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winterarmyy · 10 months ago

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Against All Odds | Part I

An arranged marriage with the duke's illegitimate son!bucky.

Summary: In a medieval kingdom where magic and political intrigue are woven into the fabric of society, Y/N, the youngest daughter of a noble Earl family, finds herself in an arranged marriage to James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke. Known as the Winter Soldier, Bucky's reputation as a monster in war had instilled anxiety into Y/N's heart. But that fear quickly begins to crumble when she discovers that her husband is not the brutal figure society depicts him to be.

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)

Words: 8.1k++

Pairing: duke's illegitimate son!bucky x noble!female!reader

Warnings: fantasy/medieval au, i did not write this with much knowledge of fantasy nor medieval lore. I write it solely for plot and the couple dynamic lmao. if you're expecting full blown fantasy novel; this ain't it, man. anyways, 18+ contents, no minors allowed, nsfw, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint), marking kink (i think), soft fluffy smut, a wee bit of dirty talk. soft!reader and even softer!bucky. (idk what else, so tell me if there's something i miss.)

P/S: This is the fic for an idea I had earlier this year. The first chapter will only cover the original post but what happens next is something you will need to look forward on the upcoming chapters. Enjoy your read!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N stood in front of the grand mirror in her chamber, her reflection staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. The delicate lace of her wedding dress was the opposite of the twisting anxiety in her stomach. Today, she was to marry James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke of the kingdom, a man labelled to be more beast than human.

He was known as the Winter Soldier, a title whispered with both fear and awe. Tales of his gruesome feats in battle, his merciless brutality, and his cold, metal arm was deemed as a horror story for the children in the kingdom. People spoke of him as a monstrous weapon, a beast moulded by the Emperor to do his bidding without question or hesitation.

Y/N had heard the stories many times before; and it has always been a hushed conversation that floats around whether a ballroom of a gala, or at the tables of the garden parties, sometimes even in between the racks of books in the library.

They always painted a picture of a man who lived only for war, devoid of humanity.

She couldn't help but let these tales feed her imagination. What kind of man was he truly? Did he revel in the violence, or was he a prisoner to his fate? Y/N shuddered at the thought, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty.

Her father, the Earl, had made it clear why she needed to marry him. It was a political manoeuvre, a strategic alliance to strengthen their family's position. The duke, Bucky's father, wielded considerable power, and their union would bring the Earl closer to the heart of the kingdom's influence.

And when he heard that the duke was looking for a wife for his bastard son, he knew that she would be perfect. That was when Y/N, the youngest daughter, became the pawn in this game. Her father's ambitions certainly outweighed any consideration for her feelings or desires.

Y/N had always longed for a marriage of love, a dream she clung to despite her circumstances. She was a hopeless romantic through and through; much like her late mother. She remembered the nights when her mother would read to her and her siblings, spinning tales of prince charming and valiant heroes.

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as her mother’s soothing voice filled the room. Y/N and her siblings, her older brother Eric and sister Clara, lay tucked under blankets, their eyes wide with wonder.

"And then the prince, with a heart full of love, swept the princess into his arms, vowing to protect her forever," her mother read, her voice a melodic whisper.

Y/N, her eyes sparkling with innocence, declared, "When I grow up, I want to marry a prince charming too!"

Clara, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. "Me too! He has to be brave and kind."

Eric, being a little boy, scrunched his nose in distaste. "I don’t want to get married. I want to be a knight!"

Their mother chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead. "It does not matter if he is a prince charming or a humble knight. As long as you marry the one you love, that is what truly matters."

Y/N's heart ached at the memory. How she wished her mother were still here to guide her through this terrifying day. The gentle knock on the door brought her back to the present.

"Lady Y/N, it’s time," one of the maids said softly.

Y/N took a long and deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. She followed the maid down the corridor, her mind a swirl of emotions. Reaching the grand doors of the church, her father waited for her.

"Remember, Y/N," he said, his voice stern. "Do not mess this up. Just endure it. And you'll be fine. This is the most useful you can be to our family."

Her heart sank further; yet she nodded obediently.

Compared to Y/N, her elder brother, a celebrated swordsman, and her sister, a master in the art of business, had always outshone her in their father's eyes. Y/N's talent with languages; ancient and modern – was seen as a useless skill, something that brought no tangible benefit to the family.

Her father had never been cruel when she was younger but everything changed when her mother died. In fact, everyone in the family had lost a piece of their soul when she left. Now, his lack of affection only increases the number of scars on her heart.

The doors opened, revealing the crowds of high-ranking nobles; who were mostly strangers – staring at her. Some were judging her; some pitied her. She reminded herself that she was doing this for her family, for the greater good. But the little girl inside her who dreamed of prince charming certainly felt a pang of sorrow.

As she walked down the aisle, her legs trembled, and her hands shook so violently that she had to clasp them together to steady herself. From afar, she saw the silhouette of the man she was destined to marry. His tall and huge figure stood out compared to anyone in the hall. As she got closer, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to look up at her husband-to-be.

When she finally reached the altar, the priest began the ceremony. His speech was long and dragging, giving Y/N too much time to entertain her growing curiosity that she dared to glance up at the man next to her. Even from behind the veil, she could see his towering and broad-shouldered build, his presence commanding the room. His long hair was slightly untamed, and a scruffy beard framed his face. His metal hand, glinting in the sun that leaked through the church’s windows, was a jarring reminder of the rumors that surrounded him.

There were no heartfelt vows to recite to each other; only their promise of "I do" was exchanged. And that was the first time Y/N heard his voice. It was deep and resonant, sending a shiver down her spine; but there was a certain warmth in it that contrasted sharply with his fearsome reputation.

When the priest announced their union and Bucky lifted her veil, Y/N was struck by the unexpected gentleness in his eyes. They were a brilliant, mesmerizing blue, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. Bucky's eyes softened as he looked at her, his gaze tender and almost reverent. Slowly, he placed one hand gently around her waist, pulling her slightly closer. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle against her skin.

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as he leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. When his lips met hers, they were soft, warm, and so unexpected. She could smell his cologne; an earthy, woodsy scent mixed with a hint of something fruity; like peaches or tangerines. It made her head spin and her heart jumped all at the same time.

The kiss was gentle and unhurried, very much differs to the forceful gesture she had feared. As he pulled away, Y/N found herself blinking slowly, her cheeks flushed and her fear momentarily replaced by confusion and a surprising awe. She was caught off guard by the tenderness of his touch, the way his lips had brushed against hers so gently.

Could the rumors about him be wrong?

"I’m sorry if I startled you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I hope I didn’t scare you, my dear."

Y/N blinked slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in her emotions. The fear that had gripped her so tightly seemed to dissipate, replaced by a confusing mix of relief and intrigue. Her hands, which had been trembling, now rested at her sides, feeling strangely steady. Her eyes met his, and she could see softness in his gaze that contradicted the harsh rumors she had heard.

“I—no, you didn’t scare me,” she managed to say; her voice barely more than a whisper. She took a deep breath, her cheeks getting warmer as she processed the endearment he just called her. On the other hand, her mind was racing as she tried to reconcile the man in front of her with the fearsome figure of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s eyes mellowed even further, his gaze glazed with a tenderness that seemed to pierce through the weight of the room. A warm smile spread across his face, and he held her gaze with a comforting assurance.

“Good,” he said, his voice carrying a gentle affection. “I’m glad to hear that.”

The reception that followed was a blur of faces and polite conversation. Y/N moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky than the rumors suggested. Every time she caught his eye, he gave her a small, reassuring smile that made the butterflies inside of her go wild.

As the evening drew to a close, they were escorted to one of the Emperor’s palaces, a grand and opulent residence that was to serve as their temporary home before they traveled north to Bucky’s territory. The palace, with its lavish furnishings and golden accents, seemed to mock the uncertainty Y/N felt. She had been assigned a chamber to prepare for the night, and the palace maids were bustling around her, helping her into a set of elaborate, far-from-modest lingerie.

The palace’s maids’ whispers and side glances did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. Their condescending tones and occasional snickers were laced with cruel speculation about how roughly Bucky would treat her. The more Y/N overheard, the more her apprehension grew. Despite the gentleness Bucky had shown her earlier, she found herself doubting its sincerity.

Could he really be the caring husband he appeared to be, or was it all just an elaborate show?

The maids finally left, their laughter fading down the hallway, leaving Y/N alone in the grand chamber. Her heart raced, and cold sweat formed at her brow as she sat quietly on the edge of the ornate bed. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The room felt enormous, its sheer size heightening her sense of isolation and dread.

The door creaked open, and Bucky entered the room. Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as she heard the heavy, measured footsteps approaching. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her body tense and her mind a swirl of panic and unease. She almost held her breath entire when she felt the slight indentation of the mattress beside her.

“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice was soft and coaxing, a distinct difference to the coldness she was expecting. “Look at me.” He continued. She hesitated momentarily; torn between obeying and disobeying but ultimately decided to raise her eyes to meet his.

The sight of him; his upper body bare, revealing a tapestry of scars and the stark metal of his prosthetic arm; made her breath hitch. Her eyes traced the lines of his faded wound, particularly the jagged marks where his shoulder met his metal arm. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow and concern. Her fingers, almost of their own accord, reached out to trace the contours of his chest and shoulder.

Bucky let the innocence of her touch to trace the most tainted parts of him; however noting her trembling eyes, he misunderstood her apprehension. “I want you to know, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, “that I will never hurt you. You are safe with me.”

Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. She felt an unexplainable pain growing in her chest as she gazed at him. Her fingers still lightly touching his scars; her eyes, full of unshed tears, silently asked a question she was too afraid to voice. “Does it still hurt?” she wanted to ask, her expression betraying her concern.

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with affection, and he took her hand in his, holding it tenderly against his chest. “Don't worry. It does not hurt anymore,” he said with a reassuring smile.

The connection between them was electric, charged with a deep, unspoken understanding. Bucky’s gaze was steady and filled with a depth of unspoken emotion that took Y/N’s breath away. “I know this is difficult for you, Y/N,” he said, his voice laden with sincerity. “But I promise, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His words and the way he looked at her left Y/N feeling both comforted and overwhelmed. For the first time since their wedding, she felt a genuine, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, their marriage could become something more than a mere political arrangement. Bucky’s assurances, his gentleness, and the tenderness in his eyes began to dissolve the fears she had harboured since the beginning of their union.

As they sat there, the weight of the night’s expectations seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile but growing trust. Y/N had entered this marriage with a sense of duty, convinced that she would have to endure the consummation of their union as a matter of obligation. But Bucky’s tenderness, his understanding, and the sincere reassurance he had given her began to change her perspective.

The idea of fulfilling her marital duty had initially felt like a burden she had to bear. She had steeled herself to face it with resignation, convinced that it was merely another part of her role in this arranged marriage. But now, she found herself reconsidering. The idea of being with him no longer felt like an obligation but a possibility of something more profound and intimate.

Y/N hands softly toyed with the delicate strings of her sheer lingerie, pulling it softly as her doe eyes signalled her husband of her intention. Bucky, sensing the shift in her demeanor, looked into her eyes with a mixture of concern and affection. “Are you sure, my dear?” he asked softly. “I want you to feel safe with me and not afraid of me.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered as she met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the depth of her emotions. “I am,” she said with quiet conviction. “I feel safe with you, James”

Bucky's hand naturally went to brush her hair behind her ear, “It’s Bucky, my dear,” he corrected softly.

“Hmm?” she asked, slightly puzzled.

He chuckled warmly. “You can call me Bucky from now on. It’s a nickname only a selected few who I trust and love knows.” Her eyes sparkled at his choice words; trust and love.

“Bucky…” she tested the name on her tongue, the syllables feeling strangely intimate. Upon hearing his name from her lips, Bucky’s heart swelled, almost bursting from his ribcage. He hummed in approval, “That's right, my dear. I’m your Bucky.”

His reassuring smile grew wider, his calloused thumb gently stroke her cheek causing a shiver to strum all over her nerves; sending an emerging desire. One she had not fully acknowledged until now. The way he looked at her, the pure and raw endearment in his eyes, and the softness of his touch stirred something deep within her.

As the moments passed, Y/N realised she wanted this. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, to explore the warmth of his hands, to connect with him on a level she had longed for. The yearning for his touch, which had been dormant under layers of fear and uncertainty, now surged forward with undeniable intensity.

Without fully understanding why, Y/N found herself leaning closer to him, her breath coming in soft, eager gasps. She whispered, her voice barely audible but full of longing, “Bucky, please.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and a tender light filled his blue eyes, “May I?” he asked, his voice low and gentle as he held out his hand. There a shy hesitation before she finally placed her hand in his.

With a gentle but firm pull, Bucky lifted her onto his lap, his careful hands beginning the process of undressing her. Each movement was full of care, yet almost deliberate, as he slowly removed her dress, leaving her in nothing but the flimsy lace piece covering the sacred area between her thighs.

Bucky's eyes roamed over her bare skin, admiration clear in his gaze. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced every curve and contour of her body. The intensity of it made her feel both vulnerable and cherished, a potent combination that sent pleasurable shivers all over her body.

Seeing the hunger in his blue eyes, she felt the warmth of his body and caught the scent of him; the same once she noticed at the church; warm and comforting. Her breath quickened, and she found herself unsure of what to do or where to place her hands, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Noticing the subtle panic, Bucky reached for her hands and guided them through the thick strands of his long hair. “You can touch me as you please, my dear,” he whispered, his voice soothing as he reassured her. He leaned in to kiss her bare shoulder, then moved up to her neck, along her jaw, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin.

Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, the softness surprising her. The intimacy of the moment, combined with his gentle kisses, began to dissolve the last remnants of her anxiety. The feel of his lips on her skin was electrifying, each kiss sending waves of sensation she never felt before.

Bucky’s hands, still careful and tender, caressed her back, drawing her closer to him. Her breath hitched as he kissed the valley of her breasts; soft gasps escaping her lips as Bucky begins to lick and sucked on her delicate skin; likely trying to mark his claim on her.

Every touch and little kisses he left sent shivers straight to her already dripping core. And by the time his lips grazed her nipple, her body jerked forward; in response, unintentionally dragging her aching pussy against his thick thigh.

His lips latched around her right nipples as he licks and sucks the hardening skin; lapping at it as if he was feeding from her. The sensation was overwhelming, yet she found herself leaning into his touch, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. The grip on his hair grew tighter as the strings of moans poured out her lips.

Bucky’s large hands find their place on her hips, guiding her to gently rut on his thigh. Trusting him, she followed his lead as he continue to grind her clit through the thin fabric she was wearing; introducing the sweet friction in on her core. Bucky pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his expression filled with a mixture of subtle affection and desire. “You’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Can feel your pussy leaking on me. Do you feel good?” he murmured as he dipped back to kiss her neck.

Oh, he was filthy with his choice of words but surprisingly she was not mad about it. In fact she didn’t even notice the whimpers purring in her throat upon hearing those sinful words.

It was as if Bucky recognized that needy sound she made; it caused a smile to spread on his lips. She can feel it grow against the skin in between her breasts, “My my, is my sweet wife feeling needy right now?” he teased playfully as he effortlessly lifted her up and laid her down on their bed.

Placing himself in between her soft thighs, his lustful gaze trained on her naked body; he admired the marks he has left on her breasts, the wet patch on the flimsy fabric covering her cunt, and the way her breath shuddered when he teasingly grind his harden cock against her.

Y/N can feel the contrast of his hands on her thigh, one warm, one cold. Her eyes drew her attention from his hands to his gorgeous face. Oh, the pure unfiltered lust in his eyes was pulling her in so effortlessly; seducing her to submit her body and soul to him completely. Shying away from his stare, she dragged her view down to his chiselled jaw, his broad chest then slowly to his beautiful abs.

She admired his body as much as he did of hers.

But what was more prominent out of all, was the way she could feel his erection throbbing against her heat. Blood went rushing towards her face when Bucky guided her hips against the confinement of his cock, which in response; causing her hands naturally found their way to cover her face in embarrassment.

A deep chuckle bubbled from Bucky’s throat; he found her reaction to be absolutely endearing. He leaned down towards her, one hand holding himself up and another tenderly pulling her hands away, then drawing it close to his chest, right against his beating heart.

Having nowhere to run, Y/N’s teary eyes drowned in his ocean blues, “Don’t hide from me, dearest.” He peppered a delicate kiss on her forehead, then on her nose, then on her cheek. She could feel the prickly sensation of his beard grazing on her skin. It was ticklish and a little bit painful and yet weirdly enough, it felt good that it naturally made her want to nuzzle it more.

But before she could, Bucky’s lips were already making their way down to her stomach. Her body responds to how soft his lips trailing down; and further down until she could feel them on her clothed core. A surprised yelp fell from her lips as he tore the last piece of clothing from her.

“Now, hands away from your face, my dear. I want to see that beautiful eyes of yours when I eat your sweet pussy.” his voice was honeyed when he made himself comfortable in between her thighs. His hands reached upwards to intertwine both of her hands with his own; acting as a restraint to restrict her from covering her face.

Y/N almost sat up upon hearing his words, “Eat what now?”, the question she had in mind was unable to be vocalised; due to her confusion. Prior to marriage, she had learned about sex and its purpose in her marital studies. Unbeknownst to her, the knowledge she had was few and limited for academic purposes only. Which means there were only the few illustrations of penetration depicted in books and the process of how children are bred as a result of it.

So what does he mean when he said those words? While she was still lost and confused, Bucky on the other hand was in his own world; completely and utterly transfixed on the glistening need of her cunt. She was dripping wet; the juices covering her slits perfectly; her scent was intoxicating and if it weren’t for the fact that this is her first time, Bucky would’ve ate her like a man starved of touch. But, he can’t do that. Not tonight. He wanted to be gentle; to cherish her, to love on her.

Seeing the darkened clouds in his eyes as he stared at her private, Y/N braved herself to ask, “What are you– ohh hmmm” her sentence ended up transforming into a toe curling moan as she felt Bucky’s wet tongue flattened across her weeping core. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he dragged her clit into his mouth and sucked. He strummed her clit with his tongue, causing her to arch her back and he took the opportunity to push his face further into her cunt; licking and sucking quite the literal soul out her.

It felt amazing but her self-consciousness won the battle in her head, she let out a whimpering plea, “Buc--bucky st-stop. That’s dirty.” as she gripped on his hands, trying to escape from his grip. Bucky growled against her in response to her futile protest. The sweet vibration only caused her pleasure all over her fluttering core.

When Bucky pulled away for a moment; it caused her to feel a sense of loss. “It’s not dirty, my dear. In fact, it’s so sweet.” His lips moved to kiss on her inner thigh, murmuring against her skin as he left yet more of his marks on her, “So fucking sweet.” He releases his right hand from hers, just to rub his thumb on her clit, slowly dragging it in between her slit; smearing her wetness all around her throbbing bundle of nerves. Her thighs trembled to the sensation of his rough movement of his thumb and a string of shaky mewls fell out of her.

“But..” she tried to protest but immediately stopped when Bucky brought his soaked thumb to her mouth. Her lips were wet from how he gently smeared the juices on her, “Taste yourself.” He lured her softly. Hesitation glints in her eyes as her cheeks redden. Bucky’s eyes grew tender at her watery ones, he whispered lowly, “Sweetheart, do you trust me?”

She does; but she does not trust her own voice to not come out sounding like a needy moan, so she simply nodded. Bucky’s pink lips spread into a smile, “Good girl. Now, open up.” he coaxed lovingly.

Y/N opened her mouth as she was told and let Bucky slip his thumb inside; he was not shy to smother her juices across her tongue, coaxing her to suck on it. To get a taste of what he was having. “It’s sweet”, she thought to herself. A muffled moan purred in her throat at the thought of her husband enjoying the taste of her.

Bucky smirk grew at her reaction, “Tastes good huh, sweetheart?” he pulled his thumb away, leaving her nodding to his question. “Now are you going to let me enjoy your pussy?” his brow quirked when he tilted his head to the side. How can she deny him now? Her eyes glazed with need as she replied, “Yes, please”.

Her mouth falls open in anticipation as a low moan creeps up her throat. Bucky’s tongue slips past her folds, she watched him between her legs, savouring her pussy with his unfiltered groans vibrating against her sensitive spot. Breathless moans and incoherent pleads fall from her mouth as the soft and firm tip of his tongue circled her swollen pearl and flicked it. Bucky’s hands went to her hips, guiding it in time with her own movements, giving her partial control to set the pace.

“Buckyyyy.” She gasped as she alternated between wanting to push his head away or keep him in place. Meanwhile, the man in between her thighs had lost himself; consumed by pure desire the more he drank from her cunt. His tongue moved faster against her clit when he noticed the beat of her throbbing cunt increased. She was going to come. He was sure of it.

The way that she was practically creaming on his tongue drove him near feral. He kept lapping at her juices as if it was the sweetest honey he ever tasted; fuck he even sucked her clit in hopes to force out more of her nectar to leak; then he’d lap on it again.

The sweet cycle had pushed Y/N over the edge, her eyes rolling back as pleasure and her hips slightly lifted as pleasure surges through her veins.“Oh oh Bucky please please.” She didn’t what she was begging for as she chanted his name. “I’m gonna, ‘m gonna–“ her words died as she squealed; her body trembling in pleasure.

His tongue moved faster against her clit; her cum was dripping out of her; coating his beard but his frantic licks didn’t stop even when she continue to gush on his tongue.

“Bucky please, sensitive..” It was too much; her orgasm, her swollen clit, his tongue. Everything.

Unfortunately for her, Bucky was far gone to stop now. He had the taste of her cum, now he wants nothing more than to have it again. Despite her protest, Bucky held her hip down, interlocking his hands across her stomach to keep her in place and continue to lick and suck on her overstimulated cunt.

Her whiny pleas didn’t come across as a sign for him to stop; instead it kept him going causing him to bury his face further in between her legs. His cock continued to throb in his pants, probably leaking with so much pre-cum and in need of some sort of relief but he ignored it. He wants nothing more than for Y/N to cum on his tongue again.

And that is exactly what happened next.

The moment she fell over the edge, Bucky pushed her even harder against him as her whole body spasmed. He maintained his pace on lapping up at her all throughout her high as her hands went from his hair to the headboard, trying to hold her limp body upright. Y/N took a moment to gather herself together, panting heavily as she regained their senses; while Bucky was swift to pull his pants off and throw it to the side.

He grabbed on her hips, holding her firmly in place as his heavy leaking cock nestled between her aching pussy. “Are you sure about this, my dear?” his hot breath fanning against her neck as he gently ruts into her heat. Even though Bucky can see the darken lust in her eyes, he still wanted to make sure that she was sure of her decision.

Y/N’s heart swelled at his concern, and she found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reflected the warmth she felt inside. She pulled him closer and kissed him, pouring all her newfound trust and affection into the kiss. “Yes, Bucky. I am very sure. ”

Bucky quickly responded with equal passion, his tongue slipped in between her lips; exploring the warmness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. Their muffled moans filled the silenced room, his hands moved to caress her sides, drawing her even closer before breaking away from the heated kiss.

Resting his forehead on hers, his eyes trained on her beautiful face; not wanting to miss his chance to witness the pleasure contorting on her expression. He nudges her clit first, rubbing it slow and sensual before trailing down to her entrance. Gradually, he inches closer, he pushes in and through the tightness of her sacred channel.

Delving impossibly deep, her tightness wrapped around his thick cock until the tip of him reached the deepest parts of her. The sudden feeling of fullness on her untainted pussy caused her to experience both pain and the delightful sensation inside her. The ecstasy of being so knitly connected to each other caused both of them to simultaneously let out moans and groans of raw pleasure.

Bucky waited for her to adjust to his size; leaning down to pamper her with the softest kisses and praises that tears started to swell in her eyes. It was as if Bucky knew exactly what she wanted to hear, how she wanted to be treated and what makes her feel good.

“You’re doing so good, my dear.”

“Look at how perfect your pussy’s taking my cock. So perfect.”

“Made for me aren’t you, sweetheart?. Made to be loved by me, made to be stuffed full of my cock.”

“I promise you’ll be safe with me, Y/N. Always.”

When Y/N finally gave him the permission to move, Bucky kissed her pouty lips and murmured sweetly, “Thank you, my dear.” His hands travelled to find her ankle; which he then gently prop her calf over his broad shoulder. He started pumping in and out slowly, letting her get used to the friction.

Bucky couldn’t help but to groan out to the feeling of her wet hole gripping his cock ever-so-tightly. It was slippery and dripping, that he almost completely slid out of her. Gripping her closer he continue ramming himself back in, deeper, harder; sliding in and out of her at an even pace. Each force of his cock causing her body to jerk in ecstasy; hitting that good spot in her so perfectly.

“S-shit, sweetheart,” he moans deep and heavy as he felt her pussy tightening around him. His metal hand slid in between them and his thumb hones in on her clit. The coldness of his finger made her jolt at first but when he proceeded to rub and pinch on it, everything suddenly started to feel too intense; so incredibly good.

With his fingers assaulting her clit, each thrust of his cock and every deep guttural moan and groan coming from Bucky, she felt her release was growing closer. Bucky also started thrusting faster and harder; he knew he was about to come. Especially when he can feel how much pre-cum has been leaking inside her.

He leaned and rested his forehead on hers, his needy ruts became more and more irregular when her pretty doe eyes looked up at him, “Cum for me, my dear.” his lips brushed against Y/N’s as he coaxed her to her sweet release. His thrusts got harsher and deeper and the friction of his metal finger working on her clit got her cunt to frantically tremble around him, “I wanna feel you milk my cock, sweetheart. Then, I’m gonna my pump cum inside you until you’re leaking.”

Although his words were debauched to no end, however Y/N could sense his genuine affection for her. She felt his sincerity in the way he looked at her, in the way he held her, in the silenced gaze they shared. Overwhelmed with pleasure, her nails dragged across Bucky’s back as she moaned and screamed out his name; letting the high took over her body.

“Fuck,, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum!” groaned as he took in the sound of her pleasured mewls. He ruthlessly grinds into her, savouring the feeling of her cunt tightened around him. With one last rut, he thrust his cock, balls deep inside and let his warm white strings filling her up to the brim. His cock twitches in her fluttering cunt, his legs tensing with every small grind he makes, groaning lowly at her as he bites down on her shoulder, almost drooling on her as he emptied himself completely into her.

Y/N continued to let out strings of soft moans as he pulled out from her leaking cunt; all swollen and sensitive. While she thought she could finally catch some breaths, she didn’t notice the way Bucky was biting on his lip at the sight of his cum dripping out of her, or how his hands lazily tugging on his now hardened cock.

“Dearest?” Bucky hovered above her as he cradled her by her flushed cheeks. She smiled sweetly as she leaned to his touch, “Yes, Bucky?”, she was anticipating him to utter more of those soft words and praises to her; but instead his lips curled into a devilish grin when he slid his cock back into her, immediately pulling a long sinful mewl of his name from her. Bucky hummed approvingly in response; he gently brushed his lips against hers, “May I fill you up again?”

As the morning sun streamed through the windows, Y/N slowly stirred awake. She reached out, instinctively searching for the warmth of her husband beside her, but found the space empty. A pang of loneliness touched her heart, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity when she saw a bouquet of bluebells, her favourite flower, placed delicately on the bedside table.

Next to the bouquet was a note. With a small smile, she picked it up and began to read.

"My Dearest Y/N,

I hate to leave you alone this morning, but I must ensure our journey home is smooth and safe. I trust you slept well, and I promise to return to your side as soon as I can.

Yours always,

Bucky"

The words written on the note were filled with sincerity and reassurance that made her heart flutter. She smiled, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she wondered how he knew bluebells were her favourite.

Just as she was lost in thought, the door opened, and the palace’s maids entered the room. Their faces were a mixture of curiosity and impatience, clearly expecting to see a frightened and bruised young bride.

However, when they saw Y/N's skin, they temporarily froze in their spots. Her skin was indeed bruised, but each one of them recognized the marks for what they were: love marks, not signs of harsh abuse that they were expecting. The traces of Bucky's possessive love were prominent all over her neck, chest, and inner thighs, leaving Y/N blushing as the maids, too, found themselves flushed with embarrassment.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” one of the older maids muttered under her breath, her tone laced with irritation. Another maid, with a more condescending sneer, huffed. “Looks like we lost the bet, ladies. Who would have thought the beast could be so... tender?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and pride. She could feel their resentful glances and knew they were not pleased with the outcome. The marks on her body were a testament to the affection and desire Bucky had shown her, and despite the initial fear, she now wore them as symbols of the unexpected bond they had begun to forge.

The head maid, who had been the most vocal the night before, now seemed to handle her with an edge of bitterness. The other maids, who had been so quick to judge, were now silent, their eyes wide with resentment.One of the younger maids, braver than the rest, couldn’t hide her frustration. “Well, my lady, I suppose you’re alright, then?” she asked, her voice barely masking her disappointment.

Y/N looked at her, considering the appropriate response. If it was up to her, she ought to punish every single one of them for not knowing their place. Unfortunately, they were not her maids to begin with, but the palace's staff. Otherwise, she would likely fire each one of them.

The memory of Bucky’s affection and care filled her heart, leaving no room for anger or resentment. The warmth of his embrace and the gentle way he had treated her made the maids' behaviour seem petty and insignificant.

She could still feel the lingering touch of his lips on her skin, the way his hands had caressed her so delicately, and the sound of his reassuring voice. Her body was still tingling with the remnants of the previous night's intimacy. Her skin bore the marks of his love, not of brutality, and each bruise was a testament to the passion they had shared. It was completely different to the vile expectations of the maids.

A small smile playing on her lips despite the blush that still coloured her cheeks. "Yes," she said softly, "I am quite alright."

The maids exchanged annoyed glances, their expressions a mix of frustration and disbelief. Their muttered disappointments were tuned out as Y/N focused on the lingering warmth from the night before.

She couldn't hear a single thing except her heart beating to the thought of her husband. She missed him already. Who would’ve thought she’d be swooning for him so soon?

She found herself yearning for his presence, the comfort of his touch, and the sound of his reassuring voice. The memory of his gentle kiss and tender words lingered in her mind yet again, making her heart flutter.

As the maids continued their work, Y/N hoped they would at least perform their duties well enough to cover up for their childish behaviour. She wanted to be ready to see Bucky, to greet him with the same warmth and affection he had shown her. Despite their rudeness, she resolved to focus on the positive, cherishing the newfound bond with her husband.

Bucky stood at the head of the table, his stern expression and commanding presence filling the room. He was reviewing the logistics of their journey home, his voice cold and decisive as he issued instructions to his knights. His trusted knight, Sam, was detailing the possible hotspots for bandits they might encounter along the way.

"We'll likely face trouble here," Sam said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We should send some of our best men ahead to clear the path."

"Agreed," Bucky responded, his tone unyielding. "Deploy the knights in advance. Ensure the path is secure before we proceed."

Sam nodded and continued outlining the plan. He paused, expecting Bucky to reconfirm, but noticed a change in his leader's face. The harsh lines softened, his eyes filled with a tender warmth, as he stared intently at something across the room. Before Sam could look or utter a word, Bucky turned and walked away with determination.

Sam followed Bucky's gaze and understood immediately. "Ah, that's why," he muttered to himself as he watched Bucky approach Y/N. The change in Bucky’s demeanour was striking. He moved with a grace and warmth that was at odds with his usual stern and imposing presence.

Bucky’s eyes softened as he took in the sight of Y/N. He admired her beauty with a gaze filled with awe and adoration. The way he looked at her was as if he was seeing a vision he had longed for, a rare and precious gem that had finally come into his life.

As he extended his hand toward her, a gesture usually seen as etiquette but now entirely with different meaning, especially with the hearts bursting our of his blue eyes. Y/N’s face lighting up with a shy smile, took his hand; almost too eagerly. Bucky's fingers closed gently around hers, his touch tender and reassuring. The contrast between his usual, fearsome reputation and the gentle way he interacted with her was profound, making it clear that his feelings for Y/N were deeply genuine.

Bucky kissed the back of her hand, his lips softly caressing her knuckles. "My dear," he greeted her, using the endearment he had chosen when they first met at the altar.

The scene seemed like it was pulled raw from a romance novel that the surrounding staff and knights simply watched in shock and awe. "Did he just..." one knight whispered, eyes wide. "Called her 'my dear'?" another finished, equally stunned.

Sam, who had witnessed firsthand the monstrous side of Bucky in war, found himself in a state of utter disbelief, jaw dropped loose. He had seen Bucky’s sword painted blood-red, his face splattered with the gore of countless enemies. The Winter Soldier was a force of nature on the battlefield, his brutal efficiency leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Sam recalled the sight of Bucky’s cold, unyielding eyes as he cut through foes without hesitation, his armor and weaponry gleaming with the blood of those who dared oppose him.

And yet, here he was, the same man who had struck terror into the hearts of many, now standing before Y/N with a tenderness that seemed unimaginable. Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The disparity was pronounced and bewildering. Bucky’s expression was soft, his movements gentle as he held Y/N’s hand in his.

“I’ve missed you,” Y/N said softly, her eyes shining with affection. She truly did, it would be a lie that she didn’t felt the ache in her heart when she woke up alone that morning. The emptiness beside her had felt profound. The bed still carried his scent, a lingering warmth that whispered of his recent presence. Even though the separation had been brief, as evidenced by the thoughtful note and the bouquet of her favourite flowers he had left behind, the loneliness she felt was palpable. His absence, however fleeting, had created a void that left her feeling incomplete.

Bucky’s heart seemed to burst with emotion. He couldn't care less about the gawking staff surrounding them as he pulled her close and kissed her deeply. She initially froze, caught off guard and embarrassed, but soon melted into his kiss with a blossoming confidence.

As their lips met, memories of their tender and passionate night together surged through Bucky's mind. The way she moan his name, the taste of her cum, the tightness of her pussy gripping on his cock, the way his cum leaked out of her, every single sinful scene replayed in head; infinitely. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and he found himself nearly losing control. Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss, his breath uneven and his gaze filled with an unspoken hunger.

"God, what should I do with you, hmm, sweetheart?" Bucky whispered, his voice laced with seduction as he continued to place gentle kisses along her cheeks and jaw. His lips brushed softly against her skin, whispering how much he had missed her and expressing a wistful desire to stay wrapped in the warmth of their shared bed just a little longer.

Y/N’s soft giggle rang out as she felt the roughness of his stubble against her delicate skin. The sound was like music to Bucky's ears, brightening his mood and filling him with a profound sense of joy. Despite the joyful exchange, he reluctantly ended the sweet torment, his kisses lingering just a moment longer before he pulled away.

“We should be ready to begin our journey shortly,” Bucky said, his tone shifting to a more practical note when e turned to Sam, who had approached during their moment of intimacy.

“Y/N, this is Sam Wilson, he is one of my trusted knights.” Bucky introduced, his gaze shifting to his wife. Sam gave a respectful nod to Y/N, a hint of surprise still evident in his expression from witnessing Bucky's affectionate display. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

Y/N smiled warmly at Sam, appreciating the introduction. “The pleasure is mine, Sir Wilson.”

Sam, sensing that the formality was unnecessary given their imminent interactions, decided to ease the situation. “Just Sam, my lady,” he said with a friendly tone. Y/N repeated his name with a touch of amusement. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

Bucky, observing the growing camaraderie between his wife and his trusted knight, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. The easy familiarity between them seemed a bit too casual for his liking. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gave Sam a warning look. “Watch it, Wilson.”

Sam, not missing a beat, chuckled at Bucky’s protective demeanour. “What’s the matter, my lord? Can’t handle a bit of friendly conversation?”

Y/N, noticing the playful tension and Bucky’s slight irritation, couldn’t help but laugh. The contrast between Bucky’s usually soft demeanour that Y/N had witnessed and his current protective stance were both endearing and amusing. Her laughter lightened the mood, making Sam’s teasing even more enjoyable.

Bucky's stern gaze softened as he watched Y/N’s laughter, though his protective instinct remained palpable. Steering the conversion back to the preparations, he allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth despite his earlier warning.

“I trust you can escort my wife to the carriage,” Bucky said, his voice serious but tinged with a hint of a smile. “However, I expect you to maintain proper distance and adhere to these additional guidelines.” He paused, ensuring his words were clear. “No unnecessary physical contact or overly familiar behaviour. And if you could, avoid any casual conversations that might be misinterpreted.”

Sam looked at Bucky in disbelief, shaking his head with a bemused expression. “Seriously, Barnes? You’re laying down rules for me to keep my distance from your wife now?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Consider it a precaution. I’d rather not have any misunderstandings.” Sam chuckled, rolling his eyes as he complied. “Understood. I’ll make sure to follow your... guidelines.”

Y/N watched the exchange with amusement, her earlier shyness melting away into a warm appreciation for Bucky’s protectiveness. The scene, tinged with a touch of comedy, only deepened the connection between them.

Bucky, intent on making a point to Sam while expressing his affection, pulled Y/N close and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. The gesture was both intimate and deliberate, a subtle yet clear indication to Sam that she belongs to Bucky. “I’ll join you shortly, my dear,” Bucky said softly, his voice filled with warmth as he gazed into her eyes.

Sam, unimpressed by Bucky’s display, rolled his eyes at the seemingly childish antics. “This way, my lady,” he said with a hint of impatience. Y/N nodded in agreement but paused before turning her back on Bucky. With a loving smile, she whispered, “I’ll see you later,” before following Sam.

Bucky watched as Sam guided Y/N away, his gaze lingered with a mix of affection and something much deeper; an unspoken sadness. As their silhouettes walked further and further away from his sight, a sombre glaze settled over his eyes.

Beneath the surface of his composed exterior, his heart ached; the was a silent reflection of a pain he had hidden deep within his heart. It was a lingering sorrow that had shadowed him ever since he stood at the altar, the weight of unvoiced grief clinging to him as he gazed at his future bride.

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Wondering why he was in the feels at the end? We’ll know it soon enough. I’ll see you in the next parts! Thank you for reading!

#bucky barnes au #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fluff #bucky smut #bucky angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #winter soldier!bucky #medieval!bucky #duke!bucky #grumpy!bucky #soft!bucky

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 4 months ago

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Something About Curly Hair and Any Character You Have in Mind

I've always had a fantasy of someone playing with my curls. Delicately pulling on them, like a kid pulling on a string. Playfully and adoringly watching the curl bounce back. Maybe the person could even praise it, saying it's cute, or beautiful, or mesmerising. Especially if they don't have curly hair.

A few minutes ago, my girl friend did it to me, exactly how I've always dreamed, even if inside I wanted to pull away, afraid that she would mess it up, I didn't, and she didn't, and even if she did, I wouldn't care, because I'm starved. So here's this little scenario that I finally felt courage and inspiration to write.

This was written based on my own experience having 123B hair, that has some volume on it (how do you even measure that??), with definition, so you must imagine it was very indulgent.

Also works for Readers of any race!!!! I just specify they have natural curls, didn't even mention the colour.

Gn!Reader and Gn!Character so you reaaaally can imagine whoever you want. But the character probably doesn't have curly hair, and learns to do different hairstyles on you (it's different doing it on yourself and then doing on other people, so you still can imagine any gender or appearance on them). Sex is mentioned. I'm tagging this with the first characters that come to my mind while writing this, just to make it easier.

Might edit this later because it's currently 3am and I'm sleepy as fuck

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They love you. That means they love everything about you. And they love your hair.

They think the volume is sexy. Think clouds can't be softer. Think the way the light reflects on it is ethereal. Think the curls smells heavenly. Think the shape is unmatched.

When you move your hair, it's like being a kid and having a first crush again. Especially if the action causes the delicate smell of it travel through the air faster than they can blink, and they're swallowed in a fog of you.

When you sleep in the same bed together for the first time, and every other time after, they like to wake up before you. Just to admire your peacefull beauty for a while. Like the rest of the world doesn't exist. That's the best way to start a day.

Sometimes, boredom doesn't get to them because tracing curl patterns in your hair with their eyes is entertainment for a lifetime. Never before have they noticed that someone can have more than one curl texture, and how unique and perfect that mixture can look.

There's moments where they get distracted by you. You, taking their attention from something supposedly more important at that moment. Either you smell too nice, or look too good, or shine too bright. And they just can't seem to find anything more interesting than looking at you and your hair.

The first time they touched it, they were surprised by how soft it was, like cotton. Almost weightless, despite it's volume and length. Other people's hair surely doesn't feel like this. They spend so much time touching it the first time, that you have to ask them to stop, or you wouldn't have a nice hair day the next day. They looked like a kicked puppy, so you taught them to gently scrunch from the bottom.

They think bonnets are funny at first, but not in a bad way. They're not laughing at you. Mostly giggling, actually. They understand you may have needed some courage to look like this with them around. And it's like a tiny, almost nonexistent, relationship goal. To be intimate enough to feel confortable wearing a bonnet in front of your partner. And they love that you have no problem doing it.

They even buy silk sheets and pillows if it might help you. It might be morte confortable and not mess with your hair. And they understands sex while having curly hair might be frustrating at times.

Speaking of, they won't pull or mess with it unless you ask for it. They took very seriously your lesson from the first time. And if you have some instructions to give them on how to do it while causing less damage, then you certainly will lift a weight off some shoulders.

Oh, and the difference of how it looks when it's wet and then dry? They can't believe their eyes for a moment. Logic seems to escape. It feels impossible. But it isn't. And they're amazed. Almost jealous for not being as gorgeous as you. They understand why someone would be jealous of you.

Actually, they partially think others should be. If someone dares to utter you are less than stunning, then oh boy. God help them.

Any styling is great. And they're so in love with you, so focused on you, eyes solely on you, that they think no hairstyle looks as good on other people, as they look on you. Even if you hate it, he thinks it looks way better than it would have on anyone else.

Also, they learn some things. They learns to curl with their fingers, how to put on clips, how to do some braids, or buns, or pigtains, or anything you wear often. Even something you never did, but they think will make you ethereal, they will do it on you. They might not even teach you, just so you'll need them for something.

They feel part of their heart breaking if you straighten it. Sure it looks good. If it makes you happy, than they're happy. But it's far from a favorite look on you. It's not the natural you. And they love you. They might love a modified version of you, but only because they love you. Just the way you are.

And if you ever feel insecure, I assure you, they're gonna fix you right up.

Like, comment and reblog 🥰

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redrobinsrobbingrobin · 1 month ago

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Mcu x Batfam crossover

Bruce Wayne and Tony stark had a very brief love affair when they were twenty. Additionally, Tony ALSO dated Lex Luthor, before Afghanistan.

Jason and Bucky have INTENSE rivalries, but neither of them ackowledge it:

Jason: Barnes is… a decent partner when he helps with cases.

Bucky: Red Hood is… he’s efficient.

Klarion and Loki having tea parties sometimes

EVERYONE in Gotham hates the avengers

Cass and Bucky going to the same group therapist

Peter and Tim wreaking havoc on their respective teams whenever there’s a team up

Kamala khan being immensely overjoyed that stabby robin is brown

Duke stealing Cap’s (either Sam or Steve) shield and painting it neon yellow

Kori and Thor getting along like a house on fire

Bucky killing Joker as part of his amends

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wenellyb · 11 days ago

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The Cast of Avengers: Doomsday

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daragona · 7 days ago

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Beguiled | Chapter I:

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | strong language; dark!content; infidelity; angst; smut; manipulation (from the reader and others); obsessive behaviour from our leading men; complicated dad-daughter relationships; power imbalance; time-accurate misogyny and sexist behaviour; political intrigue; etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | As the daughter of a great man, you're used to putting great effort into your father's cause. But when you're tasked with getting the Queen and the King's best friend into an affair, you might see more consequences than you bargained for. (Zemo! Reader, Medieval/Tudor! AU)

– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Your words pass through the wooden trellis between you, nearly lost beneath the languid murmur of Latin prayers coming from the priest on the other side. The confessional is small, stuffy, and you fidget with the hem of your gown as you lower onto the kneeler. – It’s been… six hours since my last confession.

Silence.

The Latin stops short —cleaved clean by the sound of his head turning, followed by that rumbling laugh you know all too well. – That was awfully quick, child.

You settle on the cushion under your knees, smiling. – I am a very efficient sinner, if I may say so myself, Your Eminence.

His laughter grows louder. – Shall we add presumptuousness to the growing list of sins you seek absolution for, dear girl?

You chuckle, rolling the rosary beads between your restless fingers. – Do forgive, Father, but as my list of committed sins goes—

– Father?!

You fall silent immediately.

A rookie mistake. One he has corrected you for one too many times. You bite your tongue, bowing your head despite the fact he neither looks at you, nor could see you if he did. – I meant it in the ecclesiastical sense—

– You meant it in the way I know you did. – He scolds. – If you make a habit of—of that word, you’ll say it where you shouldn’t. Even walls have ears in this castle, I cannot afford any scandal. I won’t warn you again.

The moment of grace between you shatters like glass.

– As you wish… uncle.

– Don’t be insolent, now.

The beads bite into your palm. You correct yourself before your bitterness slips out again. – As you wish, Your Eminence.

– Speak your sins. Unburden your soul to me, that God may forgive you.

There is no burden in your soul.

You've sinned and you’ve shamed yourself, and yet your conscience is as light as a feather.

You have him to thank for that—He’s trained you to commit sin without guilt so long as it contributes to his cause. After years of obedience, your soul is as bloodied as his hands, and yet, you feel nothing of it.

– I’ve corrupted myself. – You begin, ashamed not for the crimes you are about to confess, but for the slip up you’ve just commited. – I have given coin as bribe to the Queen's handmaidens, to keep me informed of what passes within the royal chambers. I’ve traded…favors with his Majesty's closest royal guard for the same cause. Not to mention his footmen. – There’s a sound of approval —soft, almost aloof. Your father does not flinch at the thought of you whoring yourself for his intelligence. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you do. To him, it might just be another means to an end, as he so often puts it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care. – I regret to say, Your Eminence, the news are grim.

Light filters through the screen of his door. You catch a glimpse of his face then, shadowed under the weight of his robes, under the pattern of the screen, under the years of work he's put in to never reveal too much at once. The ruby in his ring catches what little gleam of light the confessional grants.

For a moment, as you eye him through the trellis, you think there is something in his eyes —interest, perhaps. Pride. Amusement.

But you can never tell. Not with him.

The only emotions he conveys with any clarity are frustration, anger and disappointment— And before you even speak again, you know he'll feel all three of those as you reveal what you've discovered at last.

– Go on. – He insists, already impatient.

You don’t take much longer: – Their Majesties have once more come to blows over the question of Princess Mary’s betrothal.

He shifts, sitting up too suddenly, the impatience turning to denial at the flick of an eye. – No. No. That is impossible. The deal with Asgard has been—

You don’t wait for permission to speak.

– I’ve gathered from multiple sources that the Queen has yet again caught His Majesty abed with an Asgardian woman. Perhaps the recurrence in his choice of mistress has offended her, perhaps she already disliked Asgardians before. It does not matter. What matters is that the agreement with Prince Thor is thus dissolved in all but name.

His head sinks into his hands, the weight of months of diplomacy crashing down like stone. He had your brother accompany him to the diplomatic visit he used to secure the arrangement with Queen Frigga, and left you behind to report the whispers of courtiers back to him in his absence.

It took him six weeks to convince the woman that the marriage was a good idea. You have no idea what he forfeited so she would accept, but you can already feel his anger, seeping off of him in waves. – God be good… Steven! Could he not be more careful?!

– What King is ever careful?

– Not Steven, that much is certain!

– The guard tells me His Majesty has gathered anger of his own, and now, to spite his wife, he intends to revive the old pact to marry the Princess to the Duke of Carthage.

– Stark?! – His voice climbs. – No. No — he must be losing his mind! That's the only explanation. Carthage is a wasteland! England cannot depend on the mining of iron and the building of machines to keep itself afloat. Steven must know that!

– I have my doubts, your Eminence. – He doesn’t pay any mind to your disrespect, still shaking his head profusely. – The Queen’s handmaiden tells me that Her Majesty dictated a letter to her cousin, King T’Challa, suggesting that a union be made between Princess Mary and Prince Azari of Wakanda.

He bangs his fist against the side of the screen. You shift back, but don't startle, already used to his antics. – To punish me, surely. As is her habit! – He bemoans. – I tell you, girl. She lives for no other reason than to spite me. And after all I’ve done… After all that my predecessor sacrificed to marry her to Steven! I did warn him. The poor man must be rolling in his grave…

– Advising is a thankless job, – You hum. He nods along, oblivious to the double edge of your tone. – It gets worse, I'm afraid.

Your father falls silent again, his eyes betraying outrage even though you can barely see him.

– Well, do go on.

– One of our friends in Wakanda reports the Queen’s wakandan cousin is due to arrive before the Feast of Saint Michael. In secret. He brings a cleric… and a jewel-studded dowry.

He turns toward the light, as if it might burn the fury out of him. – A clandestine engagement? What does she think this is? A love song?!

– A ceremony, I believe, and she might yet be able to have this come to pass, should His Majesty’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the conclave.

Your father leans back. You hear the shift of fabric, the creak of the old wood, and can all but picture the way his fingers steeple beneath his chin. – Then it must not.

– Your Eminence?

– The conclave cannot know. Not yet. We are not prepared. After Steven's stunt with the Pope's mistress… We are already on thin ice! – He groans, rubs his temples, looks at you, tired, spent, like a man begging for mercy. – But you would not have left your duties unattended to confess to me a single sin, would you?

You forget that he knows you well.

Sometimes you wonder how much of what he knows of you is what he sees in the mirror, and how much of it is actually yours.

You wonder if there is anything yours to speak of.

– No.

– So you have more to tell me.

– I do, your Eminence. But the news are similarly grim.

Your father exhales like a dying man —slow, theatrical, measured. – Then let us have it. The full confession. I’ll not grant you absolution in parts.

– The Asgardian was not alone.

– What?

– She came with others. The guard thinks they were sent as a gift, by Prince Loki. I suspected the elder prince, but neither one of them wants this union, so—

– King Steven entertained all of them?

You shrug. Sometimes it's better to let the information speak for itself than make it worse by over explaining it. – The Queen found four women in His Majesty’s chambers. Two of them sisters. One… a cousin.

There is a long, stunned silence— Not the stunned silence you'd expect from a clergyman hearing of such debauchery. The silence of a man who's trying desperately to think of something that could excuse it.

Your father sits back and groans like a man who’s just been told the world is ending, but not soon enough. – Four?!

You nod.

– The guard told me he thanked them for their “diplomatic service.” – You recall his laughter, and bite your lip so you don't make the same mistake.

Your father puts a hand over his eyes. – God deliver me from these honey-tongued harlots.

– And kings.

That earns you a sharp glance, but he does not scold, this time. Only sighs.

– He could not keep his belt fastened for a fortnight if the world depended on it. And the Queen, insufferable crone though she is —Lord help us— she’s not wrong to be furious.

You let the silence hang between you two for a moment.

– Her fury will not die down easily.

– Of course not. Nothing in my life can ever be easy. – His Eminence rubs his temples. – If the conclave catches wind of this, we’ll have a papal inquest in the middle of Michaelmas. If the Pope doesn’t laugh himself to death first!

– You think his Holiness would find amusement in the prospect of a tri-state war?

His eyes grow grave. His brow twitches. – I think that lecher would find delight in the sight of children dying so long as their blood did not stain his precious garments.

You swallow the words that'd been forming on your lips, though your throat is suddenly dry. – I took the liberty of… removing something. My second sin in these six hours, God forgive.

– What have you done now, girl?

The edge in his voice is sudden and sharp. For a second, you flinch. – Her Majesty’s letter to Wakanda. – You shift the parchment through one of the gaps of the trellis, the wax seal creaking quietly as you roll the paper to push it towards him. – I intercepted it before it could leave the castle. The courier was redirected to deliver a forged copy —vague, flowery, harmless. As is her habit.

Silence.

– You forged the Queen’s hand? – He asks, in a tone that's almost accusatory.

– Her scribe’s hand. – You clarify, as if it made the crime any less fatal. – The only thing of her I took was the seal on the original letter. Which I glued on the decoy with similarly colored wax, from your desk. I hope you don't mind.

A pause.

For a moment you think some lapse of morality has befallen him, and that he might scold you for your crime.

But it doesn’t take long before you hear his laughter echo against the walls of your little confessional. – Clever girl.

You close your eyes.

It shouldn’t bring a smile to your face.

But you can't help it.

– Was I right to do so?

– That’s not the question. – He leans forward, voice low, smile playful. – The question is: can you do it again, should the Queen write another?

You don’t hesitate.

Your father might fancy himself a wolf in sheep's clothing, but you know for a fact wolves and sheep enjoy flattery just the same. – If I have your Eminence's blessing I can do anything.

He laughs again, low, pleased, approving.

His eyes meet yours through the trellis, gleaming. Whether the gleam is born from pride or merely from catching his own reflection on the likeness of your face, you can never know, but your heart skips a beat regardless. – Then yes. You were right. God will forgive you, my child. As I have.

He looks away, happily fidgeting with the ruby on his Cardinal's ring before looking at you again.

– The letter, your Eminence.

– Your stolen letter. – He chuckles, bright, amused. Your chest grows heavy. – What of it?

– The Queen asked King T'Challa for absolution. In writing.

He looks at you, the amusement draining from his face as water from a syphon. – Where?

– Third to last paragraph. ‘I come to you, beloved cousin with the hopes that you will ease my heart as well as my worries for my daughter…’

– ‘...and spare me a moment, in private, where I might relay my heart and soul to your mercy.’ – A booming laughter blooms from his chest, mocking as the rest of him. You know better than to feel relief. This is not happy laughter. – What… What is her majesty getting at now?

– She does not say. Only that she has sinned, and wishes to be forgiven in the eyes of God before Saint Michael’s Day.

– He is not a priest. Why would he absolve her of her sins? – You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He turns to you, and stops cold as you raise your brows. – No. It cannot be. Tell me—

– She perfumed the letter with Lilac.

His eyes widen – Lilac? Why would that be—

– It's the same perfume her mother wore before her execution.

There's a beat of silence between you. Cold, tense, absolute. The silence of someone walking the plank to their death, or considering to throw the man behind them into the water before begging mercy. – …How do you know that?

– Our court is not the only one in which the walls have ears, your Eminence. King T'Challa's servants whisper. They say that he cannot borne the smell of lilac near him. That his eyes well-up if he so much as senses it from afar. – You laugh, more a scoff than a chuckle. – Apparently, upon one of Crown’s visits to Wakanda, King T'Challa locked himself in his rooms and sobbed as he sensed the perfume from an embrace with the Queen.

That lands.

It thuds between you like a thrown gauntlet. He closes his eyes, his smile fading completely. – And yet now, she would spritz this perfume over the letter. – He hums. – What for?

– Sentiment? Perhaps she was hoping he'd catch the glimpse of that perfume on the parchment and feel sympathethic to whatever she proposed.

– You think she means to martyr herself.

– Maybe. Lord knows she’s always thought of herself as one. These last few… indiscretions from the King have only furthered her self-aggrandizing humilities.

Your father breathes out through his nose. – She wishes to provoke a scandal. To humiliate him into docility. – He scoffs. Cruel, calculated. – Perhaps she is a woman, after all.

You ignore the comment.

– She should divorce him into exile. – You say it thoughtlessly. Quickly. Too quickly. Before your brain gets the chance to think it through. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth.

Your father laughs.

Loudly.

Delightedly.

As if the suggestion was so absurd it merited a moment for laughter alone. – Divorce him? – He intones. – You are not in Sokovia anymore, my dear. Women here cannot demand divorces. They can't command houses. They can't even leave their homes without the presence of a man, lest their royal guards condemn the for witchcraft. – He laughs again, with just as much delight, as if it's humorous instead of daunting. – They act as if we are the uncivilized ones, as if we are the heretics, because of out past. Of our religion. And yet they sack and pillage people's homes over superstitions. Stake them through spears like fowls. Treat their women like cattle and their men like rowdy children, waiting to throw a tantrum…What a land of fools!

You scoff, mouth suddenly bitter. – And yet it's this land you had us abandon home for.

His gaze cuts through the trellis again, eyes gleaming like the last coal in a fire refusing to die. – Watch your tongue, girl.

You incline your head.

You didn't lie. Your sentiment is no less true for his disaproval of it. But every bird has to know when to fold its wings, and you only fly when he gives you leave, or when he’s too far to notice. – I apologize, your Eminence.

He doesn’t hear your apology.

If you hadn't said it he would keep scolding you until he tired himself out, but now that you did, he doesn't acknowledge it.

You sigh, passing your rosary through your hands again, the flowery smell rises to meet your nose as the beads brush against the laced end of your veil, dead and yet still delicate, a lovely ghost.

– Divorce. – Your father scoffs, perplexed at the mere idea. – And what, pray tell, would this fool or a woman do after achieving this fictional divorce? Take her bastard child and retire to a convent? Return to her desolate homeland where nothing or anyone exists without the English patronage? Or flee to some far corner of the continent to write hymns in lilac ink while her former husband beds the last half of the world he hasn’t yet gotten to before marrying some other simpering, forgotten daughter of a random place that might actually give him an heir?!

You don’t answer.

He's speaking to himself more so than to you.

He drums his fingers once against the side of the confessional. A slow, steady rhythm —like something crawling through the walls.

– This is no longer foolishness. – His voice is quiet. That frightens you more than when it was loud. – This is a campaign.

You don’t respond. Your silence is assent.

– If she poisons him in the eyes of the world... if she plants the idea that the sin is his, and not hers… – He trails off. But you know what he’s thinking. She won’t just humiliate the King. She will force him into submission. – Those fools in conclave love her, still. The ones with their cocks in hand and their noses in poetry. They call her pure because she still wears that stupid veil. They call her wise because she weeps instead of speaks. – He sneers. – They would gladly see the King brought to heel. Any ounce of justification from her might warrant a full-on attack on his Majety.

You glance down at your rosary. Let it slip through your fingers again.

The scent of lilac clings to your fingertips as you clasp your hands before yourself. You wonder if it will ever come out.

– If this reaches Rome, – He continues. – and they begin to believe her as a victim... then she will not need to demand a divorce. – He turns. Looks at you as if you are not his daughter, but something nearer to a reflection. – She will be given one.

– I don't think that's what she wants, Your Eminence.

– That's absu— He pauses, looks at you, waits. – You don't?

You shake your head. It still surprises you, how even the cleverest of men can be so foolish. – King Steven has been bedding half of England long before they were married. His infidelity is no secret. If she wanted a divorce, she would have claimed him impotent and gotten it before she fell pregnant with the Princess Mary. But she didn't.

– She didn't…

– She might have thought a child would change him. Or at least subdue him. – You drop the rosary on your lap and pull at your veil. Free from the sheer black fine-linen, you see just that much clearer. – Clearly it didn't. He wants an heir from her, blames her for not bearing any more children, and yet he doesn’t visit her bed. Only his mistresses’.

He scoffs, but there's no trace of disbelief in his eyes, only ridicule, as if he believes it whole-heartedly even while thinking it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. – You think she means to punish him back into her arms?

– Misguidedly, but yes.

– Not misguidedly, child. Delusionally. – He barks out a laugh, cutting and humorless. – She might as well leash him and drag him through the halls like a dog. It would be more effective at making him love her again than whatever this pathetic little theater is. – He laughs again, pure venom dripping from his lips. – It's no wonder he doesn’t visit her bed. No man wants to bed a woman he pities.

– But they do want to bed the women they hate. – A beat of silence hangs between you for a moment. The wind outside howls shyly, cut thin through the small gaps between the stained-glass windows of this chapel you sit in. But he considers your words, even if carefully, as if he hasn't yet thought of what you proposed. – She might yet succeed if she can achieve that.

– To the doom of everything I fought for. – He bemoans, almost theatrically. But he raises his head, eyes glinting with something dark, something you know all too well. – We cannot allow this. We will not allow this.

You raise your brows.

Your mind flashes.

All the destruction he’s set off upon the word after saying these exact words.

Your mother’s doom.

Your Uncle’s death.

The disappearance of the last High Chancellor.

The Queen of Sokovia, and all he put her through.

A shiver runs through you.

– You cannot mean that, your Eminence.

He laughs again. Colder. Crueler. Careless and smiling like a hound waiting to bite. – Of course I mean it! With her foolishness she will destroy us!

– You said it right: foolishness! The Queen is a fool in love. She means no offense to yours or the King's work, she only wants her husband to pay attention to her!

Your father scoffs, moving around on his seat, huffing like a steamboat. – Enough that she would send a letter bethrothing the King's only legitimate child to the previous suitor’ greatest enemy?!

– I've collected the letter! It can do no harm now! You can return to her and with it in hand and advise her, intimidate her, put an end to this at once. No scheming needed. No destruction needed.

He growls, shakes his head, eyes sharp as a dagger. – That will not be sufficient.

You're growing desolate. – What would you have us do?! Accuse her of treason?! Drag her through the streets?!

He smiles —that awful, papal smile, all white teeth and rotting calm. – Of course not. – A pause. – I will speak to someone. Or better yet, you will.

You freeze.

– Your Eminence.

– The Duke of Suffolk—

You don't even wait for him to finish, so great is your outrage. – James Barnes?! You have gone mad!

He pays no mind to your insolence this time. – He has returned from Asgard, has he not?

– Barely a fortnight ago!

He smiles coyly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They're too busy staring at his ring as the gears of a plan spin behind his irises. – Just long enough to see the kingdom with fresh eyes. Just long enough to feel unwelcome in it.

– He’s the King’s closest friend!

– Was. – He corrects. – And don’t insult my intelligence —you know better than to pretend there was ever any love there. Not from James's side, at least. He's always envied the King. Almost loathed him.

– No more than he loathes you! – You shout, exasperated.

– He doesn’t have to like me. He only has to want something. Something that belongs to Steven.

– This is ridiculous!

– Hardly so, my dear. You've said it yourself: men will always want to bed the women they hate. And what man doesn't want to bed the Queen?

– Any with at least half a brain!

– Which he has not. – He laughs, low, casual, as if he were not speaking treason. – Good for us.

– Even if he did not have a brain —which, I’m sure, by the way, that he most certainly does— do you truly think James Barnes capable of seducing a woman he isn't able to pay for?!

– He doesn’t have to seduce her, sweet child. You will. In a way. You'll plant the seed in his mind. He'll notice her. Then admire her. Then desire her. And she —poor, humiliated creature that she is— will bask in it. A dangerous, quiet admiration. The kind that ruins empires, or, more likely, Empresses.

You shake your head.

– You cannot be— you want me to… what? Tell them to dance?!

– Not even that. Merely to open the windows and let them notice one another. Whisper here, glance there. Do what you do best! Fan the air. Let the fire catch on its own.

It's absurd.

Outrageous. You can’t even put words to the situation, so unbelievable that it is. – They’ve known each other for years. 13 years, just as long as the King's been married, and I don't think I've ever seen them do so much as talk to one another!

– Then let you be the bridge! – He hums, voice light, eyes bright, as if he’s encouraging his child to ride a horse for the first time, and not to commit high treason. – Gossip lightly. Mention how the Queen watches him when she thinks no one sees. Or say he’s asked after her. The Queen will preen. The Duke will wonder. That is all. Let nature take its course.

You draw a breath, unsteady.

– And when it does?

– Then we let the King see it too. – He leans in, voice like poison wrapped in prayer. – We give His Majesty proof. Desire. Betrayal. His Queen and his closest friend, conspiring behind closed doors. We give him justification. For annulment. For outrage. For remarriage.

Your blood runs cold. – That would ruin her.

– That would save the kingdom. She is a dead end. One daughter. No heir. No fortune. She has become a liability.

You clench your jaw.

– And what of the Duke?

– Oh, he’ll be broken. But he’ll know why. Everyone will. A man who betrays a King loses his name before his head.

A pause. You want to say no. You want to scream.

– And if it doesn’t work?

Your father laughs.

– Don't pretend. – He chuckles. – Was it not your favorite hobby? Goading two people that didn’t know each other into suddenly falling in lust?

Your breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

You were only a girl. A bored, discarded girl in the overly tight-laced court of Sokovia. You only wanted something to do. A distraction. A mission as matchmaker.

You never meant for it to go as far as it did.

Worse, you never knew he was watching.

– You think I don’t know you have experience in the business of ruining Queens?

You try to swallow. It scrapes down dry.

– That was—

– That was—?

– That was… – Your mouth opens and closes, but the words don’t come.

Eventually, your father speaks for you:

– Cruel? Childish? – He hums the words like a lullaby, turning the heavy ring on his finger. The ruby catches the sunlight and sends a flickering crimson stain across your cheek. Like blood. Like accusation. – Yes. But now you have a reason to do it. And it will be better, of course. Since you obviously have the experience.

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is you were good at it. Too good. And if there’s one thing Cardinal Helmut Zemo never forgets are the things his children are good at, especially the things he can exploit.

– That's when I knew, you know? – He looks away, at the gaps of light that bleed onto him through the screen of his door. At the ring on his finger. – That's when I knew you were the blood of my blood.

– Don't— Your Eminence, please.

He smiles —Soft, warm, fatherly— and brings up his hand, pressing his hand to the trellis, and his fingers through the gaps. – Come to me, child.

– Your Eminence…

– Daughter. – He whispers, saccharine, and he knows he’s ended you then, for your eyes water, your mouth hangs agape, and your hands tremble around your rosary. – Come. – Your fingers still shake as you raise them to meet his. – This is what you're good at. Your calling.

– Ruining people?! – You cry. The single first tear you've shed in years falling down your face as he shakes his head and holds your hand.

– Exerting God's justice upon their misdeeds. – He whispers, his breath brushes against your skin like a feather. – I was only a boy when I learned of God's true calling for me. I was a child, clutching dates to my hand and whispering prayers to false icons painted in gold, when at first I saw these. – He grabs the velvet trim of his garments, letting your hand linger there, against the wood, waiting for his. His touch. His words. His point. – This red. A Cardinal’s robes. I was a butcher’s boy, as was he, so he told me. And yet he was a prince of the Church. – He presses his palm flat to the lattice, and you realize —with dread— that he’s no longer speaking only of himself. – He said the world would always mistake softness for sin. And so we must become sharp. Useful. God does not ask for innocence. Only obedience.

You close your eyes.

He waits.

Then, quieter:

– Do you think it was easy? Watching them jeer when I passed with my sack of bones and offal? The stink clinging to my sleeves even when I scrubbed until they bled? Do you think I wanted to become what I am at the cost of my honor, my integrity? I had a soul once, too. – His voice shudders, just enough to make your heart flutter, consumed by a with terrible pity —He knows. He knows— Because he made you this way, too. – I built this, for us. For your brother. For our legacy. For you, my girl. – His voice soft. His eyes are soft. And then it hardens, steadies. Disappointment wrapped in velvet. – I kept you fed, educated, hidden. When they would’ve spat on your cradle. When they would’ve put you in a basket, left you in the church steps and wash their hands of you. When they might have put you to the blade. – You don’t know who he means by ‘they’. Your father's memory of Sokovia is an endless library of hypothetical enemies. You mother, your aunts, your sisters, the nuns in the church you were born in. What matters is he hates them. What matters is that you’re his. – You think I didn’t want to keep you from this, from this palace of debauchery? This life of sin? I did! But I need someone who understands. Someone clever. Someone like me.

– I don’t— You stutter. – I don't understand.

– You do! – He turns to you fully now, his other hand knocking against the lattice, calling for yours just as his eyes are. You meet him without hesitation. – You've always understood. I look into your eyes now, child, and I see myself. The fire, the fury, the drive— He laughs, breathless, staring at you as if you were a newborn again. – the pitiless ambition. You are made in my image.

Your hands stay in his.

The ruby of his ring still bleeds red across your skin, deep and cruel like stigmata.

You should pull away.

You should.

But instead, you whisper. – And what of our souls?

His smile flickers. Not fading, just changing shape. As if you’ve asked a child’s question.

Something simple. Naïve.

Sweet.

– We are already damned, my daughter. You and I both. – He says it like a lullaby, like it should be a comfort.

You search his face. The elegant lines carved by the sleepless nights, the pitiless ambition he speaks of. – Is revenge not a sin? – It comes out small. Like a last protest. A child clutching at the hem of righteousness one final time before the tide of sin swallows them whole. – Have we not gathered enough of them? Sins? Lies? – You remain quiet for a moment, listening in to the outside world, searching the gap of the screen door for any movement. – Crimes? – You don’t mean to sound so weak. But the words crack under their own weight. – We've corrupted ourselves in almost any way there is, and we've not yet had any reckoning. Will God not turn His face from us?

He holds your hand a little tighter through the lattice.

The answer is gentle. Unflinching. – Our God, my child, is not the blushing Christ of painted chapels and fat English bishops. – He leans forward. His voice is warm, a hearth flame glowing inside a tomb. – Our God is the one who walked in the wilderness, who struck down cities with sulfur and raised kings from ash. – His eyes narrow with something ancient, something fierce. – Our God is the God of the Old Testament. The one who loved Jacob, but hated Esau. Who chose, and punished, and marked His chosen with fire.

He lifts your hand, once more, and places it against the wooden screen —reverent. Steady. – And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes, – He recites, voice like low thunder, – and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.

A breath.

You don’t move.

Because you don’t remember the verse— You’ve never heard it. He’s made it up. And now he looks at you through the screen, the ruby light catching his cheekbone like a brand. – This is not a sin, daughter. This is justice.

Your lips part. But there is no protest left.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat.

And the shape of your father’s hands, still cupping yours, like a vow.

Your heart flickers between your loyalty for him and your fear for your immortal souls.

You've ruined a Queen before. Your father then went on to crush her, whatever there was left of her, for his benefit—your benefit. Yours and his both.

You look to your clothes.

To the elaborate brown brocade in black velvet accents. The Linen undershirt, with sleeves and collar you took days to fully embroider. The pearls of your earrings, your necklace, your rings— Paid for by the ruin of a woman who was never outwardly cruel to you, only petty. And whom, with your immature anger, you led to her doom.

You think of Queen Margaret, now.

She is no friend of yours, and yet she's always been gracious enough never to sneer upon you to your face.

You cannot say the same for most ladies at court.

Could you see her to the same fate you saw Queen Yekaterina? The one that haunts you to this day?

– I love you, your Eminence. You know you are dearest to my heart than even the air I breathe. But please, please don't ask me to do this.

Not “I won’t”

Not “I can't”

But “Don't ask me to do it”

Because you know if he does, you will.

And he knows it also.

– Sweet child…

– You're asking me to destroy her.

He smiles. – No. Never that. – A pause, soaked in sentiment, so heartfelt and genuine you almost believe in his mercy. – What I'm asking of you is that you set her free. From the prison of her virtue. From her cold, fruitless marriage. From her crown.

You stare at his hands, still pressed to the wood, still clutching yours. The ruby gleams like an open wound.

Your voice wavers. – And if they find out? What will they say about me? That I'm a witch. That I'm a sorceress.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. With eyes just as kind, he says the cruelest thing he can think of, in a tone as soft and warm as the most expensive velvet. – What do they say now?

It's be an easier question to inquire upon the things they don't about you.

You knew enough english when you left Sokovia, but you learned all manner of insults that never, in your wildest rage, you could imagine, by simply walking the corridors of Hampton Court with your ears peeled.

The insults got cueler when you listened through the walls of private chambers. And even more so when you caught wind of them from behind the ladies’ fans.

– They sneer when I pass, just like they sneered when you climbed the Sokovian court. The same pursed lips, the same sharpened Latin. False convert, they say. Savage. Heretic. Sokovian ape. – Your voice shakes, your eyes water, but you push it through. – The Lords call you Crimson Pig. Serpent. The ladies call us worse. They say I smell of my mother’s kitchen herbs, of frankincense and garlic, like a witch raised in a root cellar. One asked if I’d read my lessons in blood. They laugh when I pray. Bless themselves when I pass. – You exhale sharply. – How is this different?

There’s a silence.

His fingers press tighter through the wood, wrap around yours. Warm, dry, paternal. – We’ll make them kneel. – His voice is soft, coaxing. – We did it before. You remember. When the princes of Sokovia laughed at a butcher’s son with a ribboned cassock. When they said that the scrawny little girl with bruised hands would never master French or canon law. When they turned their noses at the sight of us —until we climbed. Until they had no choice but to whisper their insults while they bowed.

You’re breathing hard now. Your knuckles pale. He is close. The world is only wood and shadow between you.

– We’ll put these perfumed, powdered English swine to shame the same way we did our countrymen. We’ll do it again—to the stiff-backed, fish-eyed courtiers who mock us with gloved hands and kiss our rings in secret.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

– To the King, who calls me brother in Christ when he sins but mocks my accent when he drinks. – A smile, dagger-sharp. – To the Queen, who says we are witchborn beasts in silks, who spits "Sokovian ape" behind her fan. – His voice dips into a growl. – And to the Duke. Who should be our ally. Who came from nothing, just like us. Son of a groom. Who should know better. But repeats their venom with a grin, as though it were merit and not proximity to the crown that made him noble.

He lifts your hand —still through the lattice— and kisses the side of your fingers like a priest anointing a relic.

It's reverent. Loving. Burning with the rage of someone who spent too long a time being sneered at to let things go. – Let them call us monsters. – He meets your gaze through the trellis. – Let them howl and scoff and rage like wild mutts. We will make them kneel regardless.

For a moment, you remember it—the first time he pulled you from the kitchens, bloodied and weeping after a noble girl had spat in your hair. He did not comfort you. He did not say it would be well.

He taught you to smile.

To kneel.

To pray.

And then to rise.

So your hand stays in his.

And your silence, this time, is not refusal.

You must be going mad.

Because when he whispers it at last, when he delivers the last blow like a pièce-de-résistance to your corruption, you don't fear him. You don’t shrink. You don’t recoil. You lean in, and you agree. Genuinely. Ardently. With your entire heart. – They say we are the unholy family. – He laughs. – So let those pompous english brats know why Sokovia still trembles at the name Zemo.

The words feel colder than the stone floor beneath you. Still, you bow your head and murmur your thanks, your heart as heavy as your conscience is set. – Bless me, Your Eminence.

He smiles, almost relieved. Almost accomplished.

– May the Lord keep you sharp and silent, child. And may your hands remain steady, if ever they must forge a crown. – He signs a cross before the trellis, looking at you with all the love Abraham must have had in his eyes as he offered Isaac up for sacrifice. – Ego te absolvo ab omnibus censoris, et pecatis, in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

– Amen.

He rises, robes sweeping the tiled floors of the chapel as he exits the confessionary, walking as if he'd been the one who was delivered absolution. And you remain kneeling, spine straight, fingers wrapped tight around the rosary —not in prayer, but in calculation.

It falls as you lift your veil to put it back on.

And when you pick it up, there it is. The red spot of light from your father's ring.

You look up.

It’s sitting on the side of the lattice, waiting for you to put it on.

42 notes · View notes

uselesssomebody · 2 years ago

Text

𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲'𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 (18+)

the do's (rules & information):

readers must be over 18 reading these drabbles

all works will be under or roughly a thousand words

thirty-one days of smut drabbles

ten days are open to requests for the kinks

ten days will include dark content (will be properly tagged)

five will include a dominant reader

the don'ts (what i am not interested in writing):

i only write fem!readers, with all involved characters being over 18

the kinks i'd appreciate you don't request are anything to do with anal penetration, bodily fluids (besides blood and cum), and certain dom/sub dynamics like age play or ddlg

otherwise, ask away, and i'll see if i'm comfortable writing your request!

the kinks and the characters

october 1: shower sex w/ frankie morales

october 2: ball worship (dom!reader) w/ eddie munson

october 3: sex pollen (dark) w/ din djarin

october 4: consensual non-consent (dark) w/ miguel o'hara

october 5: threesome (ffm) w/ marc spector & layla el-faouly

october 6: requested kink & character

october 7: breeding kink (dark) w/ duke leto

october 8: somnophilia (dark) w/ eddie munson

october 9: mutual masturbation (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 10: threesome (mmf) + double penetration (in one hole) w/ frankie morales and santiago garcia

october 11: titfucking w/ javier peña

october 12: requested kink & character

october 13: exhibitionism w/ poe dameron

october 14: dacryphilia (dark) w/ joel miller

october 15: temperature play (dom!reader) w/ din djarin

october 16: phone sex w/ jack daniels

october 17: corruption kink (dark) w/ dio morrissey

october 18: requested kink & character

october 19: edging (dark!dom!reader) w/ basil stitt

october 20: recording/blackmail (dark) w/ jonathan levy

october 21: mask + glove kink w/ jake lockley

october 22: hate + mirror sex w/ javier peña

october 23: cockwarming (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 24: requested kink & character

october 25: overstimulation w/ jake lockley

october 26: size difference w/ miguel o'hara

october 27: knife kink (dark) w/ bucky barnes

october 28: free use (dark) w/ joel miller

october 29: sex toys w/ natasha romanoff

october 30: requested kink & character

october 31: period sex/blood kink w/ santiago garcia

the characters (you guys can request)

from stranger things, i write for eddie munson, robin buckley, billy hargrove or steve harrington

from marvel, i write for bucky barnes, steve rogers, natasha romanoff, jake lockley, marc spector, steven grant, layla el-faouly and miguel o'hara

from star wars, i write for poe dameron, or din djarin (the mandalorian)

from triple frontier, i write for frankie morales and santiago garcia

miscellaneous oscar isaac characters i write for include basil stitt, jonathan levy, duke leto, kane and orestes (agora)

miscellaneous pedro pascal characters i write for include joel miller, javier peña, jack daniels (agent whiskey), dio morrissey

if you want to request another character, don't hesitate! i will see what i can do.

notes

guys i know i haven't written in like 1200 months but i wanna get back into the mood with the short smutty stuff

besides, i've never done kinktober and every other one i've seen bangs so hard i simply couldn't resist

side note - dark fics will be only available on my adjacent dark blog: @darkuselesssomebody, but will be linked on this masterlist. if you wanna read the dark drabbles and future dark work, give it a follow!

i am also willing to take non-kinky & halloween themed requests, so if you have any, let me know!

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

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starkandthewaynes · 4 months ago

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I don't know what to write

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elixirfromthestars · 1 year ago

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I’m rewatching Bridgerton to get ready for the new season and I’m thinking Duke Bucky is going to make a comeback 👀💖

#duke bucky #bucky barnes x reader

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jason-todd-rh · 3 months ago

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Looking to follow people

If you like/reblog this I’ll follow you (FYI this isn’t my main account)

DC (primarily Jason Todd and batfam)

Marvel (buckyyyyy)

Anime (currently obsessed with one piece)

Webtoons

Booktok

I watch a lot of stuff so please follow me as well :)

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winterarmyy · 10 months ago

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Against All Odds | Part II

An arranged marriage with the duke's illegitimate son!bucky.

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)

Words: 6.4k++

Pairing: duke's illegitimate son!bucky x noble!female!reader

Warnings: implied 18+ content, implied smut, sprinkles of fluff, death, blood, violence, a truck load of angst, heartbreak, and honestly… just raw pain. so, i'd say grab a box of tissue or a shoulder to cry on, just in case.

A/N: i am sorry for what is about to happen in this chapter. but, please know that I love you. and oh, did i mention that release date is based on my local time zone (UTC+08:00)? anyway, I hope you enjoy your time.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N was stirred awake from her dreamless sleep by none other than the restless movements on the shared bed. Blinking her eyes open, the dim light from the moon intruded her sight; her blurry vision glanced across the room, the light casted a pale glow on the surface. On her side, Bucky was tossing and turning; his face contorted in utter distress. His muscular body was taut, sweat glistening on his skin. His breaths came in harsh, uneven gasps, and his hands clutched on the sheets as if he were holding on for dear life.

“Please, no, please,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with desperation. Y/N’s heart ached at the sight of him in such torment. Reaching out, her hands gently touching his arm. His skin was clammy and hot, his muscles twitched under her fingertips. She could feel the frantic pulse under his skin, the erratic rhythm mirroring the chaos in his mind.

“Bucky,” she called softly, her voice laced with concern. “Bucky, wake up.” She sat up and leaned over him. Her hand moving to his sweaty scalp; caressing through his hair, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Bucky. You’re okay. Please, open your eyes.”

Bucky’s body jerked as he jolted awake causing his wife to startle at his sudden movement. His eyes wide and unfocused as the salty tears spilled from the corners. His haunted gaze stared into the void, his chest heaving, body shivering. He seemed disoriented, his heart pounding so loudly that it drowned out the world around him. Y/N’s voice, however, managed to pierce through the ringing in his ears.

Her words were like a lifeline, a beacon in the darkness of his mind. Each gentle whisper seemed to pull him further from the grip of his nightmare, grounding him back in the reality where he was safe and loved. She repeated his name, each utterance calm and reassuring, hoping to anchor him to the present. “Bucky?”, her tone soft; filled with worry.

He blinked, finally able to see her. “Y/N?” His voice sounded small and broken compared to his large and seemingly powerful build. It was a voice filled with vulnerability, a voice that seemed almost alien coming from someone who is usually so strong. His eyes, typically so steely and determined, were now wide and clouded with fear and confusion; lingered with trails of terror from whatever it was he saw behind his closed eyes.

It pained her to see him like this, reduced to a shadow of the man she knew. The dissonance between his imposing physique and the fragility in his voice was contradicting, making her heart ache for him even more. “Yes, Bucky. It’s me,” she replied gently, her hands delicately traced his clenched fists; drawing meaningless circles around his knuckles.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was real; sitting so close for him touch. Her bare skin glistened underneath the moonlight. The soft pink of her cheeks and lips, the bright gleam of her eyes; it made her look ethereal, almost otherworldly. An epitome of warmth and light; she looked so… alive.

Within seconds, without warning, Bucky’s body surged forward, engulfing her in a fierce embrace. “Y/N…” he murmured, his voice trembling as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. His body shaking with silent sobs. She could feel his breath, hot and ragged against her skin, each exhale filled with a depth of emotion that he rarely displayed.

She held him tightly, her hands running soothingly up and down his back. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, Bucky.” Her heart ached for him, for the pain that he was obviously carrying alone. Her thoughts raced, wondering what kind of demons were haunting his dreams, what kind of pain he was enduring. She felt a fierce protectiveness grew within her, a desperate need to comfort and shield him from whatever it was that tormented him. Each sob that wracked his body seemed to pierce her own heart, deepening her resolve to be his strength.

Bucky’s body trembled with suppressed sobs, as she continued to stroke his hair, whispering soothing words until his breathing began to steady and his tears slowed. She could feel the tension slowly leaving his body, his muscles relaxing under her touch.

Her whispers were a constant reassurance, a reminder that he was not alone, that she was there. Each stroke of her hand, each soft word, was a promise of her unwavering support and love. She could feel him clinging to her, as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

As Bucky reluctantly pulled away from her arms, she looked up at his broken state; noting the redness in his eyes and nose, the tear stains on his scruffy cheeks, “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked softly, wiping away the remaining tears flowing. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were filled with determination.

It had been a few months into their marriage, and the seasons had changed since Y/N had first arrived at Bucky’s mansion. The cold, snowy landscape of winter had gradually given way to the bloom of spring, and with it, the promise of new beginnings.

In those early days, Y/N’s feelings for Bucky had been built on a foundation of simple trust. As his wife, she had expected to offer support and loyalty, and in return, she hoped for a stable companionship. Yet, it didn't take long for those initial feelings to deepen into something far more profound.

She had been drawn to his warmth and the vulnerability he rarely showed to others. It was in the quiet moments, when they were alone, that she began to see a different side of him. Far from the heinous rumours people blatantly consume; a side that was not just a fierce protector, but also a man capable of deep affection.

Yet, amidst the beauty of their budding romance, one thing had remained constant: Bucky's nightmares. They were not as frequent as they had been at the start, but they were consistent, recurring often enough to disrupt their otherwise peaceful nights.

Y/N had grown accustomed to waking in the middle of the night to find him thrashing in his sleep, his brow furrowed in anxiety, his breaths sounding fractured, his skin sticky with sweat. However, she had never seen him like this; tears freely fell from his eyes, looking so fragile and broken. It was both heart-wrenching and humbling to witness. She worried about him, about the torment he seemed to carry within him. She longed to understand the source of his pain, to be his support system even for a little bit.

She continued to gently probe him to tell her the truth; to share his darkness only for him to shake his head, tears filling up yet again as he unwilling to put his pain into words. Instead of speaking out, he leaned in and kissed her deeply, his lips conveying a need that went beyond physical desire. His hands caressed her bare skin, tender and fervent, as if seeking solace in her touch. Each kiss was a wordless plea, a desperate attempt to find comfort and reassurance in the only way he knew how. His touch conveyed an urgent need, a gentle exploration that spoke of his love and longing for her. The desperation in his kiss was clearly evident, a tangible manifestation of the torment he was trying to escape.

Y/N responded with equal tenderness, understanding that this moment was about comfort and connection, not lust. She understood that he needed this, and though she longed to know what was haunting him and hoped to share his burden, however, she respected his silence. It was his story to tell after all, so for now she’ll let him hold her. To have their bodies entwined the way he wanted; to let him have the relief he so hopelessly craved for.

Bucky’s love was passionate yet filled with love that she felt tears pricking at her own eyes. She sensed the depth of his emotions; in each thrust into her heat, in every trembling whisper of “i love you”s, every drop of his warmth spilling into her. She could feel the weight of his sorrow, the intensity of his need for her. Her heart swelled with deep affection, her own tears mixing with his as they clung to each other. She wanted to take away his pain, to be his sanctuary in this moment of vulnerability.

Y/N sat in the sunlit parlour, the soft rays of the morning sun casting a golden hue over the elegant room. Her fingers traced the delicate patterns on her teacup, her thoughts drifting as she absently stirred her tea. Across from her, Wanda sipped her tea with a relaxed smile, her demeanour calm and inviting. Despite the serene setting, Y/N’s mind was occupied with the troubling events of the previous night.

Wanda’s eyes, sharp and perceptive, caught the distant look on Y/N’s face. She tilted her head slightly, her tone teasing yet concerned. “What’s on your mind, Y/N? Has Bucky been bullying you again?” The playful tone was intended to lighten the mood, but Y/N’s thoughts were remained dark.

A soft laugh escaped Y/N’s lips, and she shook her head, a genuine smile breaking through her thoughtful expression. “No, far from it. Bucky has always been a sweetheart, you know that.” she replied, her voice warm with fondness as her thoughts wandered back to her husband.

Wanda scoffed softly, “If making you walk weird every morning is not bullying to you, I don’t know what is.” She was quick with her wit of banter. Y/N shook her head as her cheeks glowed with a pinkish shade. Her memories meandered to the time when she had first settled into their new home in the northern region.

The shift from the bustling capital to this colder, more serene landscape had been a significant change, but one she embraced with open arms. It was the beginning of winter, and the snow painted the landscape in a pristine blanket of white. The gentle snowflakes drifted down, and beneath the thin layer of snow, resilient flowers continued to bloom. The contrast was beautiful and invigorating; a sense of peace and tranquillity engulfed her.

She remembered her first days in the sprawling mansion, its grandeur both overwhelming and exhilarating. The staff members, a group of dedicated and welcoming individuals, had eagerly guided her through her new responsibilities as the lady of the mansion. Mrs. Lane, the head maid, had taken special care in introducing Y/N to the intricacies of managing such a vast estate. From the daily routines to the ceremonial duties, Mrs. Lane’s patience and kindness made Y/N’s transition smoother. She recalled the staff’s warm demeanour, their smiles and nods of approval as they showed her the ropes, their hospitality making her feel right at home.

Bucky, too, had been noticeably livelier since she had arrived. The maids, even the knights, frequently mentioned how their lord seemed more cheerful in the days when she was around. Y/N took pride in their acknowledgement, feeling that her presence had brought a positive change to their household fluttered her heart. The compliments and the warmth from those around her were affirmations that she was settling in well and that her husband was happy.

And then there was that one particular evening, as she and Bucky walked through their garden. The sun was setting behind them, the air was crisp, and the snow-covered grounds sparkled in the last remaining light of the winter sun. As they strolled hand in hand, Bucky’s touch was the source of relief against the chill of the season. He led her to a secluded spot under a snow-laden tree, a favourite place of hers that had become a sanctuary for quiet moments. There, he presented her with a small, intricately wrapped box. Its paper adorned with delicate patterns that caught the fading light.

Y/N’s heart fluttered with anticipation as she carefully unwrapped the box. Inside lay a pen, and as soon as her eyes fell upon it, she recognized it instantly. The pen was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, unlike anything she had ever seen. Its barrel was made of a rare, silvery metal that seemed to shimmer with its own light, reflecting a rainbow of hues with each movement. Intricate patterns were etched into the surface, forming an elegant design that was both enchanting and sophisticated. The cap of the pen was adorned with a small, iridescent gemstone that captured and held the light, casting a soft, magical glow.

Her eyes widened in recognition and delight. “Is this…,” she breathed, her voice filled with awe and disbelief. “I.. I never imagined I’d actually own one.”

Her fingers traced the elegant curves of the pen; heart swelling with a mix of gratitude and wonder. The pen was more than just a beautiful object; it was a tool of her craft. Its smooth, balanced design promised an effortless writing experience, and the magical quality of the pen added a touch of enchantment to her translations and writings. It was an instrument that would transform her passion for ancient languages into something even more special. The rare, magical properties of the pen would make her translations come alive, imbuing her work with a subtle, otherworldly grace.

Bucky smiled, his eyes brighten with a blend of affection and a knowing gaze as he recognized the sparkle in her eyes, “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his tone was gentle.

Her curiosity piqued as she asked, “How did you know?”, her voice a mixture of wonder and intrigue. “I never told you about this pen before.” Y/N's mind raced as she tried to recall if she had ever mentioned it in passing or left any clues that Bucky could have picked up on. She couldn't think of a single instance. This pen had been a private dream of hers, a wish she had never shared with anyone.

Bucky’s smile was warm, though his eyes carried a hint of enigmatic depth. He took her hand and wrapped it around his arm. “Maybe I’ve been paying attention,” he said with a hint of playful mystery. “Or maybe I just know you better than you think.”

There was a depth in his eyes, a flicker of something significant that Y/N couldn’t quite place; an intensity that suggested an understanding beyond the ordinary. It was as if somehow he managed to delve into her innermost thoughts and desires, uncovering a secret she had kept even from herself. The pen, though exquisitely beautiful, seemed to hold an unspoken meaning; a connection that went beyond the surface.

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion as she gazed at Bucky, realising just how much he meant to her. His gift was not just a luxury; it was a symbol of their growing intimacy. It was a reminder that Bucky had been attentive; that he had taken the time to understand and appreciate her in ways she had never imagined. Their relationship had started with hesitancy and uncertainty, a tentative dance around each other’s flaws and reputation. Now over time, he had become her rock, her constant companion, and the person she loved more deeply than she ever thought possible.

As her focus returned to the present, Wanda’s voice cut through Y/N’s reflections. “Then what’s bothering you?” Wanda asked, her tone shifting to a more serious note.

Y/N's thoughts then drifted to the moment she met Wanda.

It had been an unexpected yet delightful encounter, filled with a sense of destiny. Wanda was a powerful witch from the magic tower, renowned for her skills and wisdom. Despite her young age, she was considered a prodigy, the youngest ever to hold such a prestigious position.

She had met Wanda through Bucky, and their bond had been immediate. Both women shared a deep fascination with ancient languages, and their mutual interest had led to a close friendship. They spent countless hours together, deciphering old grimoires and delving into the intricacies of forgotten tongues.

Though they had only recently come together, Y/N felt an odd sense of familiarity with Wanda, as if their connection had roots extending beyond the present. It was a rare and cherished connection for Y/N, one that made her feel even more at home in her new life.

“Y/N,” Wanda said, her voice firmer this time, “Snap out of it. I’m serious. What’s troubling you?”

She set her teacup down, her expression growing solemn. “Bucky has been having nightmares,” she began, her voice tinged with worry. She recounted the restless nights, the desperation in Bucky’s voice, and how he had clung to her, unable to let go.

Wanda listened intently, her silence heavy with unspoken thoughts. there was sense that she knew more than she was letting on, but Wanda’s demeanour remained calm and collected. “Maybe it’s just the memories from the war taking their toll,” Wanda suggested softly, though her eyes harbouring a deeper understanding.

Y/N’s heart ached at the thought. Maybe it was; maybe it was just the souls he had slain coming back to haunt him; but something in her guts says otherwise. She could sense that this wasn’t just a recurrence of old wounds. Because sometimes, when Bucky awoke from these terrors, she could hear him muttering her name, his voice barely above a whisper; laced with despair. And then it always ended up with Bucky burying his cock deep inside her as he held her close for the rest of the night, clinging to her as if she were his anchor in a storm.

She continued to explain things that did not add up to Wanda’s theory, “And each time these nightmares haunt him, he ends up…” she hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “...ho-holding me for the rest of the night; refusing to let me go,” she explained, her voice threaded with genuine frustration and concern. It was as though his need to hold her was an instinctive response to stave off the terror that plagued his dreams.

Wanda’s eyes twinkled with a hint of playful exasperation. “Oh so you’re bragging to me now? That your husband loves you so much he won’t let you leave the bed?” Her comment, though seemingly light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of truth. In hindsight, it simply might have sounded like jealousy from an unmarried woman but especially to Y/N, who failed to see Wanda’s words as more than just playful teasing , the hidden meaning went unnoticed.

Her cheeks tingled with a deep blush; her laugh was a sound of an underlying embarrassment. “No, it’s not like that!” she protested flusteredly.

Wanda’s laughter was light and carefree, hiding the subtle shift in the atmosphere. “Well, it certainly sounds like it. But seriously, if Bucky’s having nightmares, it’s probably remnant of what he had gone through in the wars he fought. Men like him carry those scars deeply,” Wanda said, her voice softening with a note of empathy.

As they continued to enjoy their tea, Y/N tried to shake off the lingering unease. Wanda’s teasing and their shared laughter provided a temporary respite from her worries. But as she looked at her friend, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky’s nightmares than the memories of the war. For now, though, she let Wanda’s playful banter and their camaraderie soothe her, even if only for a little while.

Bucky stood in the dimly lit room, the soft hum of a nearby lamp casting long shadows against the walls. The air was thick as the cold of the night mingled with the lack of warmth in his eyes. On a heavy wooden table in front of him lay a collection of weapons, each one meticulously arranged in a precise order. The blades, all different in shape and size, gleamed menacingly in the dull light, their sharp edges catching the faint glint of the lamp’s glow.

Carefully inspecting the weapons in front of him, his fingers running over the smooth steel with a precision that bordered on obsession. He picked up a particularly long and slender dagger. And as he turned the blade in his hand, the metal caught the light and cast a cold, eerie reflection of his face. It was a haunting image; his eyes, usually a clear, expressive blue, were now shadowed and distant, their depths hollow and impenetrable. There was a deadness to them that spoke of countless battles fought and horrors witnessed. His face was a mask of stoicism, but beneath the surface, there was a storm raging, a maelstrom of past regrets and unresolved anger.

Bucky’s grip around the handle was tight, his knuckles white with the intensity of his hold. The veins in his hands stood out prominently, a stark contrast to the smooth, polished steel of the weapon. Each knife was a reminder of the skills he had honed, the battles he had fought, and the assassinations he had carried out.

He moved to another knife, a small throwing blade with a wickedly sharp edge, he tested its balance with a practised flick of his wrist. The blade spun through the air with a deadly precision before landing with a soft thud into a luxurious painting hung against the wall. His eyes followed its path, and for a moment, a flicker of anger flashed across his face.

Suddenly, a figure materialised from the shadows, revealing itself with a slight shimmer. Wanda had been there all along, invisible, her presence unnoticed until now. She stepped into view with a wry smile as she glanced at the knife that had embedded itself dangerously close to her. “Whoa, didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” she said, her tone a mix of surprise and light-heartedness.

The room was silent for a while, only the faint sounds of Bucky’s movements carried through. He was deeply engrossed in his fortitude, his concentration absolute, a far stretch to the gentle, affectionate man he was whenever Y/N's near. In this moment, Bucky was a figure of intense focus and grim determination. His silence was punctuated only by the clatter of knives and the soft hiss of steel slicing through the air as he continued to hone his weapons.

Wanda observed him with a mix of respect and concern. The light-hearted air that usually surrounded her had vanished, replaced by a more sombre and serious demeanour. She approached quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound on the floor. As she neared, her voice broke the oppressive silence. “Everything’s ready for the mission,” she said, her tone was devoid of the usual playfulness. Her words were carefully measured and the gravity of the situation reflected in her gaze.

Bucky didn’t look up, his hands moving with grace as he continued to arrange his arsenal. “I’m almost finished,” he replied tersely, his voice betraying no hint of emotion. His focus was unwavering, his mind wholly consumed by the mission that lay ahead. The weight of his resolve was palpable, filling the room with an air of silenced tension.

Wanda’s expression softened slightly as she watched him. She understood the depth of his commitment and the toll it took on him. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know?,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a note of gentle concern.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, suddenly remembering the brutal betrayal that had led him to this predicament in the first place. The memory of the past; that fateful decision and the ancient magic that brought him back to this very moment, surged through his mind.

The night was alive with chaos as Bucky rode with frantic urgency, the pounding of hooves on the snow-covered ground mingling with the roar of a storm that mirrored the tempest in his heart. His breath came in sharp, visible gasps as he urged his horse to greater speeds, each beat of its powerful legs seeming to push him closer to the nightmare he feared. The familiar landscape of his northern estate was barely visible through the blizzard, the swirling snowflakes obscuring his vision and adding to the mounting dread.

His mind raced, his thoughts a blur of fear and desperation. “No, please, no,” he muttered under his breath, the words a futile plea against the encroaching darkness. The relentless clamour of battle reached his ears, a discordant symphony of clashing steel and anguished cries that only heightened his anxiety.

As he neared the mansion, the sight that greeted him was one of utter devastation. Smoke billowed from the once-pristine home, and the sounds of combat grew louder, more intense. Bucky's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of the urgency to reach his wife. He dismounted quickly, his boots sinking into the snow as he sprinted toward the entrance.

The once-beautiful halls of the mansion were now a scene of utter carnage. The rich tapestries were torn, their vibrant colours now marred by bloodstains. Bodies of servants and knights alike, lay scattered, their lives snuffed out like candles in the winter wind. The floor was slick with a dark, ominous red, and the walls bore the marks of a brutal struggle. Bucky’s gaze was steely, his rage a palpable force that seemed to drive him forward, each step a grim determination to find his wife.

His hands tightened around the hilts of his weapons, the familiar weight of his knives and sword was a small comfort in the midst of the chaos. With each enemy he encountered, his movements were swift and lethal, the precision of his attacks was such a visible difference to the disarray around him. The flashes of steel and the sharp cries of the dying filled the air, but Bucky’s focus was singular. He barely registered the battle around him, his mind a relentless drive toward that one singular goal: Y/N.

Finally, he reached the door to their private quarters. It was ajar, hanging precariously on its hinges. Bucky pushed it open with a forceful shove, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that met him. The room was eerily silent, save for the soft, steady sound of the cold wind outside. His eyes swept the room, a chilling realisation dawning as he took in the scene.

There, amidst the wreckage, lay Y/N, her once-beautiful form now crumpled on the floor. Her delicate back was marred by a series of gaping wounds, the result of a brutal assault. The sight of her lifeless body, curled protectively on the bloody floor, sent a jolt of horror through Bucky. Tears sprang to his eyes, blurring his vision as he stumbled forward, each step heavy with dread and despair.

As he drew closer, the true extent of the tragedy revealed itself. Y/N’s arms were wrapped tightly around something; a small, fragile bundle. His heart clenched painfully as he realised what it was. With trembling hands, he gently pried the baby from her cold embrace, his fingers barely able to grasp the tiny form. The baby was motionless, the silence of its little body a crushing blow to his already shattered soul.

“No, no, no,” Bucky’s voice was a desperate whisper, choked with indescribable grief. He cradled Y/N against his chest, his tears falling freely now as he held the lifeless bodies of both her and their child. His sobs were raw, guttural, the sound of a man who had lost everything. The weight of their deaths was unbearable, a suffocating agony that seemed to crush his very spirit.

As he held her, a torrent of emotions surge through him: anguish, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. His world had come crashing down, and the weight of his misery was almost unbearable, his tears fell from the blue of his eyes, “Please, please.” His breaths came in shaky, tortured gasps, as his quivering hands cupped her pale cheeks, “Open your eyes, my dear. I beg of you.” Her closed eyes remained stubbornly shut, unaffected to his hopeless pleas. The stillness of her form was a cruel reminder of those tender mornings when she would pretend to sleep just a little longer, feigning ignorance to his gentle kisses as he tried to rouse her

His hands moved to caress his child, the tiny body so still and unresponsive. The weight of his grief rendered him speechless, unable to utter a single word through the crushing pain. The absence of the high-pitched chortles and shrieks, the silence that echoed back at him, was a devastating reality to the lively sounds he had grown accustomed to. The baby, who had always responded to his touch with joy and curiosity, now lay motionless.

His heart shattered with the brutal realisation that this was not merely the loss of his beloved wife but also the crushing end to the life of their child. The sight of Y/N’s bloodied form and the lifelessness of their child were etched into his mind, a haunting image that would never fade.

Bucky’s and Y/N’s relationship had not started with ease. In their first lives, the beginning of their marriage was awkward; Bucky’s rough edges clashing with her gentle spirit. He had not known how to be tender, how to navigate the complexities of human emotion. Months were the time that Y/N's eyes would look up at him with evident fear and Bucky’s cold exterior unable to convey his true feelings.

But his wife, his dearest, with her unwavering patience and kindness, had been a constant light in his life. She had shown him what it meant to be human, to be gentle and caring. Despite his monstrous past, she had embraced him with an acceptance that was both humbling and transformative.

Their early days together were marked by a series of stumbles and missteps. Bucky’s attempts at intimacy often fell short, his rough touch and brusque mannerisms was the polar opposite to Y/N’s softness. Yet, her constant presence was a soothing wave to his soul. Over time, their awkward interactions gave way to a profound connection. Her warmth and understanding had nurtured a deep-rooted trust between them.

Bucky had fallen in love with her in a way that he had never thought possible, his heart swelling with a happiness that was both new and overwhelming.

And when the news of her pregnancy travels to his ears, Bucky’s joy had been boundless. He vowed to protect them both with everything he had, to shield them from harm and create a future filled with love and security. The dream of their family, of a life together with their child, was a beacon of hope amidst the shadows of Bucky’s past.

As the arrival of his firstborn got closer and closer, Bucky was determined to embrace this new chapter and leave the violence behind; so he approached the Emperor with a request to retire. He sought the reward for his years of service; an end to the wars and a chance to build a peaceful life with his family. But the Emperor, a man consumed by greed and a desire to retain his most powerful weapon, refused his request outright.

Bucky, fueled by the righteous fury of a man protecting his family’s future, resorted to threats. The Winter Soldier’s formidable reputation, sharpened by years of brutal efficiency, made the Emperor cower in fear. Terrified of his own creation, the Emperor reluctantly agreed to grant Bucky his only wish; but only under the condition that he would win one last war for him.

Bucky, driven by his desire to secure a safe future for Y/N and their child, agreed to the terms.

As the cruel fate had written, the Emperor’s promise was a deceitful trap.

While Bucky was away fighting the final battle, the Emperor’s true intentions were revealed. Viewing Y/N and their newborn child as distractions; potential threats to his plans and Bucky’s dedication. So he sought out to send his troops to Bucky’s estate. Their mission was clear: remove the ‘distraction,’ the family that Bucky had sworn to protect. The Emperor’s greed and paranoia had led him to a treacherous betrayal.

Now, that dream of a peaceful future with Y/N and their child lay shattered before him, replaced by the devastating reality of their deaths. The promise of safety and love was obliterated by the cruel hand of betrayal, leaving Bucky with nothing but the hollow weight of his ruined dreams.

In a heart-wrenching moment, Wanda appeared out of thin air, collapsing to the floor, her own form battered and bloodied. She had fought valiantly, protesting against the Master of the magic tower who had conspired with the Emperor. The same Master who had helped remove the magical protection Wanda had placed around Y/N and the baby, a gift she had bestowed as a token of becoming the child's godmother.

The battle had taken its toll on her, yet the sight of Y/N’s and the baby’s unnatural stillness pained her more than any wound maiming her own body. In her dying breath, Wanda dragged herself toward Y/N, who lay silently in her husband’s arms. Her eyes filled with sorrowful determination as he gripped Bucky’s collar, “Are you willing to do anything to save her?”

Bucky was a man lost in a sea of agony, drowning in raw sorrow and overwhelming despair. His world had crumbled around him, leaving him numb and detached from reality. He could scarcely comprehend the magnitude of his loss, the emptiness that now consumed his heart. His vision blurred with tears, he could barely focus on Wanda’s words, the weight of his devastation pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

Wanda’s grip tightened, her eyes pleading as she uttered, “Dammit Bucky, answer me! Will you?!”

Bucky’s gaze fell on the soulless forms of his beloved wife and child in his arms. He imagined the light of their eyes shining once more, the sound of their voices filling the silence that had taken over. As he envisioned the warmth and laughter that had once been a part of his life, a wave of fierce determination washed over him. His eyes burned with a fierceness, a resolve that was born of immense grief and love. He nodded with resolute certainty, his jaw set in grim determination.

Wanda smirked triumphly; there was a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes as if she knew what the future held for them. “Now go and kill that fucking bastard,” she commanded, her voice strained but resolute.

The world around Bucky seemed to warp and dissolve as her magical chants echoed in his mind; the room, the blood, and the bodies fading away. Just before everything vanished, Bucky leaned down to place a kiss on Y/N's lips and the baby's cheek, a silent vow to return and save them. Tears fell from his eyes, mingling with the blood on their skin. He whispered, "I promise, I'll come back for you."

It was as if the world was turned upside down as he was pulled backward through time. The blizzard outside was replaced by the heat of a summer battlefield, the familiar chaos of combat giving way to the eerie silence of a different kind of conflict.

Bucky’s breath came in ragged gasps as he surveyed the new surroundings, the scent of human flesh burning and the sounds of distant artillery woke him to a reality he thought he would never see again. His heart still raced, the pain of his loss a constant weight in his chest.

The memories of Y/N’s cold body and their child’s stillness haunted him, more than the bodies of corpses piling in front of him. The remnants of that heart-wrenching image was fresh in his mind. His gaze hardened as he realised where he was; he was no longer in the wreckage of his home but back in the midst of a war he once fought long before. In fact, exactly a few months until he is to be wed to Y/N.

As he took in his surroundings, Bucky felt a chilling sense of déjà vu, a haunting awareness that he was being thrust back into a time when the stakes were high and lives hung in the balance. The agony of losing his wife and their child was now a burning ember in his heart, driving him forward with a renewed sense of purpose and a determination to change the course of fate. And this time his mission was not to win the war but to put an end to the emperor's life.

“No. I have to do this alone.” His determination was a wall of resoluteness.

Wanda felt a deep ache in her heart for the burden he carried. She knew that the weight of his mission and the pain of his loss were almost unbearable. She thought about the fact that all of this might not even happened if not for Y/N’s discovery in their first lives.

After translating one of Wanda’s old grimoires; Y/N discovered an ancient forbidden magic where the ability of manipulating time is not a myth but actually a reality. Though she had been sceptical of its possibilities, Wanda on the other hand was convinced.

Since then, Wanda had been experimenting with time, first testing it on objects. Shredded paper reconstructed back to its original shape, and slowly she cast it on a wilted flower, bringing it back to when it bloomed. In time, Wanda learned the possibility of the magic to turn back time for more than just small things, but only at a price.

Dabbling with the magic to such an extent would mean to lose the most important trait of a person, something deeply tied to their identity or purpose. For each individual, this trait was different, and the magic demanded a unique sacrifice based on what they valued most. That was why Wanda had asked Bucky if he was willing to do anything to save Y/N.

Agreeing to it, Bucky would have to sacrifice his sight. His vision was essential not only for his prowess in battle but also for the simple yet immense joy of seeing his loved ones; Y/N and their child.

Losing his sight meant relinquishing his ability to protect them with the sharp precision he had always relied on. No longer would he be able to look into their eyes and see the warmth that sparked his every day. He would miss the simple joy of seeing his wife's pink cheeks flushed when he kisses her or the radiant beauty of her smile lighting up a room.

He wouldn’t be able to watch his child’s milestones; first steps, the way they would grow and change over time. He’d miss the subtle shifts in their expressions, the silent conversations shared through glances, and the small, fleeting moments that paint a vivid picture of their development.

That was the sacrifice he needed to make to save them.

Wanda had explained that the loss of his sight would occur gradually over time, not instantaneously. She reassured him that she would find a way to prevent it or at least mitigate its impact.

Bucky stayed quiet, contemplating the gravity of his decision, the weight of his sacrifice pressing heavily on his mind. “We can worry about that later.”

Then he diverted the conversation, “What did you say that time? Oh, ‘Go and kill that fucking bastard’?” A wicked smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

Wanda’s eyes flashed with unwavering determination. “And I meant every single word.”

Part III >>

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A/N: yes, i have been reliving this pain in my head ever since i posted that blurb earlier this year :) also, i tried really hard to hide the time-travel aspect until we reach bucky's flashback. i really hope it was conveyed well for you guys to understand what happened. anyways, please leave me the crumbs of your thoughts on this chapter for me to read. thank you so much! i'll see you in a few days.

#bucky barnes au #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fluff #bucky smut #bucky angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #medieval!bucky #winter soldier!bucky #duke!bucky #grumpy!bucky #soft!bucky

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