'time for something sweet' @featherandferns - Tumblr Blog

Jan 3

save a horse…

Bronco Rider! Bucky Barnes x Trick Rider! Reader

summary: Bucky Barnes, your first love, your first heartbreak, your first everything… Ten years of no contact and he still makes your thighs clench tighter than anything you could do on the saddle.

warnings: exes to lovers, hurt (with copious comfort), flashbacks, gratuitous use of italics, cigarettes, horses, bad accents, fucking in a truck, oral (fem! receiving), unprotected p in v, breeding kink, cowboy hat, soft sweet sex, animalistic and reclaiming sex (the duality of woman)

psa (pink service announcement): this is apart of my dear friend @artficlly spin the trope event! I pulled ranch hand and athlete au! and fell inlove with both. this took me forever simply because I couldn’t get enough of them. anyway, love you bestie!!!

dt: @houseofhyde for letting me borrow the name Dexter 🤎 @artficlly for giving me new and exciting ways to make cowboy smut 🤠 @unificsation for being so generous with your time and brain. and of course @chateaubarnes for the brilliant flashback mechanism. this one rlly was a group project and I love you all to the moon and back

word count: 7.2k

You're retired. Kind of.

It's been years since you went to one of these, years since you've been back in Montana.

The dirt floor feels different under your boots than it used to. They've also moved the bathroom since the last time you came. A new churro guy set up a booth in the back corner.

Don't get started on the new bleachers, too firm to be comfortable. The hard ridges of steel aren't worn by time and rough jeans the way the old ones were.

It's part of why you find yourself watching from the fence, lingering outside the dirt floor like a regular buckle bunny.

Being so close to the action, it's easy to fall back into old habits.

Speaking of old habits.

He's next, the announcer reminding you as if you didn't memorize the schedule as soon as you saw his name on it.

Your obligation is long fulfilled, a few tricks performed during the opening ceremony while they bragged about the 'stunt rider who got her start in this very arena!'

You could leave, you remind yourself as your eyes skim the holding area. You don't have to watch.

But you do. Your boots feel like they've sunken into the ground, holding you in place.

You haven't seen him since the last time you were in this zip code, haven't seen him ride since then either.

Despite the ache in your chest and the anxiety bubbling under your skin, you need to watch.

His name is all over the building, a poster stapled to every wall. The same slogan plastered on every single one.

The Buck Stops Here!

How far he's come since you left him.

You need to see it. The mythical James Barnes in action, eight seconds, a measly rope and a those thick thighs the only things keeping him from falling off.

You can tell your father you stayed to see the horse. It came from your ranch after all, the string of fate keeping the two of you tethered all these years later. A sick joke.

You wonder if he did the same thing, stood in the shadows and watched you parade around like a prized pony. Does he even know you’re here? Or was he too busy warming up and flirting with his loyal fans to notice.

Ten years and the thought still makes your stomach turn.

The rider in the ring loses his grip, a young kid, barely more than twenty. He goes flying. It's easily five feet before he hits the ground, a crumple of denim and leather at the hooves of the bronco who's thrown him.

He's up in seconds, bouncing with adrenaline as he beelines for the gate.

Six point three-five seconds. A joke.

When you bring your attention back to the holding area, you finally see him.

He's standing on the bars, high above the railings as he prepares to get on. His back is to you, but you'd recognize him anywhere, even after all this time.

The sharp cut of his shoulders. The shadow his hat casts on the back of his neck and a smattering of curls peeking out beneath the brim. The way his waist tapers into his jeans. Unmistakable.

Bucky.

Your heart goes still. For just a moment the entire building stops and gives you a chance to just look at him.

There's something about his presence, even from this distance, that affects you. Your eyes soften, like they've been burning for years and his silhouette is a bottle of saline drops.

Then he turns, just enough for you to catch the curve of his smile as he swings his legs over the back of the bronco.

The horse is unruly in its confines, already jumpy and eager for action.

"Alright folks, in the chute now is a rider who needs no introduction, Bucky Barnes!" The announcer's voice echoes through the arena, the bleachers explode with the audience’s reaction. It's almost deafening, the sheer volume of cheers and shouts of his name.

Bucky throws his head back, laughing at the reaction as he waves to the crowd. He has scruff now too, his face drawn rougher by the hot sun and time gone by. There's a crinkle in the corner of his eyes that didn't used to be there, a sign he smiles more now without you in his life.

"Underneath him is Dexter-" as if on cue the horse jumps in the chute, further amping up the tension. "-a bucking horse known for his high kicks and mean twists."

Bucky lifts his arm, the new one. Silver glints under the yellow sun, his hand catching the light right where it peaks out of the cuff of his flannel.

You've seen it in photos, articles about the tech genius who took pity on an injured cowboy. Even though all you can see is the hand, it takes your breath away.

It moves, his fingers flexing in a nervous twitch, the way they did when he was kid.

As if cued by his movement a hush falls across the audience.

Bucky holds there. You wonder, does he knows he has everyone's attention? Is he aware of the eyes? Of all the pressure? Does he know they'd all eat out of the palm of his hand?

The loudest question: does he still ride the way he used to? The way he did on your ranch when he was helping your father break a new bronc.

"It's a sacred thing," Bucky explained, "That moment before the buzzer goes off. It's just me, the horse, and a prayer."

Finally, he nods.

The fog horn blares and he's off.

Dexter sails across the arena, hind legs flying in every effort to knock Bucky off. You can see him stiffen, cement his position and lock every muscle possible.

One.

Another series of high kicks, enough to make Bucky's hips rock as he fights for balance.

Two.

They're in the center now, Bucky's brows drawn tight with focus. Determination written all over his face, from the squared line of his jaw, to the set line of his lips. Any trace of that easy smile long gone

Three.

"Jamie I told you, that horse doesn't want anythin' to do with people." You lament. The washcloth in your hand is already pink, only getting deeper with each pass over the cut on his forehead.

Bucky sighs, circling your wrist with two of his fingers and bringing it to his mouth for a soft kiss. "He's just nervous," he says, "you would be too if you had a stranger on your back."

Four.

You hum, still trying to erase the image of him being thrown off out of your mind. "I still can't believe you lasted a full eight." You inch closer, stepping between his parted legs and resting the hand that isn't in his grip on his thigh. "Maybe there's hope for him."

Bucky smiles so wide you're afraid his face might break. "You be good Dexter." He says, "Dexter will be good to you."

Five.

It slips out before you can stop it, quiet and unconscious as you lean even further over the fence to watch.

"C'mon Jamie." You whisper, "Be good to Dexter."

Six.

Another hard kick, this time Bucky sways. It's slight, minor enough that someone who isn't fluent in the language of his body wouldn't notice it.

His back gets straightens, a quick correction as his heels dig in even tighter.

Seven.

Time slows, the way it always does in the last second. The announcer's voice is like white noise, disappearing into the background as you wait for the final buzz.

So much can go wrong in the last second, he's proof of that.

As if he knows, Dexter doubles down, flailing even harder against Bucky in a last ditch effort.

Eight.

You're not sure how it's possible, but the room gets even louder.

Whatever spell he had placed on the crowd finally lifts, time resuming to its normal speed. He's off of Dexter in a flash, a jump followed by a roll across the dirt until he's safely out of kicking range.

You let go of a breath you didn't know you were holding, relief flooding through you as he stands.

He straightens his back, and under the brim of this hat you can see a smile, proud and victorious as he brushes the dust off his jeans. His chaps flare out on either side of his legs, hugging his thighs just right.

He's filled out more, weight sticking to his bones in ways it didn't used too. How much of it is muscle?

Bucky must have felt your gaze, the tug in his stomach, or the goosebumps up his spine. You assume he does, because without trying, without having to adjust an inch, Bucky tilts his head up immediately locks eyes with you.

He recognizes you across the distance, despite the years and at least one hundred feet stretching between you.

A moment of eye contact turns to tunnel vision making you lose the crowd as you take in the familiar blanket of his stare.

He says something, you can see it. His mouth curls around words, it can't have been meant for you to hear, how could you? Over the crowd still screaming his name, or the pounding of hooves on dirt as they work to secure Dexter.

Suddenly Bucky's moving, waving off the pick-up man and beginning the slow walk in your direction.

Your body's reaction is instantaneous, lighting itself on fire. Each hair stands on end, a live wire connecting your nerves and slowly bringing each limb to life until you're all but vibrating with anticipation.

Your hands hang limp at your sides, feet stuck in cement as he approaches. You don't speak, don't blink, don't twitch, nothing to give away the fact that your heart is pounding.

He jumps the fence, using the poles like rungs of a step ladder and tossing himself over the side. The gate is only twenty feet away, but apparently too far of a detour. He walks until you're nearly toe to toe, too far for a lover, too close for whatever you actually are.

You're not sure what you expected, a hug? A smile? A hello?

What you get instead, is distinctly Bucky.

He huffs, something between appraisal and exertion.

"Thought I felt your eyes." He says.

His voice is deeper now too, more worn with raspy. It right on par with how the rest of him has aged. Like a fine bourbon.

"Never did get to see you ride." You say it like it's an explanation and not the twist of an old rusted knife.

"Yeah, you didn't, did you?" He agrees, a silent apology hidden until the nod of his hat.

Awkwardness stretches between you for a moment, too weighty to be casual. The crowd roars again, this time as they watch another rider settle into the chute. Bucky tilts his head to look, stealing a glance just long enough to make you worry he's looking for a polite out.

"Wanna go someone a lil' more quiet?" He asks instead. His voice is quieter, almost hesitant.

"You got somewhere in mind?"

You're both disappointed, and relieved to see Bucky doesn't drive the same truck anymore.

This one's new and shiny, sparkling rims and-

"Are those running boards?" You ask, a giggle bubbling underneath the question.

Bucky chuckles, well it's more like a chuckle, singular. A harsh breath and something that rumbles from his chest. Like he already knew you would notice.

"These knees ain't what they used to be Sweetheart."

You hum, leaning against the frame of the truck as Bucky opens the passenger door and begins to rifle through the glove box.

You know what he means, your own body is already starting to slow down too. What you both do isn't kind on your muscles, or your joints. Right now however, as you stare him, enjoying his distraction, you feel younger than you have in years.

Bucky finally leans back out, a familiar rectangle in his hand as he offers you a smile.

"Want'a smoke?"

You're on the edge of the curb, another show with less than perfect results. Another fight with your father. Another sprinkle of ice that will melt and reharden in your veins.

The voice makes you perk up, lift your chin from your knees and find its owner.

A boy, maybe a year or two older. Dark hair, messy curls, a flannel with torn cuffs and jeans so worn they hardly have any blue left on the knees. His hat is just as tired, faded and fraying at the brim.

He's holding a cigarette between two fingers, outstretched in your direction like a piece of candy. He already has one tucked between his lips, the carton still in his hand.

You take it, a offering half smile of thanks.

He nods, sliding the pack into his shirt pocket and fishing out a lighter. He sits on the curb next to you without invitation, leaving a friendly gap of about a foot between you.

He tilts his body towards you, clicking the flame and protecting it with the palm of his hand. You lean in, close enough to see the dirt under his nails as you let him light it for you.

Smoke hits your lungs like a warm blanket, the bitter taste almost refreshing after the day you've had.

He lights his own, setting the Zippo on the concrete between you as he takes his first drag.

"Bucky." He introduces himself.

You give him your name, the first time you've acknowledged him with your voice.

"I know." He says.

You turn your head, surprise evident. The cigarette hangs limp between your fingers, smoke curling around your wrist as you let it burn.

"Saw you ride." Bucky explains.

You scoff, taking another hit before you answer. "Hardly call that riding."

Dressage has never been your favorite, a bigger fan of barrel racing or jumping. But, there is more prestige in dressage and your father likes the reaction it gets when he tells his friends.

Bucky shakes his head, ashing the cigarette as he speaks. "That shit's hard." He insists, "Takes a whole lotta skill and patience. Don't sell yourself short."

For some reasons it means a whole lot more coming from a total stranger than from any judge.

"Thank you." Is all you can say in response, unsure how else to answer.

You look at him a little better this time, studying his side profile. Strong nose, cut jaw, eyelashes prettier than a palomino. He's cute, skin covered with freckles from the sun.

You finish your cigarettes in silence, waiting until you hit the filter and then stomping it out against the pavement. Bucky follows suit, flicking the end into a storm drain.

"We better get a move on." He says, standing up and adjusting his hat.

"We?" You clarify, standing anyway.

"Your father sent me to come pick you up." He says, nodding towards the pick-up a few parking spots down.

Sure enough, it's one of your fathers, the ranch's emblem painted on the side.

It's not abnormal for him to send one of the guys to pick you up, especially when you've haven't met the gold standard.

Suddenly you remember, an off-handed comment about the new cowboy. Young and broke, exactly how he likes them.

‘Easier to work into the ground.' he'd say.

"You're the new kid." You work out, heart dipping into your lungs at the realization.

Bucky nods, "Pretty sure I'm older than you sweetheart." He cracks a smile, small but pretty enough to make your stomach twist.

"You're the youngest in the bunkhouse." You bite back, a matching grin teasing your own lips. Then, because you just can't help yourself you add. "Cutest too."

Bucky freezes, stilling as you begin to move towards the truck. You can hear him mutter under his breath, just loud enough for you to make out.

"You're gonna get me in trouble."

You tease, nodding your head back in the direction of the arena. It's half tease and half truth. You have a reputation now, an even more important one than you did as a kid. You're pretty sure you'd get in more trouble for smoking now than you ever would have back then.

Bucky's arm stays outstretched, the cigarette extended towards you feeling like an olive branch.

A glutton for punishment, you take it.

You're far enough away from the rest of the cars and the arena that the chances of anyone even seeing you out here are slim. You walk around to the back of his truck anyway, letting the cab camouflage you.

Bucky follows, meeting you at the hitch. You don't speak again until both of you are holding lit cigarettes and have smoke on your tongues.

You catch him staring, blue eyes dilated and trained on your face. He doesn't startle when you turn to face him. Doesn't flinch when you ask-

"What's your problem Barnes?"

Bucky takes a drag, his eyes still not leaving you as he answers, "Just didn't think I'd ever see your face again."

It stops your blood, the honesty, the hint of sadness in his voice. You'd be lying if you hadn't thought the same, if you said you hadn't avoided every rodeo in the state for the past ten years.

"Me either." You admit. This time you let your eye drift, not caring how obvious it is as they travel down his shoulders and over his left arm.

He tracks your gaze, lifting the hand up between your bodies so you can get a better look at it.

"Pretty strange huh?" He says, moving the fingers one by one on a wave.

You don't acknowledge it, lifting your own hand to touch it without thinking. "When I heard about the accident…" you trail off.

When you heard about the accident you were devastated, spent nearly three hours on the phone with his mother just crying together. Imagine your relief when he only lost his arm and not his life.

Imagine your anger when you found out he used the gift of a second chance to get back in the ring.

It rises in the back of your throat like bile, creeping up along your tongue and refusing to be swallowed.

"Can't believe you're dumb enough to keep doin' it." You say. Despite your words, there is no bite in your tone, just genuine disappointment.

Bucky huffs, pulling his hand away from yours, fast as if you had burned him. "Not all of us get to run away to Hollywood." He snarks back.

You stomp your cigarette out, pressing it into the dirt with your boot and rubbing your hands clean of his touch. "I had two tickets." You remind him.

Bucky goes quiet, his own cigarette joining yours in the dirt. "Yeah I know."

Just like that, you've time traveled. Right back into that moment when you begged him to come with you.

Tired and aching, your turn away. "Was good to see you Bucky." You offer him, shaking you head

You hardly make it a step, a hand wrapping around your wrist and your spinning you back to him.

"Wait-" Bucky insists, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for the words. "I'm sorry." He settles on.

Too late. You brain argues. Me too, your heart screams.

His grip doesn't release, instead dropping down to your hand, curling his fingers into your palm.

"Why'd you come?" He asks. He sounds tortured by the question, like he truly can't fathom a reason.

Why did you come? You never agree to these gigs, you avoid every holiday that might bring you back home. Why did you see his name in the list of acts and say yes?

"You haven't changed a bit y'know." You deflect instead, pulling your wrist out of his grasp with a sharp tug. "Still a scared little boy."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky counters, taking a step closer, enough for his shadow to cover yours.

You nod, tilting your chin up to keep eye contact as you continue. "Still pretending you ain't got a choice."

Bucky bristles, it's obvious you've struck a cord. "I don't!" He snaps. "Never did. With my background I can work the circuit or on a ranch."

"Bullshit." You spit, tired of pretending. "Don't you think you're too old to keep blaming everybody else?"

"Rich coming from you." Bucky snarks, another inch closer.

"That so?" You challenge, tilting your head up, refusing to back down

"Yeah, it is." He says, "Little Miss never look back."

You huff, but fail to bite back.

"You just left us all behind." His voice starts to lose its anger, slowly simmering into something more vulnerable. "Made it look real easy too, like none of it meant anything to ya."

It's a slap in the face. Is that really what it seemed like to him? Like you were the one who decided to move on?

"Bucky." You whisper, and take a step closer, the distance between you shrinking to just a few inches.

Bucky keeps going, spitting more venom. "What was I supposed to do? Beg ya to stay? I woulda held you back out there."

Your hands reach for his cheeks, cupping either side of his face and forcing him to look in your eyes. "I would've." You whisper.

Bucky falters. "What?"

"If you'd asked, I would've stayed." You tell him, swiping your thumb over his cheekbones.

The furrow in his brow finally loosens and for a moment you see the boy. The one you loved, the one who took every first and made it sacred.

"But you wanted to leave." Bucky protests. "You bought the tickets and you were so excited and-"

"I just wanted you." You admit, feeling the weight of it finally lift off your shoulders. "Would've gone anywhere, would've planted roots in this dirt as long as you were with me."

Bucky's gone still under your hands, blue eyes staring at you like he can hardly believe what you're saying. They're glasses chock full of emotion and something akin to relief.

Then he's kissing you, or you're kissing him. Honestly you have no idea who closed the distance but does it even matter?

It's awkward, stilted for a moment as you both reacquainted with each other. Bucky's lips close around your top lip, the same way he always used to kiss you. Something's different though, he doesn't dive in with the same starvation. Did his lips get plumper? They feel like they did.

He tries to pull back, body taut with hesitation and nerves.

You can't have that. You refuse it. The kiss you've been thinking about for ten years isn't going to be over in under fifteen seconds

Your hands, still anchored on his face tug him back, and this time you attack.

You step closer, removing any distance left and pressing your chest against his as you start to move your lips with more fervor.

It feels like doubling down, like you've confessed with words and now your body has to do the same.

Finally, Bucky comes alive under your hands.

He tilts his head, just enough to make his nose slot against yours so he can deepen the kiss. His hands find you too, one moving to hold your waist, resting just above your hip. The other goes to your necks curling around it holding you in place he devours you.

This is the kiss you remember, the all consuming mess-up-your-hair-and-leave-your-lips-swollen kiss. His tongue pushes into your mouth, groaning at the taste when you open it even wider to him.

The brim of his hat bumps against you, pushing at your forehead as he presses himself as close to as possible.

You back away, just an inch, enough room to see what you're doing when you grab it and throw the hat into the bed of his truck.

You go to lean back in but Bucky pulls out of reach, murmuring a low "Wait."

He untangles himself from you, but only long enough to reach forward and pull the handle on the tailgate.

Then his hands are back, this time on your hips as he lifts you onto it.

It brings you closer, less of a fight against height with the added inches. You don't even pretend to protest when Bucky pulls your thighs apart and steps between them.

"Better." He says, and dives back in.

This kiss is a blend of a the last two. It has the same hungry and insatiable approach, but a different, deeper undertone.

His tongue is back in your mouth, but instead of laying over yours, he traces your teeth instead, rolling over the backs of them and mapping over every molar.

His hands are the same, smoothing over every curve he can find. Over your hips and into the curve of your lower back. Up your sides to count each individual rib and then under the swell of your breasts. He goes over your shoulders, hands gliding down your arms all the way to your wrists.

You're not much better, splaying your palms over the expanse of his chest and following the buttons down from his collar to the buckle of his belt. You trace a nail over his Adam's apple just to feel it bob under your touch.

You're both doing the same thing, looking for any changes and claiming the ones you find.

You suck a hickey over a new freckle on his neck, Bucky massages a hand over your knee, palming the scar from a surgery you'd gotten a few years back.

He's impossibly close, still edging to try and get close as he leans further into your chest, pulling you to the very edge of the tailgate. Your thighs can barely spread far enough to accommodate him, tragically you chose the jeans that make your ass look good, not the ones that are easy to move in.

"You use more tongue now." Bucky says, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forehead against your own.

You huff a laugh, or something like it. "Learned that from you." You whisper.

Bucky groans, something low from the back of his throat. "You try it on anyone else?"

Still the jealous type, you think, noted. It shouldn't, but satisfaction burns in your belly, the idea that he still thinks you're worth getting jealous over sitting like a sip of hot coffee.

Once again, you dodge, challenging him instead. "I'm sure you taught it to a dozen other girls while I was gone."

Bucky hums, blinking slow as he says "I didn't."

This time, it's you who freezes.

"What?" You ask, all signs of teasing gone.

Bucky shakes his head, blue eyes honest and clear as can be. "No one."

You'd seen articles, photos of him swarmed by buckle bunnies and cute things in cropped flannels. A million years ago you knew a Bucky who would have killed for that.

"But-" you flounder, searching for the words as Bucky watches you spin. "You're… you!"

That gets you a laugh, a real hearty one this time, all the way from the bottom of his chest.

"Yeah I'm me." He agrees, taking his hand and crooking his index finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him. "But none of them were you."

"Bucky?" You croak, throat tight with emotion.

"Yeah doll?" He asks, prepared to give anything.

"Take me to the backseat?"

The questions rolls off your lips before you can stop it, your head nearly hitting the roof of the truck when you pull back to gauge his reaction.

Bucky's gone still below you, eyes wide and wonderfully cute.

"You sure?" He asks, and you can feel his hands shake when he places them on your thighs.

You nod, a smile breaking across your lips. The sweetest boy you've ever met looks at you like you hung the moon and touches you like he wants to swallow you whole. Who wouldn't be sure?

"Yeah, Jamie," you whisper, rubbing your nose against his as you lean in for one more kiss.

"I'm sure."

You say it with the same certainty now, breathless and eager as Bucky tugs your jeans down your legs.

These seats are leather, no scratchy blanket beneath you like there was that first time. Your skin is already hot, clammy and sticking to it as you lift your ass high enough for him to get them all the way down.

You don't know when Bucky lost his chaps, or his shirt for that matter. He's left in a tight white tank top and jeans that fit him so well it should be a sin.

His cock strains at the zipper, but he doesn't pay it any mind. Instead Bucky kisses each inch of skin as it is exposed to his greedy hands, peppering the tops of each of your thighs, the curve of your knees and the backs of your calves.

He tugs your boots off when he gets to your ankles, tossing them and your jeans somewhere in the front seat.

He sits back on his knees, hands holding under your knees and asks the most devastating question you've heard all day.

"Can I," his eyes dip down to where your cunt throbs between your legs. "Please?"

You've heard stories of boys doing this, putting their mouths on you and drinking from the source. Honestly, it kind of grossed you out, sure you liked Bucky's tongue in your mouth just fine, but there? Isn't that gross?

You thought if he ever asked, you would just say no.

Right now though, Bucky's kneeling between your legs, batting his long lashes and licking his lips like the idea makes his mouth water.

He has a leg on either shoulder, assuming the position before you even agree. He presses a kiss just above the waist band on your panties. "Please?" He asks again.

"If you really want to."

You acquiesce with a small nod and tingle up your thigh.

"Oh trust me." Bucky says, leanings down and hooking his finger into the gusset of your panties. "I really want to."

You're already wet, embarrassingly so. Your body welcoming his touch like an instrument that's finally come home to its expert player.

The fabric sticks when Bucky pulls it to the side, drawing a low moan from him as he goes to bend further down.

Another groan breaks through though, not a good one.

"You okay?" You ask, sitting up enough to look at his face.

Bucky has a hand on his lower back, looking utterly tortured as he stares down at your cunt. Just out of reach.

"My back just gets a little tight." He explains.

You're about to wave him off, tell him to skip and climb into his lap.

Except Bucky takes matters into his own hands instead, grabbing the plush of your ass in his palms and pulling you forward until your back is flat against the seat. Then he lifts your hips up, bringing them to his mouth.

You struggle, only for a moment as you adjust to the sudden shift in gravity. "Jesus Bucky!" You gasp and throw a leg over each of his shoulders.

"Better." He grunts.

Another giggle, a carefree sound you haven't heard from yourself in you're not even sure how long.

He doesn't say anything else, not to you at least.

"How's my girl?" He asks your cunt, leaning in to nose at your folds. One hand moves to support you by your lower back, the other wrapping around your thigh and holding it in place on his should. "You miss me?"

Because your cunt, of course, cannot answer, it's up to you to give her a voice.

"Yes." You whimper, bucking uselessly in his arms as you try to get his mouth. "So much."

Bucky hums, licking a flat stripe up your slit.

"Tastes the same." He says, as if noting his observations.

He pushes back the hood of your clit up with his nose and pulls the bud between his lips.

You cry out, legs around tight are his neck as you try to keep him there.

"Jamie!" You moan on instinct, not even realizing the name that's falling off your tongue.

You feel Bucky smile against you, "There we go." He says, fully smug. "Even sounds the same."

He works you over slow, flattening his tongue over your clit and humming to let you feel the vibration. His mouth assaults you, lips kissing at your entrance and drinking every drop of slick that pours from it.

He indulges in every square inch of you, the hand on your thigh tight as steel while he keeps you in place. You can hear him, feel him talking as he eats.

"Poor thing." He mutters, "Had nobody to take proper care of you huh?"

You nod, feverish and panting as he pushes you closer and closer to orgasm. "Nobody." You whimper. "No one as good."

Bucky's eyes meet yours for the first time since he started, dark pupils swallowing the blue almost whole. "That right?" He asks, and despite the obscene nature of your current position, the way you can see the slick of your arousal glistening on his chin, he's suddenly the vulnerable one.

"Yeah." You promise, "No one ever came close."

Bucky melts, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. Then he doubles his efforts.

The hand on your thigh finally releases, and two fingers find themselves inside you.

The stretch is delicious, filling in a way that leaves you shaking in his arms as he starts to drag them in and out. All the while his mouth is back on your clit, sucking twice as hard while his tongue laves over it.

You fall apart in seconds, barely a minute with his fingers inside you when Bucky curls them just right and sending you crashing over the edge.

He fucks you through it, slowly lowering you until your back is flat against the leather again. He keeps his fingers inside of you until you start to whimper, quiet little cries of "Jamie." Echoing through the truck.

Bucky moves over, laying his body over yours and pressing a kiss to your lips. It's filthy, the salt of your own arousal on his tongue as it slides against yours. The way he moans into your mouth, you can't find it in yourself to care.

"That feel good?"

Bucky's nervous, you can tell by the way he asks, eyes searching your face for any sign of pain as he hovers with a hand on either side of your head.

He hasn't moved yet, waiting for you to adjust to the stretch and weight of cock.

"Gotta move for me to feel anything Jamie." You giggle.

It's strange, the feeling. Not quite pleasure, not yet at least. It's like pressure, something pressing from the inside.. You're really intoxicated by the closeness, too busy studying his face and all the things you've never noticed before.

Bucky falters, his face dropping as he realizes himself. "Right sorry, right."

You've never seen him like this, except for maybe the day you told your father you were dating him.

You know you're not his first, swallowed that bitter pill almost two months ago. You've done everything else, felt his mouth and his hands everywhere.

"Just really want it to be good for you." He says.

You nod, understanding.

"Let's try something else." You offer with a gentle smile, pushing on his shoulders until he gets the memo and pulls back.

It's awkward getting into the position, but once you're in his lap it's no doubt better.

Bucky helps you guide him back inside, shuddering as you sink down in one slow movement. He hisses as you rest yourself on his thighs, hands flexing at your hips while you get used to the angle.

Finally, there is movement. You lift yourself up his length, rising until you feel the head of his cock at your entrance before sliding back down. It feels good, like an itch you didn't know needed scratching, when he bottoms out again you feel him twitch inside you.

Satisfaction bubbles under your skin, without meaning too you clench around him, drawing a tight gasp from his chest. It sends a jolt of pleasure straight to the pit of your stomach.

This time, instead of lifting yourself try something else, an idea a friend had whispered in your ear and said she 'swore by.'

You move your hips in a circle, a slow roll as press your pelvis against his, creating delicious friction against your clit. It's your turn to choke, a moan catching in your throat as the pleasure thrums all the way down to your toes.

Bucky's hands hold you steady, pushing you down even harder and continuing the movement as you fall forward into his chest.

"That'a girl." He praises, bucking his hips up into you.

"Feels so good Jamie." You whimper, burying your head into his neck. Another cry echoes through the can of the truck as he snakes a hand between your bodies. The pads of his index and middle finger pressing down on your clit, careful not to overstimulate you.

You can feel him pulse inside you, a strangely possessive feeling coursing through you with each wave of it. You didn't know it would feel like this, your mind swimming between overwhelmed and insatiable. You're as close as two people can get and it still isn't enough.

That's when the three words fall from your lips for the first time. Unbidden and unashamed you press your forehead against his and whisper your confession.

"I love you."

Bucky says it like a curse, something torn from his chest. "I never stopped." He grunts, hips pistoning hard and fast into you.

Bucky sets a punishing pace. Pulling his entire length back and not stopping to let you catch your breath before he burying himself back inside, knocking the air from you lungs all over again.

"Feels so good." He babbles. Sweat glistens on his skin with the effort, wet curls sticking to crown of his forehead. His gaze is trained on where your bodies meet. Eyes locked on the way your cunt clings to every inch as he pulls out, just to swallow him all over again when he pushes back in.

"Fuck, I think she got tighter." He says, nothing short of amazed.

"Or you got bigger." You challenge, because honestly with the way the rest of him has changed, you wouldn't be surprised.

"Feels like-" he fumbles for the words, cutting himself off with a gasp as you clench.

"Comin' home." You finish for him, nodding in agreement.

Bucky kisses you hard, teeth clashing as he tongues into your mouth. It's hardly a kiss, more closely related to a claim.

When he pulls back a string of spit connects you, filthy and raw. As if you can't bare to part on the most molecular level.

Bucky groans at the sight, his hips grinding into you with newfound fervor.

"Gonna keep you this time." He swears.

There's no room for argument, no part of you that would want to fight him if there were.

He's already balls deep and bare inside you. You feel his balls hitting your ass with every thrust, the heavy wet slap of them against your arousal a silent threat to make good on his words.

"Please Jamie." You beg anyway, clawing at his biceps. "Give me everything." You plea. "Give me roots."

Something inside Bucky snaps, his eyes finally coming back to yours.

"You sure?" He asks, because your sweet Jamie always did.

You can't nod fast enough, legs hooking around his waist and locking him against you.

"More than." You promise.

Bucky's arms start to shake on either side of your head, so he drops down to his elbows, his face pressing even closer to yours. Nose against nose.

"Whatever you want." He agrees, "I'll give my girl what ever she wants."

His thrusts get shallow, your body turning to fire as he speaks.

"We'll plant some roots. Right here Baby, right now." Another hard thrust, angled just right at your g-spot. "Make up for all that lost time."

You're reduced to rubble beneath him, back arching against the leather seats as you approach your high for the second time.

"You gonna take it?" He asks, teeth grazing over your jaw as you nod. "Gonna let me plant somethin?"

You manage one last beg, a final broken "please!"

"Go ahead Baby." Bucky coos. "C'mon fall apart on my cock how you used too." Your breath catches. "The way you're gonna the rest of our lives."

And you do, a free fall in the backseat with the only boy you've ever loved.

Bucky's right behind you, hips stuttering as you fluttering around him. A sharp gush of your release filling the cab with the most obscene noises possible.

Bucky fucks both of you through your orgasms, going until both of you are fucked out and twitching messes.

It's easily five minutes of silence, soft panting and the sound of your wet skin against the leather as Bucky maneuvers himself along side you on the seat. The windows slowly defogging as your bodies come back to normal temperatures.

When it’s calm and you finally stop hearing your heart in your ear, you crane your neck to find Bucky already looking down at you.

"What?" You ask, voice softer than before.

Bucky smiles, giving you the biggest grin you've ever seen on his pretty lips.

"Can't believe I get a second chance." He says.

You could weep at his words, the sentiment behind them. "We." You correct him. "We get a second chance."

Bucky nods, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm never lettin' you outta my sight ever again." He says, completely resolute. "Gonna get it right this time."

You hum in agreement.

Ever so slowly you start to sit up, already acutely aware of the dull ache blooming between your thighs.

"Where ya going?" He asks, sitting up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.

"Closing ceremony." You tell him, leaning back to press a kiss to his cheek. You can't help but wince as you shift your weight. "Gonna have to tell them I can't do my last routine though."

"Fine." Bucky sighs, begrudgingly sitting up beside you and reaching for his jeans from the front seat. "One condition."

You raise an eyebrow, pulling your shirt back over your head. "We've been back together for ten minutes and you're already bartering?"

"Forty-five if we're counting from the kiss." He clarifies. "But yes I am."

"Okay." You agree, smile too big to be mistaken for anything other than obnoxious joy. "What're your terms Cowboy?"

"You're only going back in there if you're wearing my hat." He insists.

Your confusion must be evident, because Bucky continues. "That way everyone in that arena knows you're mine."

You ignore the heat as it rises to your cheeks, happy and flustered. "And how're they gonna know you're mine?"

"Please." He brushes it off. "Everyone's known that for years."

His fingers stop a few buttons short of the top of his flannel, instead fixing the collar and pulling it to the side. Just enough to expose an angry red hickey.

"This oughta do it though."

Masterlist

Art’s Spin the Trope Event! This was so much fun and I can’t say enough good things about it or its host!

Taglist: @avgdestitute @miraclediviner @clarknsun @helloimokaynow @hailmary-yramliah @j23r23 @after8hore @phoenix-in-writing @3lectric-hearts @chateaubarnes @whatwonderful-world @barnesgirlx @spinningyarnsandshame @mistressofallthingsgeeky @trtltot @herejustforbuckybarnes @hayles004 @kk2006-1594 @bbyanarchist @kriscr0ss @cottagecorebaby @tw1sters @lindsey-lana @mrs-katelyn-barnes @obxobsessedbitch1 @serenityrdj @iamthatonefangirl @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @wildflowersandvibranium @its-in-the-woods @superbassbuck @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @khartalks

featherandferns

Pink, I am so freaking excited to read this omg

#foaming at the mouth at the thought #as always #the graphics are stunning!!!#faf tbr

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