natasha was. I can’t pretend to be anything other than a killer wearing a hero’s face.” ²

You immediately regretted your choice in words when Bucky’s face fell. There was no anger, no frustration. 

It was nauseating. You wanted him to yell back at you, to get furious. Hit you, even. 

Instead, he looked at you as if you had just shattered his fragile heart– broken it into tiny shards that pierced from within his chest cavity.

“Is that how you see me?” 

You escaped your subconscious in the backseat of a car service, digging your nails into the meat of your exposed thigh and leaving white scratch marks behind, soon to be raised welts. The dress you wore had a slit, cut high enough to show skin when you walked, but low enough to not be considered indecent. Your garter held an inconspicuous dagger on the inside of your thigh; you weren’t going to be caught without any sort of weapon, but even you weren’t bold enough to attempt bringing a firearm within reach of several government officials. The brush of the blade’s handle against the skin of the opposite thigh when you walked brought a consistent comfort, a subtle reminder it was there.

A figure, curved and matured with age, filled out the dress’ silhouette like a second skin. The ripples of fabric followed your body’s command as a stilettoed foot hit the pavement of the sidewalk. Adjusting the void of black wrapped around your skin and gripping your clutch tightly to your side, you let out an exhale that you didn’t realize you were holding. The car that had dropped you off had pulled away the minute you shut the door, and the nearest subway entrance was at least a ten block walk that you weren’t going to attempt in four inch pumps.

Alas, all arrows pointed to you being unable to escape what was sure to be an exhausting night.

The black-tie event had since been underway by the time you arrived. Though, you figured that may work better in your favor; not many people would be looking for a late entry to the party. Your stilettos clicked against polished marble, eyes scanning the room with a practiced gaze. Your glasses were set low on the curve of your nose, letting the false lashes you wore flutter against skin uninterrupted. The makeup you had applied suddenly felt heavy on your pores as you spotted the reason for your attendance.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine–what a mouthful–stood at the opposite balcony, seeming to be having a heated discussion with her assistant. Over what? That wasn’t your business. Your business with the Contessa began whenever she opened her mouth to give you your assignment, and ended whenever you completed the contract. You refused to associate with the avaricious woman more than was necessary. 

And, so, you began to work your way over.

You barely made it halfway before an arm had shot out and pulled you into a side hall. Either your reflexes have dulled in your time away from the field, or the arm that gripped yours was inhumanly fast. You were hoping it was the latter–you aren’t sure you could translate your skills to other fields if you were losing your touch.

You struggled against the arm around your waist, which only furthered the strength of the grip. Your backside collided with the soft, lean muscle of a man’s front. You were truthfully attempting not to make a scene–there were a very many violent options that you had been trained in to break a hold like this, but you had been trying not to bring attention to yourself.

“Again,” you panted out, your ribcage surely bruised from being thrown around with ease likened to a child throwing a toy. The man in front of you didn’t care, however. Neither would an opponent in the real world. So, you once again assumed your position. The mechanical whirr of his silver arm echoed within the walls of the old Belarusian training room as he readied his stance.

You darted towards him, using your smaller stature to your advantage–he may have more advanced reflexes than a normal human, but his bulky mass and metal arm weighed him down. He had anticipated you to jump him head on again, so you knew you had to find a way to break his focus. As he reached out to grab you with his metal hand, you slid in between his spread legs. His arm instinctively went to grip your waist behind him once he felt your arms on his shoulders, so you used that to boost your momentum and twist your body up and around to his front. Your thighs closed around his head and squeezed, blocking his sight and hearing. As you brought an elbow up to slam down on his–quite frankly–hard head, you felt his hands reach up and grasp the curves of your backside. The boldness of the touch had shocked your system frozen. ³

A grunt left his lips, muffled by your crotch, and that was the only warning you received before the tingle of your spine communicated that gravity was approaching, and fast. You could only gasp for air as your back hit the training mat, stealing what breath you still had away.

The impact had loosened the vice grip of your thighs, but the Soldier’s body stayed in what you could only describe as a compromising position. His gaze locked onto yours, lips parted and breathing hot puffs of air into your intimate area, knees buckled underneath him, and palms still flat against your bottom. The black of his pupils nearly engulfed the blue of his irises–he looked ready to devour you.

“Hey, hey!,” a low rasp grumbled in your ear, the sound of your name breaking you out of your stupor, “It’s me!”

You almost fought his grip even harder, now knowing who it was that held you. “Bucky, what the fuck!” You hissed, his grip finally loosening enough for you to break out and spin around to face your unwanted captor. His arms raised and his shoulders hunched in, he tried to make himself look smaller–or innocent, rather–in a placating manner.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “force of habit.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, using the hand not clenched around your clutch to rub at your temple; you knew you would have to have this moment eventually tonight, you just hadn’t thought it would happen immediately.

“You look…good,” were the words that came out of his mouth. He winced immediately after, as if kicking himself for saying it.

One brow quirked up, you couldn’t help the quip from leaving your mouth.

“You look…older. Is that grey I see in your beard?” You pretended to squint and pushed your glasses up your nose, as if you were trying to get a closer look. ⁴

He let out a huff–the closest you’d get to a laugh–and the side of his lips curled up a bit. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re not put on ice for years at a time.”

His brow furrowed suddenly, pointing at the glasses on your face. “What’s with the…?”

You let out a chuckle at that, the back and forth between you feeling natural. Like old times.

“Creature comfort,” you shrugged. ⁵

Your eyes roved up and down Bucky’s body, inspecting the changes. The way he clearly had been less rigorous with strength training, but his body clung to muscle mass naturally. “It’s a good look on you. I’d say you age like fine wine, but considering you’re probably older than most aged wines being sold currently, I think I might insult some vineyards.”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised at that, a smug smirk slowly lifting on his lips–

“That right?”

You could’ve sworn your heart skipped a beat as he leaned in closer, the notes of bergamot and cedar in his cologne suddenly becoming clear to your olfactory senses. You tried swallowing down the nerves growing in your throat, his eyes glancing down to the motion before slowly inspecting down your full figure and back up.

“You have no idea just how much you’re testing my restraint right now,” he murmured lowly, eyes hooded over as he looked down at you as if you were his prey for the night. Despite the added four inches from your stilettos, the bastard super soldier still towered over you.

“Bucky, I–”

“Ah, ah. You’re gonna turn that ass around, go do what you came here to do, and when you’re done, you’re gonna come back to my apartment with me and we’re gonna have a little chat.”

The commanding tone of his voice left no room for argument, but you found yourself testifying anyway.

“James, it’s been almost three years–”

You found yourself being manhandled, again, by your ex-boyfriend. He spun you around so that your back pressed against his chest again, his vibranium hand groping the swell of your ass. You had to bite down on your lower lip to prevent an embarrassing moan from escaping, watching people mingle around the hall without a notice or care in the world of what was happening just across the hall from them.

“And whose fault is that, hm?” He growled into your ear, “I haven’t seen my girl in three years. Not one call, text, or even a fucking email.”

“I’m not your girl anymore, remember?” You hissed out, rolling your eyes, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I haven’t been your girl since you let me walk out that door.”

“I didn’t let you do anything. You’re a grown fuckin’ woman and I respected your decision. If I were in the business of letting you do things, you’d be bent over that railing right now.”

“And become a scandalized Congressman? Is that truly worth it?”

“If it meant that I’d finally get a message through that thick fuckin’ skull of yours, then yes. I assassinated a U.S. President and still got voted in. A sex scandal could hardly scrape the bottom of the shit I’ve done.” ⁶

“Oh, please. You could’ve assassinated Hitler himself and there would still be a population of the American people who would try to get on your ass for having premarital sex.”

“Interesting foreplay this has been, I must admit–but you’re avoiding consequence by talking around the point.”

Well, shit. You were kinda hoping he hadn’t noticed.

¹ This is a line from “Sucker Punch” ! Dr. Gorsky fits the Red Room characterization so well imo.

² This was internal monologue from Bucky in Winter Soldier: Devil’s Reign. 

³ This is my poor attempt at describing the move Black Widow does on Bucky after he gets activated by Zemo in CA:CW. I always thought it’d be fun to make it more heated, seeing as how intimate of a position it looks without the context of a fight.

⁴ In my headcanon (bc truthfully I don’t know if they’ve ever confirmed this?), Bucky’s body ages with Sebastian Stan’s. So he’d be physically around his early 40s by the time Thunderbolts* happens. He’d be physically in his late 20s in Winter Soldier flashbacks, mid 30s in FATWS ones.

⁵ Can be implied that Reader doesn’t actually need glasses; this is relevant for later. If you do need glasses, this will also still work; it would just imply that Bucky was used to seeing her with contacts in. Could also just be read as a “Clark Kent Effect” where people don’t recognize a spy with glasses lmaoo.

⁶ I love Bucky “I Assassinated JFK And Got Away With It” Barnes.

[jaderabbitt]

can you give us the title maybe or a lead about this person using ai? i want to block them for that

i’m not in the business of witch hunting, but i also firmly believe that people should be ashamed of using AI willingly.

here’s the post, and I screenshotted the AI prompt response too.

if that person happens to see this: please educate yourself on the unethical use of AI and dear god I hope you never used anyone’s hard work as direct input.

[jaderabbitt]

was reading through a fic on here that felt…off? in its writing, but was otherwise an interesting story. until i got to later in the story and the person forgot to erase the AI prompt response.

i’d literally rather your writing be shitty and barely there than using AI to write. at least then i know you had the heart.

i will never consent to AI being used on my writing nor will i ever use it. good fucking grief.

[jaderabbitt]

Mirrored in Darkness

WARNING: BIG FAT THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS!!! DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU WANT TO STAY UNSPOILED!!!

consider yourselves warned. do not cry to me if you didn't listen.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

tags: angst, angst with happy ending, love confessions, time loop, no use of y/n

warnings: canon-typical violence, child death (unrelated to pairing), descriptions of blood, she/her pronouns used, changing of POVs denoted by text style

summary: You and Bucky enter the Void, trying to find Yelena. Neither of you knew what to expect, but it hadn't been this.

word count: 1.3k

note: someone somewhere had asked for what Bucky would find in reader's void, and so I combined the two hehe. i'll probably go see thunderbolts again soon, so expect more fics as I flesh out my memory of the movie!! please god send me asks or ideas relating to it.

song for this fic is: exit in darkness by A.A. Williams

When you opened your eyes…

When he opened his eyes…

You saw the acrid halls of a villa. You blinked the awareness back into your eyes as you studied your surroundings. The hallway was familiar, but it wasn’t until you saw your own form, stalking through it, that you recognized it truly. You watched with a growing dread as your needle focused eyes sought out their target, pistol in hand. The door at the end of the hall was half ajar, lamplight seeping through the cracks.

He saw a familiar body, crouched atop a hillside that had a vantage point over the villa. Large, high-caliber Soviet rifle in hand. The Winter Soldier. His scope was trained on the figure within the study, but his finger lay prone, parallel to the trigger. This wasn’t his target to take.

“No…”

“No…”

Your memory figure didn’t hear your gasp, didn’t acknowledge how you covered your mouth with your hand to silence your cries. Your feet planted themselves into the ground as if you had roots spreading beneath you. Your eyes couldn’t look away as your body slinked into the room, a single shot letting out. Another one added for good measure.

Bucky watched your figure move into the study silently, not giving the man within the time to register your presence before you put a bullet in between his eyes. You shot a second one into his heart to ensure the kill. The Soldier moved away from his scope, choosing to watch you from his perch with his own enhanced eyes. You looked up to where you knew he was, even if you couldn’t actually see the Soldier’s hulking form amongst the darkness. He clicked his laser sight twice, a code meaning ‘kill confirmed’.

You knew what came next.

He knew what came next.

She was supposed to be with her mom this weekend. She wasn’t supposed to be here—

Intel had said her mother had custody this weekend. The villa was supposed to be empty, except for the target.

The little girl’s pigtails bounced precariously as she made her way to her father’s study at the end of the hall. The purple cotton of her little nightie swished at her knees, her teddy bear hugged close to her chest. She had heard the shots, saw the rapid light that came from the muzzle, and assumed it had been lightning.

She was scared.

You followed into the room, unable to turn your eyes away from the sight before you. Your memory turned around swiftly at the sound of the door creaking and pointed her gun at you, but your mirrored eyes did not register a being there. Instead, your gaze drifted down, and so did your gun.

The Soldier’s jaw had clenched as he realigned his eye to the scope of the rifle, his mask making a clinking sound as it hit the side of his gun. Bucky’s breathing hitched, his enhanced hearing filtering out the noise of the forest surrounding, listening to the small voice within the villa. 

“Qui es-tu ? Où est papa ?” (Who are you? Where is papa?)

The young girl, no older than four or five, hugged her bear impossibly closer to herself.

Your shaking hand mirrored the motions of yourself from the past, as if you knew the script by heart. Tears stained your cheeks, a mimicry of the little girl in front of you. Your arm raised, hand pressed into your ear for a comms device.

Bucky didn’t register that he was seeing double of you. His mind had sunk too far into the memory, hearing the uncertain voice from your past self. 

“Soldat… I’ve been compromised.”

You didn’t need to see the shine of his scope through the floor to ceiling windows to know he was watching the entire situation play out. You didn’t need to have his rasped voice sound within your ear to know what he said.

Your mind spoke it for you, anyways.

“нет свидетелей.” (No witnesses.)

Your eyes shut and your head turned, not wanting to see the high caliber shot pierce through the little girl’s heart. If you didn’t see it happen here, you could ignore the fact that you had watched it happen. You did know what it looked like. Your mirrored visage stood stock still, blood spattered against her neck and jaw.

Bucky fell to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut as he pounded his vibranium hand against his head. He had enough nightmares of this memory. He couldn’t bear to relive it again. The shot that rang out from the sniper echoed in his mind, the cold and indifferent tone of his own voice haunted him. How could he take that shot? Even as the Soldier. 

You blinked, left in confusion as you were back in the hallway. When it registered what was happening, your sobs echoed throughout the villa.

You were stalking the halls again, pistol raised.

The Soldier was adjusting his scope again, following the man in the study with the rifle.

—

Two shots rang out again. You were hyperventilating and cowering against the wall of the hallway, covering your ears to avoid the sounds. You rocked back and forth, trying to remind yourself that it wasn’t real.

But it was. This happened. This wasn’t just some trick of the mind, this was a memory.  Your worst nightmare.

It took you until the third shake of your body to realize that something was too intense to be the self-soothing rocking back and forth you were doing. You opened your clenched eyes and lifted your hands from your ears slowly as your gaze met Bucky’s blues.

Your Bucky. Not the Soldier, but the man.

His hands cupped your face, pressing his temple against yours. He whispered your name like a mantra, supplemented with “I’m here, sweetheart, we can get through this.”

You nodded in reply, too afraid of your own shadow at this point to risk your voice coming out as anything else but a choked sob. His thumbs wiped at your tear streaks gently, as if you were the most delicate creature he’s laid eyes on. Your hands moved to mirror his own, feeling his loose hair tickle your knuckles.

The urge to let out what was always unsaid between you overcame your willpower, and you muttered those three short words that somehow meant the world. 

It was an unspoken rule between you two, having gone on for years. If neither of you said it, you could ignore the implications of what being together would have in store. But, being in here—in your darkest hour—you realized that you couldn’t keep living like you had.

It was never truly living, denying yourself your greatest boon. Even in your hellish nightmare, there he was. 

Taking the shots you couldn’t bear to. Taking the pain you could never shoulder. 

And, so, you broke the rule.

So did he.

He buried his face into your neck and wrapped his arms around your torso, clinging to your body as if he was afraid it would be taken from him any moment now. Sobs wracked through his body, his shoulders betraying his attempt to hide his gasps for air.

You fared no better, pressing his head further into your skin as if you were afraid he’d leave you any moment now, a near perfect parallel. 

The lights in each other’s void.

Both too broken to find it within themselves, so they sought it out within the other—souls mirrored, but aligned.

You both lifted your heads at the sound of a door creaking, turning to see within the room of that misfortunate little girl.

What stared back at you was the end of this trial. There was always another fight. Another war.

But, this time?

This time, you held each other’s light. The darkness would no longer be ventured alone.

Dividers by @cafekitsune | xoxo

[jaderabbitt]

alfjhbdafljh the art piece I based this off of genuinely scared me a lil bit when I first saw it (seen in Nightcall's post!). initially, it inspired me to write a spooky dub-con piece to a multi-chapter story I've been putting together but then I was like what if I babygirl-ified him instead..

thinking about how being the girlfriend/partner of winter soldier!bucky would highkey be like living in a horror movie.

not in the way that you’re afraid he’d purposefully harm you, but in the way that he’s literally a ghost in the flesh.

you wake up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. splaying your hand over his side of the bed, you notice it has lost almost all warmth or sign of his presence. you assume he may have had trouble sleeping, and was probably somewhere in the living room, counting his ammo stocks for the umpteenth time. you turn your head, moving to grab your phone off the nightstand and—

piercing blue eyes are right next to your face. staring at you as if you would disappear if he removed his gaze. his head is tilted at an angle, his signature micro-expression to demonstrate his questioning at something. you’d usually find this action cute, but right now? he looks terrifying. his mask in its place, set atop his jaw, and his full tac suit makes most of him shadowed in the dark of night. its no wonder he was the world’s best assassin.

your first instinct is to scream. your first reflex is to punch him. his senses are still too honed, and his metal palm catches your fist.

“jesus FUCK, james! what were you doing?!”

he furrows his brows before answering in that deep rasp of his.

“you looked peaceful.”

you’re too tired to read into the deeper implications at that time.

another time was when you were picking him up after he had wandered off to try and remember anything.

you had parked in a mostly abandoned lot, as he had designated as his “extraction”.

he had a lot of reacclimatizing to do.

you were scrolling through your phone, and you saw a figure approaching your car from your rearview mirror.

when you didn’t hear the telltale sound of the door opening and closing to your right, you finally looked up at your rearview mirror again.

kohl-lined eyes stared back at you.

from within the car.

you nearly had a heart attack.

you yelped and whipped around in your seat so fast, you nearly gave yourself rug burn from the seatbelt, looking back at him to confirm he was actually there and you didn’t hallucinate.

“james. why are you in the backseat?”

“wanted to stretch out my legs.”

he’d be the death of you some day. (accidentally)

[jaderabbitt]

JadeRabbitt's Masterlist

Updated: May 5th , 2025

Send me Asks! I love sparks of inspiration and your passion for the characters you love is inspiring. Or, if you just want to chat, that's okay too. xoxo, rabbitt

2025 and Onwards:

Bucky Barnes

Marching Forward / A New Kind of Love | one |

You and Bucky have been separated for 3 years. Lots of things have changed - but, have you?

Mirrored in Darkness

You and Bucky venture into the **** to rescue ******. You didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. (censored for Thunderbolts* spoilers. someone remind me to uncensor this later lol.)

Incidents | one | two |

the many, many times in which people find out about the existence of you—Mrs. Barnes.

Echoes of You | one |

Bucky’s been hearing a voice for a long time. It began as the Soldat, and lingers even now. You’re his Angel—the voice in his head that he sometimes hallucinates into the form of a woman. Remnants of Hydra seizing his brain for so long—consequences of repeated head trauma, he assumes. He’s never told anyone about you, and he intended to keep it that way.

Nightcall

Based on this ask.

Lapslock Drabbles | one | two (explicit content!!) |

2024 and Prior:

To be added.

Dividers by @cafekitsune | xoxo

[jaderabbitt]

reblog if you’re okay with people writing fanfics of your fanfics and/or fanfics inspired by your fanfics

[jaderabbitt]

just saw thunderbolts*….

how soon is too soon to release fics with spoilers /hj