everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab
author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.
i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Soulmate.
A word that fills most people with hope and peace.
Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.
For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.
But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.
Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.
“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”
She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.
You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.
It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!
It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.
“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.
Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.
It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.
Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.
You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.
But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.
They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.
Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.
“Chocolate chip?”
A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.
“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.
“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”
“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”
“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”
Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.
No matter how much you may wish that was the case.
You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.
You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?
Or is he still searching, all these decades later?
As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.
You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”
There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”
“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”
“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”
“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”
You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.
“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”
He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.
You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”
He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”
“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”
“I think I can handle that.”
You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.
Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.
It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.
It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.
For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.
He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.
“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.
So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.
Well, partially lied.
Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.
But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.
What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.
No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.
You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.
Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.
He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.
Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?
But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.
He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.
Right where his soul mark used to be.
Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.
It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.
He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.
He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.
Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.
Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.
But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.
So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”
The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.
There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.
Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”
You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—
Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.
You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.
“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.
“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”
Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”
“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.
He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.
“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.
“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—
Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”
Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.
As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.
“I have a confession to make.”
You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”
“Nope.”
You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.
“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”
You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.
From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”
“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”
You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.
“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”
The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.
You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.
“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.
“Soulmates?”
“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.
“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”
You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”
“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”
When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”
You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”
You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.
Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.
But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.
That was before Bucky.
“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”
She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”
“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”
“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”
As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?
No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.
Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.
He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.
You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.
You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.
It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.
Reality is never quite as sweet.
Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.
You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.
“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.
“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.
Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.
He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.
Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.
“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”
“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”
“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”
Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.
“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”
Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.
Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.
“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”
“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”
“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”
“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”
“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”
And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.
Bucky doesn’t move.
You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.
“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”
You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”
You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”
He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”
“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”
You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.
He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.
It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
You don’t go back to your room.
You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.
There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.
There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.
You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.
Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.
Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.
Archives with information about you.
You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.
It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.
And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?
You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.
You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.
Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.
Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?
If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?
Or would you still love him?
Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.
But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.
That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.
“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”
The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.
“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”
You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”
Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.
“Like I said. I know you well enough.”
You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.
Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.
He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”
You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.
“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”
He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”
You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.
“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”
For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”
We.
You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.
It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.
It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?
But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.
“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”
“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.
Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.
And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.
But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.
Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.
Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”
Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.
A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.
“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”
“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”
He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”
You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.
“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”
You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”
He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”
That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.
For better or for worse.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.
Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.
You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.
Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.
The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.
“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”
Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”
You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.
A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.
Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”
You swallow and nod once.
Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.
Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.
You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.
Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”
He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?
You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.
“Okay,” you whisper.
You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.
Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.
Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.
You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.
You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.
Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.
You grab one at random and flip it open.
Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.
You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?
“Any luck yet?”
Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.
“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”
You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.
Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—
Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.
“Bucky.”
Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.
“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.
You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.
Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.
But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.
You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.
“Wait.”
Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.
“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”
He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.
You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.
Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”
You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.
“Bucky—”
Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.
Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.
“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”
Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.
Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.
“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”
You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”
It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.
And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.
You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.
You do none of these things, of course.
Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.
You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.
“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”
You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.
But you don’t pull your hand away, either.
“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”
His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”
God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.
You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.
Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.
Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.
Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.
As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.
You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.
Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.
You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.
I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.
Say something. Anything.
But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.
Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.
The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.
Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.
The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.
The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.
He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.
And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.
You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.
Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.
And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.
He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.
He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.
Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.
And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.
That wasn’t fair.
He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.
A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.
He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.
“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.
He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.
“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.
Bucky swallows. “Hi.”
“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”
For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.
He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”
“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.
“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”
His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”
“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”
You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.
He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.
Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.
The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.
He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.
You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.
He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.
You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.
He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.
“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.
He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.
“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”
You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”
He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.
I love you, Bucky. I choose you.
Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.
It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.
Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.
“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.
Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.
You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”
You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”
“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”
You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”
He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”
You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.
His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.
You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.
He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.
“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.
His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.
A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.
“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.
The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.
His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.
Home.
“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.
He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.
The picture nearly falls out of his hands.
“дом.”
“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”
But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.
“Bucky?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.
He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.
In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.
He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—
There.
A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.
Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.
A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.
Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.
Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.
That you’re his soulmate.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.
You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.
He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”
He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.
“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.
“Home?”
You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.
Home.
It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.
You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.
“Does this really mean what I hope—”
“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”
You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”
They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.
“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”
You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.
He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.
He’s really yours.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.
“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.
His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.
“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.
“Yeah? You should do that now.”
Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.
This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.
You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.
He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.
There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.
You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.
With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.
“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.
He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”
“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”
He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.
You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.
His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.
Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.
“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.
He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.
Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”
You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.
He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.
“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”
Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.
“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.
“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”
“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”
His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.
He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.
The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.
Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.
When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”
Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”
“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.
“All of me.”
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”
Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.
It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.
But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.
Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.
Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.
Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.
“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”
Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.
“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”
You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”
You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.
“Dead serious.”
“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”
By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.
“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.
His soulmate.
“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”
“Okay.”
“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”
You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”
A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”
“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”
He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”
He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.
“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”
The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”
You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.
Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”
“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”
He was so hoping you would say that.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3
summary: after years of hiding your identity and spending nights fighting off monsters, you're tired of being a magical girl - especially with a new villain known as the king of curses out to get you.
all you want is to be able to focus on your normal life, and when you finally meet a nice guy at a work event for your day job you figure that maybe things are looking up.
if only he wasn't the very villain who wanted you dead.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, humor, betrayal, lying, yandere/obsessed sukuna, confusing feelings, loneliness, falling in love, mentions of past illness, hurt/comfort, manipulation, sukuna is evil but he's also very confused, true-form sukuna, enemies to lovers (and back to enemies and then to lovers LOL), this couple is a mess
after reading the authors note on kindness has teeth where you mentioned someone said simon sounds like a pirate i need a pirate simon x mermaid drabble or oneshot please
-🫀
This is my first request, I'm so excited AHHHH
And yk what, hell yeah TT I'm currently working on the next chapter of Kindness has teeth so this is more of a drabble, maybe I'll write a proper one-shot later on
Enjoy the fluff with a soft Pirate Simon lol
Ghost's crew had been sailing for months, plundering ships and whatever crossed their sight on the horizon. No ship was safe from them—not merchants nor other pirates or even fishermen ships. When sailors saw the black flag with white skull missing the jaw rise, they'd rather jump and drown in the waves of the ocean than face the pirates sailing under the flag—Ghost, the ruthless and brutal captain, being the biggest reason for it.
Ghost had barked orders to throw out the nets in the early afternoon because he and the crew needed to stock up on fish, some would be grilled others dried for later. A storm had started raging late that same afternoon, making it impossible to pull the fishing nets back in—all hands on deck to keep the ship from entering.
When the nets were finally pulled up the next morning, Ghost didn't expect much. A lot algae maybe, perhaps a few fish, but what he didn't expect was you. You were panting, shaking from fright and exhaustion. At first Ghost wondered how a woman could end up in their net in the middle of the ocean...but then the crew pulled the net up higher. Beneath algae and some cargo that fell off deck during yesterdays storm weren't legs like they were supposed to, there was a tail—scales shimmering in the early morning light, twitching at being exposed to air.
Mermaids were a legend, told to one another during endless nights on the sea by firelight. There were songs about them too, about their beauty mostly, but songs didn't make a legend true—or so Ghost thought. Because now you were here, tangled up in his net and clawing at the rope like you were still trying to get out but your arms too exhausted to actually do anything.
The crew gasps and murmurs, some curse when they fully see you—even Ghost pauses, speechless. The songs are right, it seems. You are beautiful, the most beautiful creature Ghost has ever seen. You are nothing like the whores he'd pay on cities by the shore whenever they docked to stock up on supplies. You are soft looking, untouched by humanity's atrocities. Your wet hair clinges to you, shining like silk with every small movement of your head. Your tail shimmers like a jewel, your skin almost eerily smooth. Your eyes are widened, snapping between the hardened pirates faces with fear and panic, and Ghost is certain that if he were to look deep enough he could see the secrets of the ocean in them.
"Get 'er on deck." he barks at his crew, eyes staying locked on your shaking form. Your fingers are still clawing at the net, algae sticking to skin and scales as the pirates under Ghost's command obey and haul you onto the ship. You hit the deck with a small thud, the fish trapped with you twitching and jumping as their systems beg for sea water—but you breath normally, like a human. Faster, sure, but human nonetheless.
The crew is still murmuring as they drag the net further into the center of the deck so you can't slip off the edge and through their fingers. Suggestions are thrown at Ghost—"Kill the beast!" - "Sell it!". Ghost glares at the crew member calling you a beast, because you're not. You're a legend, now laying trapped on his ship—alive, real.
When he steps closer to the net, looming over you, you shrink away. Good, means you're not stupid at least. As Ghost stares down at you, he thinks of the suggestions again. Selling you, proving mermaids are real, would make him the richest man in the world. He could kill you, sure, sell your body off...but you're much more worth alive, aren't you?
The only problem is, neither he nor anyone else knows how to take care of a mermaid and keep her alive on a pirate ship. He orders his men to tie you to the mast, far away from the edges of the ship so you can't slip back into the ocean. The crew has to work hard against your trashing to free you from the net, have to avoid your sharp nails trying to tear through their skin. Ghost watches almost amused. You got spirit, he has to give you that.
He keeps a close eye on you as the sun rises higher, biting sharp and hot onto the deck of the ship—that's how he notices your lips drying up only minutes after the crew manages to tie you tightly to the mast. Your tail twitches under the burning sun and Ghost isn't sure why—is it because it just does? Is it because the sun's too hot and you're uncomfortable?
He watches you for a few more minutes, watches as you lower your head as strength seems to leave you—he guesses you probably fought to get out of the net half, if not the entire, night. Only once you look docile and exhausted does he approach, not keen on being slashed open by your nails. He stops next to you, watches your twitching tail for a moment—your scales now looking duller up close, like they're drying up.
Ghost reaches for the waterskin by his hip, unscrews it, and the lowers it down towards your face so you can see it. You don't react to it at all so Ghost figures you don't know what it is—how could you? You probably never needed a waterskin in the depths of the ocean. He presses the opening of the waterskin to your lips and squeezes before you can react, forcing water past your lips.
You sputter at the fresh water going down your throat, try to avoid more of it by quickly turning your face away—knocking the waterskin out of Ghost's hands. It twists as it falls onto the top of your tail, emptying it's content onto you. Ghost is about to groan in annoyance, doesn't think much of it, until you hiss in pain. The water sizzles on your skin and scales as if a drop of water is thrown into a hot pan. Tears shoot to your eyes at the pain as the fresh water continues to burn and slowly evaporate on you.
He hasn't done it in years, didn't need to, but now he panics. The water is hurting you? Why? Could it kill you? Without much thinking he does the only thing he deems right—he cuts through the rope keeping you tied to the mast with is dagger, wraps his fingers around your arms and roughly pulls you towards the edge of the ship before unceremoniously letting you drop back into the ocean. You plop back into the water with a splash and breathing heavily Ghost watches you disappear beneath the waves.
The moment you're gone he regrets what he's done but it's too late. You're a legend, a fortune, he just put back where he found it because he didn't know what to do—because he panicked. He waits by the edge of the deck for a minute, waiting for you resurface while his crew yells and complains. You don't come back up, vanish in the depths of the seemingly endless ocean. Later Ghost tells the crew that a dead mermaid isn't worth much and that carrying a dead one on a ship is bad fortune—a lie meant to shut the furious men up...and they do.
That same night he's alone on deck, leaning over the railing as he smokes his pipe and thinks of the mermaid he freed. The regret of letting you go has been replaced by guilt of ever getting you in the position you were on his ship. The sea is quiet after last night's storm—that's how he hears is. A small splash coming from the dark just below the railing...and then a hand extending out of the ocean, putting a shell down on the edge of the deck. Ghost is frozen for a moment as he watches the shell glimmer faintly in the moonlight and your hand disappearing again.
"Fuckin' hell..." he mutters. You came back and left, what? A present? A token? He picks the shell up and examines it—it is quiet a pretty shell he has to admit and it's slightly warm in his bare hands, as if you held it tightly to your body for a while. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with a technically useless shell, but he puts it in the pocket of his coat anyway.
Perhaps the curious little mermaid will bring more than just this one.
summary: you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.
pairing: outlaw!bucky barnes x female reader
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. smut (unprotected sex: p in v, loss of virginity, oral: f receiving, fingering, dry humping), swearing, fluff, angst, mention of: alcohol, blood, injuries, guns, death, murder, violence, and non-con (it’s alluded to in regards to an unnamed character).
length: 16.5k
a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. i know little of the old west but this is fiction so. title inspired by this song and one part of this fic is inspired by a scene in butch cassidy & the sundance kid 🧡
You never could quite handle the sight of blood, nor could you ever hide your instinctual response to it.
Your father used to terrorise you with the cuts he’d sometimes earn from a hard day’s work, always finding your reactions humorous.
Each time he would smile and say, “You’ll get used to it one day, kid.”
That day didn’t come while he was alive and it hadn’t come now.
Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it from the kitchen window, you almost shut it again.
The stranger towers above you, his frame taking up the entire doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands - covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.
“Ma’am,” He greets in a gruff tone. “I hate to bother you, but I find myself in need of some assistance…” The man nods to his injury, as if it had gone unnoticed by you.
It takes a moment for you to respond and when you do it’s with a jerky bob of your head as you step out of the doorway.
One blood stained hand raises to tip his hat at you as he enters.
Your eyes follow him as he wanders into the kitchen to his left, a slight sway in his steps.
How long has he been bleeding out?
Shutting the front door, you finally find your voice. “What do you need?”
Grunting as he lowers himself into a chair at your small, rectangular table, he answers “Rag, needle, thread, and alcohol - whiskey preferably.”
Removing his hat, he places it on the tabletop.
Okay, he’s done this before.
Focusing on the task he’s provided, you move around the kitchen and sitting room across from it, gathering each item.
The stranger is in luck. Your father had loved whiskey and there’s still plenty of bottles stashed away.
When you come to stand in front of him with everything in hand, you find that he’s lifted his shirt, providing an unobstructed view of his injury.
There’s so much…
“Bullet just grazed me.” The man observes quietly, to himself. “Still made one hell of a mess though.” He grumbles, finally lifting his head.
Blood. There’s so much blood and the skin has -
A deep, rough laugh pulls you from your spiralling, making you swallow thickly.
“It’s alright, darlin’.” There’s a lighter edge to his tone. “Just put the stuff on the table, I’ve got it.”
You do as he directs but remain where you are.
The man opens the bottle of whiskey first and takes three healthy swigs before pouring the liquid over his wound, hissing.
Quickly averting your gaze with a wince, you focus on his face instead.
What skin you can see is dirty, like his clothes. It’s clearly been some time since he last bathed or even tidied his appearance. His hair is long and tangled. You think it’s naturally a dark brown but it’s hard to be certain. A thick, wild beard hides most of his mouth and half his face, while a sharp nose -
Oh god.
You’ve seen the wanted posters hanging around town. Heard the stories that accompanied them.
Bucky Barnes.
The famed outlaw, responsible for some of the decade’s most daring robberies and revered as the fastest gunslinger in the west, is sitting in your kitchen. Tending a gunshot wound.
For the briefest moment you wonder who it was that shot him and what their fate had been.
Then you realise that’s something you really don’t want to know.
“Ma always said I could never be a tailor.” The man - Bucky mutters, eyeing his truthfully pitiful stitching. “But it’ll do.”
Placing the blood soaked rag on the table, along with the needle and leftover thread, Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey.
You feel the shift in the air as he sets the bottle back down.
Somehow he knows.
“I’m not lookin’ for any trouble, ma’am.”
“Says the man famous for trouble.” You can’t help but retort.
You’re seriously going to smart mouth him?
To your shock Bucky merely grins, his teeth surprisingly white and clean. “That’s fair, but a pretty girl’s house isn’t exactly where I make my trouble.” Morphing his grin into a smirk, he amends “Unless I’m asked.”
Your skin heats at the insinuation.
“I won’t be asking.” You state firmly.
“Then you’ve got nothin’ to fear.” Bucky assures, his mouth returning to its serious line underneath his beard.
He regards you carefully and it’s only then that you notice his eyes are the most electrifying blue.
“I best be on my way.”
The sudden declaration should fill you with relief, but as you watch Bucky rise from the chair with an unsteady step, you hear yourself saying “You can stay.”
Something tells you the last time he bathed was also the last time he had a decent meal or rest. He wouldn’t be finding any of those things nearby, especially in his condition.
It’s a miracle he even found you.
The downward tilt of Bucky’s eyebrows is the only indication of his confusion as he looks up from the hat in his hands. “Are you -”
“Just for the night and no funny business.”
Bucky’s eyes study you again and you swear no one has ever looked at you with such intensity.
Then he blinks, focusing on the front door over your shoulder. “I left my guns with my horse. You can keep ‘em with you if it’ll make you feel better.” Meeting your gaze once more, his deep voice rumbles “But I promise you won’t need ‘em.”
How much was an outlaw’s promise worth?
Eyeing him in the same observing manner, you begin to understand what Bucky had been searching for.
Slowly shaking your head, you tell him “It’s alright.”
You had your father’s shotgun should it come to that and you were familiar with the weapon.
“I’ll show you the bathroom.” You declare, striding out of the kitchen. “If you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna be clean.”
Behind you, Bucky responds with a - dare you say, amused “Yes ma’am.”
Your eyes fall shut as you lean back against your front door, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air.
There’s an outlaw in my bathroom.
Re-opening your eyes at that insane truth, you realise you’re not alone.
Bucky’s horse watches you curiously from where she stands in front of the porch steps, her gorgeous white coat shining in the setting sunlight.
Descending the steps cautiously, you extend a hand to the mare, letting her sniff you. When she makes a soft nicker and nudges at your hand, you move it to stroke her neck.
Her calm temperament surprises you, as she gladly allows you to lead her over to the barn not far from the house.
You settle her in a stall opposite your own horse, Chester. A gelding you aptly named after his chestnut complexion.
When you relieve her of Bucky’s saddle, you spot two guns amongst his belongings, just like he said you would. You leave them there in the barn.
Back in the kitchen, you clear everything except the quarter filled whiskey bottle from the table.
He might as well finish it off.
Wiping down the wooden tabletop to erase any trace of blood, you lift the bottle to clean under it and get a large whiff of the alcohol, making you pause.
It’s been years since you smelt the once common scent and it has memories flickering behind your eyes as you realise you’ve missed it.
Shaking your head, you put the bottle back down.
An hour passes, Bucky yet to emerge from the bathroom.
You stir dinner distractedly, staring out the window in front of you that overlooks the barn and the great nothingness beyond it as the sky darkens.
“Smells good.”
Christ.
Heart thumping sturdily at the small fright, you let the wooden spoon rest against the side of the pot and turn to face Bucky.
Oh.
It’s no wonder he took so long. Bucky had found good use in a pair of scissors and your father’s razor.
His wild, untamed beard has been reduced to stubble, highlighting a handsome jawline. Bucky’s hair - which is a dark brown and currently damp, curls under his ears instead of brushing against his shoulders.
Definitely trouble.
However, dressed in your father’s old clothes, it’s hard to find him as intimidating.
Your father had been a stocky man, so you knew the clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit.
The pants are a bit baggy and come up short, ending above the ankles of his bare feet, while the shirt tucked into them is an even looser fit. Bucky has rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of his way, revealing just how thick and muscular his arms are.
“I can wash your clothes if you like.” You offer, realising you’ve been staring.
“No need, darlin’,” Bucky responds smoothly “Washed them with me and hung ‘em over the porch.”
You hadn’t even heard the front door open or close.
“Kid, that wanderin’ mind a’yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”
Nodding, you gesture to the table. “Well take a seat, dinner’s ready.”
Dishing out two bowls of stew, you place one in front of him, along with a basket of bread rolls.
“Can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.” Bucky divulges, taking the spoon you offer him.
Sitting in the chair opposite him, you say “There’s plenty more if you want it.”
The two of you eat in silence, Bucky at a much faster pace. You’re only finishing your first serving when he begins his third.
Guess it has been a while since he last ate.
Or maybe this is just his usual appetite.
“Is it just you here?” Bucky asks after polishing off another bread roll, ending the quiet stretch.
In any other circumstance you’d think twice before giving an honest answer, but it’s pointless to lie to him now.
“Yes, it used to be my father and I, but he died two years ago.”
The pain his loss caused wasn’t something you could describe.
Your mother passed away when you were only four, taken by illness. If it weren’t for the photographs your father had, you wouldn’t even be able to conjure up an image of her.
After she died it was just you and him.
When his health began failing him some years ago, you both knew it was only a matter of time. You had just hoped for more.
Adjusting to life without your father had been challenging, but you were fortunate. You’d been left with a home - having no one else to come claim it, and the money that came from loaning out the land to cattle ranchers. It kept you fed, warm, and content.
Bucky lifts his eyes to look at you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
You nod, your throat tight with emotion.
Pushing up from the table, you take your empty bowl to the sink as Bucky continues eating.
The subject of your father’s passing stopped affecting you heavily some time ago, but it seems the turmoil of today’s events has brought your pain back to the surface.
“I’ll get your bed ready.” You announce, leaving the kitchen.
He’ll stay in the spare room - your father’s old room. It’s bigger than yours, but you could never find the will to claim it as your own. You were happy in your childhood room.
Grabbing sheets from the bedroom’s wardrobe, you get to work.
The room is sparse, containing only the bed with a small table either side of it, a wardrobe, and a chair. On one bedside table sits two photographs of your mother.
You’re slipping a cover over the pillow when Bucky’s figure appears in the doorway.
“Have enough to eat?”
You doubt there’s any leftovers.
“More than, your cookin’s somethin’ else.” He declares.
A smile escapes before you can stop it.
You’ve always loved cooking and it’s been years since you’ve had someone to feed or receive compliments from.
Dropping the pillow, you look over at Bucky and find his gaze fixated on the freshly made bed.
“I’ll leave you be.” You state, moving towards the door.
Still staring at the bed, Bucky steps further into the room and out of your way.
Glancing at him one last time, you utter out a quiet “Goodnight Bucky.”
You’re startled by how quickly his dark blue eyes jump to you.
Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve spoken his name.
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
A pause.
Softly, you tell him your name.
Bucky’s deep voice repeats it, adding “Thank you, for everything.”
His tone is lighter again, like it had been earlier after he laughed, allowing you to hear the emotion in it - sincerity, in this instance.
You’re not sure why it pleases you so much.
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
When you wake you’re not as well rested as you’d like.
You spent most of the night tossing and turning, all too aware of the outlaw just two doors down.
Forcing your heavy eyelids apart, you sluggishly get out of bed, taking your time getting dressed and fixing your hair.
Emerging from your bedroom, you peer down the hall to your right. The bathroom resides next to your room, the spare room next to it. Both rooms have their doors wide open, unoccupied.
Taking a few steps down the hall until you reach the opening on your left that leads into the sitting room, you walk in and find Bucky to your right, in the kitchen... making breakfast?
“Mornin’,” Bucky greets as you approach. Cracking two eggs into a pan, he answers your unspoken question. “Figured I at least owed ya breakfast.”
You weren’t going to argue with that.
Taking a seat at the table, you ask “How did you sleep?”
Peering at you over his shoulder, Bucky replies “Like a rock.”
“And your wound?”
“Healin’ just fine.”
Bucky’s still wearing the clothes you gave him, but judging by the heat you can already feel in the air, you know his own will be dried before you even finish breakfast.
You walk back towards the house with Bucky on your right and his horse - Alpine, as he’d introduced, on his other side.
He doesn’t mount the mare until you’ve reached the steps that lead up to your front porch. When he does, you’re stunned by the ease and swiftness his large body executes the manoeuvre with.
“Thanks again, darlin’.” Bucky nods, touching the brim of his weathered black hat. “For your cookin’ especially.”
Back in his own clothing with a gun belt secured around his hips, Bucky looks every bit like the outlaw he is.
For the second time since you’ve met, your mouth takes on a mind of its own. “Well, if you ever find yourself this way again maybe I’ll cook you something else.”
The edges of his lips turn up in a smirk at your offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
With a light press of his leg into Alpine’s side, the white beauty starts walking forward. You watch as she builds her momentum until she’s galloping, her and her rider becoming nothing more than a dot on the horizon.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 7 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Truthfully, you never expected to see Bucky Barnes again.
The memory of his visit had been stored away at the back of your mind and some days you wondered if it ever even happened - if it had simply been a daydream you’d gotten too lost in.
However, the knocking you hear on your front door one afternoon weeks later is very much real. As real as the man you spy standing on your porch through the window above your kitchen sink.
As you pull the door open, Bucky smiles in a way that can only be described as mischievous.
“Hi darlin’.”
You’re relieved to find not one speck of blood on him, just dirt.
Bucky’s maintained his shorter hairstyle but his beard has thickened, though not to the wild state it’d been in when you first met.
You realise your memory had failed to capture the precise blue of his eyes, as well as the depth of his voice.
Quirking an eyebrow - but giving a small smile nonetheless, your only response is “Bathroom.”
Chuckling, Bucky tips his hat at you, stepping out of his muddy boots before entering the house. You assume the bag in his hand contains clothes since he doesn’t ask for any as he disappears into the hallway.
Walking out onto the porch, you meet Alpine at the bottom of the steps and stroke her neck in greeting, leading her over to the barn.
Bucky’s left his guns behind once again. You place his saddle and belongings on one of the workbenches before settling Alpine in the same stall she’d occupied last time.
After stopping by Chester’s stall to dote on the horse, you head back to the house and start making dinner.
It’s not too long after when you hear heavy footsteps cross through the sitting room, followed by the front door opening.
Glancing to your left, to the window above the sink that looks out onto the porch, you watch as Bucky hangs his wet clothes over the railing.
He disappears from view and you hear the front door shut before his voice fills the room “How ya been, darlin’?”
Shrugging, you answer with a simple “Good.”
You’re caught off guard when Bucky appears on your right, the smell of the soap he just used invading your senses.
Standing side by side, it’s impossible to ignore his imposing height.
The top of your head barely reaches his broad shoulders and you feel like you have to look up and up to see his face.
You lower your gaze as your heartbeat accelerates, unnerved by Bucky’s sudden closeness. However, it slows as you watch him inhale the contents of the pot simmering on the stove in front of you.
“‘M starvin’.” He quietly groans.
Smiling, you roll your eyes and tell him “It’ll be done soon.” Pointing to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen you add “There’s whiskey in there if you want some.”
When Bucky doesn’t move or say anything in response you look up at him again, startled to find him staring intently at you.
“You a saint or somethin’, darlin’?”
He speaks gruffly, but you hear a trace of humour in his tone.
Scoffing, your gaze drops back down as you take a step towards him, so you can stand in front of the counter. Bucky takes a step backwards to accommodate you.
“What’s saintlike about offering someone whiskey? And to an outlaw no less.”
As the last part slips from your mouth, you tense.
“You’re always talkin’ first and thinkin’ later, kid.”
Bucky merely hums in response, turning to lean his back against the counter as his arms fold. The action pulls his shirt tight across his chest.
Not that you’re paying attention to that sort of thing.
“Isn’t that what saints do? Help lost souls?” He drawls.
“You’re lost?” You retort sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.
That earns a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m always right where I wanna be.”
Bucky’s midnight blue gaze hasn’t left you once, while yours constantly shifts away, like it does now. “And that’s here instead of somewhere nice?”
“Nice costs money.”
Your eyes dart up to his for no less than a second before flitting away.
This time you’re smart enough to not say the first thing that comes to mind.
Concentrating instead on the corn in your hands, you jump when you feel the rough pad of Bucky’s index finger under your chin, nudging your head up until you meet his gaze.
“Don’t start holdin’ your tongue now, darlin’.” Bucky states in a low timbre, dropping his hand.
Your heart is racing again, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or... something else.
Swallowing thickly, you manage to voice “I thought you’d have plenty of money.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Sometimes?”
Really can’t help myself, can I?
The left side of Bucky’s mouth twitches. “It’s not always about the money,” He answers vaguely.
You frown, “Then what’s it about?”
At last, Bucky smirks. “Curious thing, ain’t ya?”
The comment flusters you.
“Why do you wanna know?” Bucky deflects, leaning in until his face is only inches from yours. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the life, darlin’?”
“No, thank you.” The bite of your words is lost in your breathless tone, the result of his close proximity.
Bucky just huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling your face. Then he’s gone, strolling across the kitchen for the whiskey you offered hours ago - or so it feels, and that’s the end of that.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Waking with a deep inhale, your eyes blink repeatedly against the bright sunlight your curtains do little to block.
You stretch with a satisfied hum, having found sleep much easier than the last time Bucky stayed the night.
It’s well into the morning so you dress quickly, curious to see if Bucky’s still here, maybe even making breakfast again, or if he’s already taken off.
When you venture down the hall into the sitting room, you find the answer to your question lounging in an armchair, one of your favourite books in his big hands.
“Not an early riser, are you, darlin’?” Bucky drawls conversationally, not looking up from the page he’s reading.
You frown, crossing your arms. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”
He’s right though, you’re not one to rise with the sun - never have been. The few times you have are few and far between, the most recent being on his last visit.
Regardless, it’s not that observation that has you feeling defensive.
“Ten o’clock is hardly mornin’, you’ve missed half the day.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it, but you know he’s teasing.
It goes straight over your head however, as you’re too focused on what’s in his hands.
“Enjoying the book?” You snark at him.
Bucky smirks.
Oh yeah, he’s definitely winding me up on purpose.
“Tell me, are all your books so -” Bucky breaks off in a chuckle as you pluck the worn book out of his hands and press it to your chest. “So... romantic?”
You grasp the book a little tighter, having half a mind to hit him over the head with it for the gleam in his eyes.
An urge you think he senses.
“I like their humour.” Is your only answer.
Bucky hums lazily, clearly finding your answer lacking as he raises out of the chair.
The visual reminder of his towering height briefly shortens your breath.
Gazing down at you, Bucky lightly brushes against your side as he heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll go warm up breakfast.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 5 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You’re not sure what shocks you more when you open the front door. The fact that Bucky is clean, or the fact that he’s holding flowers.
Flowers.
It’s definitely the flowers.
You recognise the handiwork too. Clara, an elderly woman who was as kind as they come, grew all sorts of flowers and sold them from a stall in town.
They’re a little wilted from the long ride here, but still vibrant and pretty.
Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, inadvertently bringing him closer, Bucky’s deep voice teases “What’s the matter, darlin’? No man ever bring you flowers before?”
Dragging your gaze up from the bouquet and narrowing it, you jab “I’m just wondering if they’re stolen.”
Bucky only chuckles at your bite, like you expect him to.
You’re not sure what to make of that realisation - that you expect things from him.
Holding the flowers out to you, he states “They’re paid for, darlin’, I promise.”
There he goes again, making another promise.
Kept his last one, didn’t he?
Your facade doesn’t last long either way, the corners of your mouth turning upwards as you accept the bouquet, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s in the process.
Raising the flowers to your nose - and ignoring the tingling in your fingertips, you breathe in their scent, the stems of lavender standing out the most.
Before you can thank him, Bucky’s bending forward and ducking his head until his dark blue eyes are level with yours. “Was the money technically mine...”
Your mouth drops open as he trails off, implication hanging clear in the air.
Bucky gives a genuine laugh at your reaction, the warm sound almost eliciting one from you as he pushes away from the door.
You watch him saunter down the porch steps to take Alpine to the barn, completely and utterly bewildered by this outlaw.
He looked dangerous with his imposing height, broad shoulders, and wide chest that peeked out from the unbuttoned top of his long sleeved shirts. The same shirts that his muscled arms bulged beneath.
Not to mention his roguish features - the dark hair, thick beard, and piercing blue eyes.
He sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him.
He just didn’t act dangerous.
Outlaws weren’t giving, they didn’t tease, or smile, or laugh, and they certainly didn’t let some girl smart mouth them.
However, you weren’t a complete fool.
You knew there was another, more prominent side of him that you were yet to truly witness. You saw glimpses of it sometimes - of the outlaw.
A man who was used to being respected or feared, or both. A man who had the strength and skill to take whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and without asking.
Then Bucky would blink or turn away, and that momentary glimpse you were afforded passed.
It shouldn’t drive you mad, it shouldn’t make you want to see that side of him, yet... it did.
If you thought about it too long - the image of him being rough and commanding like his lifestyle demanded, well...
You jump when Bucky’s hand waves in front of your face.
Looking up from the spot on the porch you’d been staring at but not actually seeing as you lost yourself in your thoughts, you meet Bucky’s blue eyes below his furrowed brow.
“You really get lost in there, don’t ya darlin’?”
Thoughts still scattered, you absentmindedly respond “I don’t mean to.”
Bucky just hums.
Shaking your head to finally clear it, you walk back into the house, listening as Bucky shuts the front door behind him.
Grabbing the old, empty vase that lives on the wooden tea table in your sitting room, you bring it to the kitchen sink and fill it with water, arranging the flowers within it.
You can feel Bucky’s gaze following you as he takes his usual seat at the dining table, but it doesn’t unsettle you.
Returning the vase to its rightful spot, you admire the flowers once more with a soft smile before treading back to the kitchen.
When you pass Bucky you let out a small, confused sound as you come to a sudden stop.
Spinning to face him, you feel the skirt of your pale green prairie dress tighten around your legs, and you discover the reason when you spot Bucky’s hand holding onto the bottom of your dress.
“What are you -” You start, flabbergasted until you actually focus on the section Bucky has grabbed.
“What happened?” He asks, not even having to look up from where he sits to meet your gaze.
The fabric is ripped, splitting the skirt upwards about four inches. There’s a scratch to match it along the back of your right leg, which you assume Bucky must have seen.
You can’t read any emotion on his face, but you sense that he’s not pleased.
Strange.
“I was trying to fix the curtain rod in your - the spare room, but the wooden crate I was using broke and I fell.”
Fell seems like an exaggeration.
There wasn’t much distance between you and the ground, but you had landed awkwardly, the wood catching on your dress and scratching your leg - thankfully not deep enough to draw blood.
Currently, you’re more concerned about how you almost referred to the spare room as Bucky’s.
When did it become his room?
Bucky frowns at you but doesn’t speak, causing you to frown back.
A moment passes before he finally releases your dress and stands. Still silent, Bucky turns and strides towards the hallway.
By the time you catch up he’s already in the spare room, assessing the window.
You’d been replacing the curtains when the curtain rod bracket came off the wall on one side. It just needed to be screwed back in but the bracket was out of your reach.
The screwdriver sits on the windowsill, where you left it while you tossed the broken crate outside with some unfriendly words as your leg throbbed.
Grabbing the tool, Bucky reaches up to screw the bracket back in, the height not even a stretch for him.
Picking the curtain rod off the bed, you sit down in the same spot and bunch the curtains in your lap, keeping them off the floor as you watch Bucky quickly complete the task.
Turning around, he takes the curtain rod from you and hangs it up.
“What else?”
You stare at him for a second before pointing to the wardrobe behind you. “The right door’s a little loose.”
Diligently, he rounds the bed to the wardrobe and opens the right door, tightening the screws in the top hinge.
“I thought it was you the first time I saw it.” Bucky says abruptly, nodding to the bedside table closest to him where two photographs sit.
Both are of your mother.
In one she’s holding you as a child - you’re no more than two years old, on her lap with a smile. In the other she’s by herself and younger, about the age you are now.
“I once told my dad that I wished I could remember what she looked like, he told me to look in the mirror.”
He hadn’t been exaggerating. The resemblance between you and her was as clear as a cloudless day. It was something that had always made you wonder - how hard was it for him to look at you and constantly be reminded of her?
You might not have been old enough to remember it, but the love your father had for your mother shone brightly, never once fading over the years that followed her death.
“He said that was the only thing we had in common,” Grinning, you drop your voice to a faux whisper as you repeat your father’s loving words “She was a horrid cook and complete trouble maker.”
Bucky grins at that, giving a slight shake of his head as he swings the mended wardrobe door shut. “I dunno darlin’, I think you’re plenty of trouble.”
After dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, you always move into the sitting room for a short period while Bucky heads straight to bed.
Tonight however, he’s joined you.
Each sitting in an armchair across from one another, he nurses a glass of whiskey while you stitch the ripped fabric of your dress back together.
You use the light provided by the oil lamp and candles on the tea table between you both, placed around your vase.
As you glance at the flowers, you realise you never actually thanked Bucky for them.
Drawing your gaze higher, you’re not alarmed when your eyes meet his.
He’s always watching you.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
Bucky was right of course, no man has ever given you flowers before.
“My pleasure, darlin’.” His deep voice purrs.
You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so warm.
“And for fixing those things for me.”
It’s not like you don’t do anything for him in return, but you still want him to know you appreciate the help.
“I’ll fix anythin’ you need,” Bucky states a little rougher “Just don’t go hurtin’ yourself again.”
I didn’t do it on purpose, you almost huff out.
Bucky must anticipate the retort or something similar to it, because he stands, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one mouthful.
He takes his glass to the kitchen sink before returning, clearly on his way to bed.
“See you in the morning.” You say as he passes you.
“You mean afternoon?” Bucky calls back, his tone lighter.
This time you do huff, letting out a quiet “Shut up.”
His chuckle echoing down the hall lets you know you were heard.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 4 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
The fourth time you open your front door to Bucky Barnes is... different from the others.
Nothing’s wrong per se, but it’s not right either.
Bucky’s the dirtiest you’ve ever seen him. In fact, you’re struggling to find a visible patch of skin on him.
His large hands rest on the top of the doorframe and his dark blue eyes bore into you the moment the door opens.
“Darlin’.” The word is spoken bluntly and you instantly know he’s not in the mood to talk.
You have a short-lived thought of turning him away.
Instead, you step to the right, silently inviting him inside.
For the first time since you’ve met, Bucky feels dangerous.
Especially when you eye the guns still on his hips.
If this had been the Bucky who knocked on your door while bleeding out, you’re certain you never would have let him stay the night - let alone return.
Bucky trudges off to the bathroom, your eyes trailing after him.
When you hear the bathroom door shut you release a short breath, looking outside to find another irregularity.
Your feet carry you out onto the porch and down the three steps without a thought, drawn to where Alpine patiently waits.
She greets you cheerfully, nuzzling into your hands and covering them with dirt. She’s filthy.
Every other visit her white coat has gleamed, leaving you no doubt that Bucky cared for her deeply. Yet, like her owner, it’s hard to find a clean spot on her.
Alpine makes a noise and seems to nod towards the barn, as if to tell you that she needs food, water, rest, a bath.
The irritation you felt at Bucky’s stiff demeanour is replaced with concern.
You were in town only yesterday and hadn’t heard of any new incidents involving Bucky.
Not that you were keeping an ear out.
“What happened, huh?” You ask Alpine, leading her to the barn.
She simply sighs in response.
You’ve just started drying Alpine when you hear heavy footsteps enter the barn.
Her white coat shines once more, the familiar sight easing you, unlike the man approaching.
Bucky’s body radiates warmth as he comes to stand behind you, the scent of soap filling the air.
Daring to glance at him over your shoulder, you find him clean but worn out, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.
Wordlessly, you let him take over the task.
You prepare Alpine’s stall, stocking it with fresh food and water while Bucky dries her. He’s quietly murmuring to the horse, but you can’t hear his words over the sound of Alpine chewing hay.
When Bucky’s finished he leads Alpine into the stall, closing and locking the gate behind her.
It’s almost humorous. Alpine and Bucky are spotless but now you’re not. Your dress is soaked and covered in mud.
The walk back to the house is taken in silence.
“I’ll start dinner after I tidy up.” You tell Bucky once you’re inside.
He gives no response.
After your bath you change into a simple white dress, the fabric light and less likely to make you sweat until you switch into your nightgown later on.
Stepping into the kitchen, you find Bucky reclining back in his usual seat, a bottle of whiskey opened on the table in front of him and almost finished.
You decide to make one of your specialties for dinner, hoping it will... well, you’re not really sure what you’re hoping it will do.
As you flit about the kitchen you feel Bucky’s eyes on you, tracking your movements as you keep your back to him more often than not, until there’s nothing left to do but let dinner simmer on the stove.
Turning around, you lean against the countertop and meet Bucky’s stare.
He doesn’t shift his gaze and neither do you.
“What happened?” You ask quietly.
You don’t expect an answer and Bucky’s continued silence tells you there won’t be one.
Probably for the best.
Instead, Bucky lifts the whiskey bottle and swallows another mouthful, emptying it.
Pushing off the counter, you tread over to him.
“You should have some water.” You state, reaching for the bottle.
Before your hand can wrap around it, it’s captured by one of Bucky’s.
He doesn’t look at you as he flips it over, focusing instead on your palm as he runs his thumb over the lines of your smoother skin.
You watch in a dazed state, letting him do as he pleases.
Gradually, Bucky inches your hand towards him, closer and closer until he’s pressing his forehead into your open palm.
The action stuns you, and for a moment you don’t know what to do.
So, you go with what feels right.
Pushing your fingers back and forth timidly, you weave them between the strands of his damp hair.
The droop of Bucky’s shoulders boosts your confidence enough to take a step forward and lift your right hand, joining it with your left.
His head remains bowed, face hidden from you.
Taking another step forward to stand more comfortably, you release a small noise of surprise when Bucky’s hands grasp your hips and tug you even closer, allowing his forehead to rest against your stomach instead.
Your heart stutters in your throat and your hands falter.
With a shaky breath, you resume stroking Bucky’s hair, just as his strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you tight against him.
Being held in such a way makes you feel...
No, don’t you dare think that.
Growing bolder, your fingertips start drawing shapes on the nape of his neck while you play with the ends of his hair. The longer you do this, the more relaxed Bucky becomes.
Eventually however, the sound of dinner bubbling concerningly cuts through the peace.
You look over worriedly, not wanting the meal to ruin.
Bucky seems to realise, his arms tightening around you before dropping completely. Without looking at him, you dart over to the stove and turn it off.
Dinner is eaten in silence.
“‘M going to bed.” Bucky states once he’s finished.
His first sentence since arriving.
“Okay,” You reply softly.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You don’t expect to find Bucky making breakfast.
Walking into the kitchen, you had been prepared to discover that Bucky had left long before you woke. You’re glad he hasn’t.
He doesn’t appear as worn down either, and the brief upwards tug of his mouth when he turns to see you is more than enough to have you smiling back.
While Bucky’s still clearly dealing with whatever, his mood has at least improved.
Predictably, it’s quiet throughout the meal.
You wait at the bottom of the porch steps while Bucky retrieves Alpine from the barn, admiring the flat plains that appear to stretch on forever all around you.
The sound of Alpine’s hooves reaches your ears and you watch as Bucky leads the white beauty to you, stopping her by your side.
“You gonna be okay?”
You’re not sure why you ask, but you do.
Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, his hands on the saddle he was about to mount.
He studies you, his eyes dark under his hat, before doing something that muddles your brain.
In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, Bucky drops his hands and turns from Alpine, covering the distance between you in a short step before pressing his mouth to your forehead, his beard scratching at your skin.
“Just fine, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles as he pulls away.
Looking at you one more time, Bucky spins back to Alpine and mounts her in one fluid movement. Then they’re gone.
You can still feel the touch of his lips as you watch their figures fade.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Town was a good hour’s ride from your home, and it was for that reason you only ever made the journey once a week, every Thursday.
Your main stop was the general store where you bought food and other necessities. The store’s owner - Billy, would talk to you from his spot behind the counter, giving you a weekly rundown of town affairs.
Most of the time it was just mundane gossip you didn’t really care for, but not today.
According to Billy, there was a new gang causing havoc around the plains, trying to make a name for themselves.
“They’ve been robbin’ properties all over, startin’ fires and roughin’ up any fella in their way, the poor lasses -”
Billy never finished that sentence, but his averted gaze told you how it ended.
“Dunno why I’m worrin’ ya with this girl, God himself couldn’t find ya all the way out there.”
The declaration wasn’t that farfetched. Unless someone knew where you lived they needed to be lost to find it.
However, if someone was intentionally on the prowl...
You check over your father’s shotgun the minute you return home.
Some days it’s hard to forget that you’re a woman living on her own, with no help nearby. Tonight that fact looms over you like a dark cloud.
In fact, it keeps you wide awake, sitting at the dining table with the shotgun in reach until the sun rises again.
You’re sluggish the whole day, tired and on edge.
When afternoon rolls around you’ve cleaned the entire house in an attempt to distract yourself and for the most part, it’s worked.
That is until you hear the unmistakable sound of horse hooves in the distance.
Fear strikes your heart in a way you’ve never experienced and you instantly wish to never experience it again.
Racing to the window above the kitchen sink with the shotgun in hand, you almost cry in relief at what you see.
A white horse and her dark rider.
Sucking in deep breaths, you close your eyes and focus on the fast thump of your heartbeat until it returns to a calmer rhythm.
You’re putting the shotgun back in its place underneath your bed when you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by three loud knocks.
There’s no denying the way you immediately feel... safe.
“Bucky,” You greet a little breathlessly as you open the front door.
“Hi darlin’.” He grins, eyes softening just slightly.
It’s hard to picture the sombre man you invited inside only two weeks ago.
“Back so soon?” You attempt to tease, though you feel it falls flat in your drained state.
You wonder if Bucky can tell.
Ducking his head and pinning you under his stare that’s regained its usual intensity, he responds “You don’t mind, do ya?”
No, never.
Smiling, you answer “Luckily for you, I’m in a gracious mood.”
The tease lands better this time.
Humming, Bucky agrees, “Lucky me.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
After dinner it wasn’t Bucky who retired to bed first, but you.
The moment your head hit the pillow you were out cold.
Maybe it should concern you how easily you let your guard down just because Bucky was close by, but you don’t ruminate on it long enough to let it.
It’s late morning, maybe even afternoon when you eventually wake, the heat in your room making that much obvious.
Bucky doesn’t say a word once you walk out into the sitting room where he waits, reading one of your books again. However, the smirk he occupies as he gets up and goes into the kitchen says it all.
While you eat the breakfast - lunch, Bucky has made, you feel fear start to leach back in.
You don’t want him to leave you.
Unable to voice your plea, you take your time eating, dragging out the inevitable until you’re standing and taking your plate to the sink.
When you don’t hear the familiar sounds of Bucky collecting his things, you peek over your shoulder and find he’s still seated at the dining table.
Your gaze meets his.
Bucky answers the question in your eyes. “I’m supposed to meet my - some friends east of here in a couple of days.” You don’t miss his slip of tongue. “If I wouldn’t be overstayin’ -”
“No.” You interject much too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t be.”
He nods and stands up from the table, gesturing to the front of the house. “Your porch needs fixin’.”
While you kept the inside of the house to a spotless standard, the exterior was starting to show its age. The porch in particular, the boards old and beginning to rot.
“I know, I’ve got new wood to replace it with.”
You had it delivered out a couple of weeks ago. You just hadn’t gotten around to actually starting the task yet.
The sun beams down on you both as you walk side by side to the barn, past the horse stalls where you give Chester’s outstretched neck a fond pat, to the back where the tools and wood are stored.
Bucky hauls a bundle of wooden planks over his shoulder while you carry a crate full of tools behind him.
That’s all he lets you do, refusing your help when you go to walk back with him to collect the rest of the planks.
Standing on the bottom porch step, you watch him go back and forth from the barn until he’s brought out the last plank, creating a large pile.
“I can help.” You insist, feeling guilty about having him do all the work, even though he was the one who offered.
Bucky just shakes his head with a huff.
“Darlin’, go inside and relax.” He instructs, bending down to pick up a hammer from the crate. “Or,” He adds, straightening and strolling over to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Sit out here and give me somethin’ pretty to look at.”
Your stomach drops as heat floods your face.
Managing a weak scoff, you avert your eyes and spin around, quickly retreating into the house.
Bucky’s hearty laugh follows you inside.
Taking Bucky up on his first suggestion, you spend your day in the sitting room, reading.
When late afternoon creeps around and Bucky’s been outside for roughly three hours, you mark the page you’re on and get up to make him a snack.
Using the door at your end of the hallway that leads outside to where you do your laundry, you balance a sandwich and glass of lemonade on a tray as you stroll down the side of the house.
The sight that greets you when you round the corner almost has the tray slipping out of your hands.
Bucky’s shirtless.
His tanned skin glistens with sweat, the muscles in his back and arms prominent as he saws a wooden plank in half.
The longer you stare the more scars you begin to see, most small, others not, marking his body in a pattern unique to him.
You want to ask for the story behind each and every one.
Blinking out of your stupor, you step closer to where Bucky stands in front of the porch steps, cutting through the few remaining planks.
Swallowing thickly, you call out his name.
Bucky’s head lifts, looking over his shoulder at you before the rest of his body turns.
For a second time, you fight to keep the tray steady in your hands.
You’ve only seen peeks of the hair that covers his chest, but now it’s on full display and you can’t help but sweep your gaze down, over his firm stomach, to another patch of hair that leads to -
“Made you something to eat.” You declare, lifting the tray.
It only shakes a little.
Striding over to you, Bucky grins “Thank you, darlin’.”
His large, rough hands brush over yours as he takes the tray and warmth pools in your stomach.
“You’ve done a lot.” You observe, desperate to look at anything except him.
All of the old boards have been ripped up and Bucky’s already laid down new ones on the entire left side of the porch, as well as on the steps, where he now takes a seat.
“Should be done by sundown.”
It’s... nice, you realise. So utterly nice to have a man around to help you - to help look after you.
Though not just any man.
Bucky.
You’ll admit that. To yourself at least.
The sound of Bucky’s glass hitting the tray draws your attention. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s already finished.
“You keep eating that fast and your stomach will end you before anyone else gets the chance.” You comment with a raised eyebrow as you wander over to him.
Bucky smirks as he stands, handing you the tray. “Darlin’, if your food is what takes me out, I’ll die a happy man.”
Just as the sun starts to dip behind the horizon, your front door opens.
You glance up from where you’re curled into one of the armchairs, a book resting in your lap.
Bucky’s dark blue eyes roam over you for a prolonged moment before he husks out “Come take a look, darlin’.”
He disappears back outside as you stand and make your way over.
Opening the front door wide, you take in the restored porch with a growing smile and step out onto it.
“Wow,” You gush “It looks amazing Bucky, thank you.”
You turn to where he stands at the bottom of the porch steps and meet his gaze briefly before he breaks it, pointing to the old wooden planks piled a few yards away.
“That wood’s no good for your fireplace, so I’ll burn it tonight,” Bucky explains, crouching down to pick up the tools he’d used. “It’ll just be an eyesore otherwise.”
Leaning against the porch rail, next to where his shirt, hat, and gun belt rest, you watch quietly as he goes about returning the tools to their crate.
It hadn’t escaped your notice that Bucky had been wearing his gun belt when he came in yesterday, like he had on his last visit.
You hadn’t thought much about it at the time and you don’t now, too fascinated by him.
There’s a sense of delight in watching him while his attention is directed elsewhere, as it’s so often the other way around.
Only, while you found him intriguing to no end, you couldn’t fathom him sharing the same sentiment about you.
“Shouldn’t look at me like that, darlin’.”
Bucky’s abrupt words startle you as he turns and captures your stare.
It shouldn’t still surprise you how observant he is, even when you think he’s not paying attention.
Especially when you think he’s not paying attention.
How was I looking at him?
Shifting your eyes, you act as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Bucky?”
His chuckle lulls you into reconnecting your gaze.
“It’s a nickname.”
Studying him as he slowly wanders closer, you press “What’s your real name then?”
Bucky comes to a stop in front of you and for once you’re the one that has to look down - if only just.
He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, pushing it back from his face as he considers you.
“James Buchannan Barnes.”
The confession is gentle, meaningful.
“James,” You repeat softly, giving a small smile. “Now that’s a name.”
Vivid blue eyes - dark and electric, gaze upon you with something you can’t name as you suddenly feel the brush of knuckles against your right cheek.
“Say it again,” He murmurs.
Your breathing grows deep as a shiver cascades down your body, Bucky’s touch so... beguiling.
When your mouth parts to speak, his thumb catches on your bottom lip and it’s a miracle you remain upright, clutching at the railing.
Before you can utter his name a second time, you hear it.
It’s faint, but it still manages to pull your attention.
There’s horses in the distance, kicking up a large dust cloud behind them as they race towards you, the sound of their hooves echoing across the flat landscape.
You can’t tell how many there are yet.
The rough sound of your name pulls your focus back to Bucky, who is already marching up the porch steps. He breezes past you, reaching for his shirt and gun belt.
“Get inside and stay there.” He orders sharply.
Just like that, the side of himself he’d been sharing with you vanishes, replaced by -
“Now.” Bucky grits out, his eyes shifting to you.
That finally sends you scurrying inside, leaving him as he buttons up his shirt.
Darting into the kitchen, you draw the curtain across the window that looks onto the porch.
Bending over the sink, you pinch the bottom of the curtain between your thumb and forefinger, lifting it until you can just peek out.
Redressed, Bucky takes a seat on one of the two porch chairs and settles his black hat on his head, tilting it down until his features are obscured.
Leaning back in the chair, he almost looks like he’s about to fall asleep.
You pick up on a faint noise and soon realise that Bucky’s whistling.
Now, of all times?
Somewhere between a minute and an eternity passes before the horses - four of them, come galloping up to the house with their male riders.
Bucky keeps whistling.
The horses are pulled to a stop beside each other, forming a line in front of the porch. The rider to the far right urges his horse forward a step.
He eyes Bucky before glancing over at his comrades. Reaching behind himself, he slowly pulls out a shotgun and lays it across his lap.
“Oi!”
Bucky’s whistling fades out, the sudden silence perturbing as he straightens in the chair, hat still tilted.
“Can I help you?” Bucky drawls.
His reaction has clearly thrown the group into confusion as they all look to one another before three of them focus on the man who yelled - their leader, you assume.
“You’re not too bright, are ya fella?”
The insult makes you wince.
Bucky laughs.
It’s a sound you should find familiar for all the times you’ve managed to raise one out of him, but there’s nothing about it you recognise - it’s dark and without humour.
Maybe it should scare you, but it doesn’t.
The men stupidly chuckle with him, the one on the far left announcing “We’re here to rob you, fool!”
Laughter rings out louder from them, the group seeming to relax in this odd situation they’ve found themselves in.
“Yeah,” Another one echoes “Everythin’ ya got.”
Obviously not wanting to be left out, the only one yet to speak adds “That includes any women.”
Bucky’s laughter abruptly ceases and the leader notices immediately, unlike his three cackling morons.
“Ya gonna give us trouble, fella?” He asks warily, the others falling silent at the sound of his voice.
There’s a pause before Bucky answers.
“Depends.”
“On what?” A moron sneers, clearly unimpressed.
“On whether or not you leave right now.” Bucky states, voice low and menacing. “‘Cos you make one move towards this house and the last thing any of you will see is the bullet I place between your eyes.”
He directs their attention to the guns on either side of his hips.
The leader hovers his hand above the shotgun on his lap.
Another moron releases a scoff, “They’re not even drawn.”
“No,” Bucky agrees, his tone clearly indicating his dwindling patience. “But I’ve been told I got pretty fast hands.”
Knocking his hat back from his face, Bucky’s hands drop to his guns.
“Bucky Barnes.” A moron gapes, looking like he just wet himself.
The atmosphere completely shifts amongst the group, their leader’s eyes widening as his hand moves away from his shotgun and into the air.
“Mister Barnes, we ain’t mean no disrespect, sir.” He quickly appeases.
Heads bounce up and down as the others hurriedly agree, staring at Bucky with blatant fear.
You can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips.
“Well boys, I’m not too bright,” He unsheathes one gun and points it in their direction. “So remind me what it was I just told y’all to do.”
Instead of actually doing it, one of the morons stutters out “Uh, well, you told us to leave, sir.”
There’s a hush, Bucky’s frustration palpable, and a part of you believes he’s actually going to shoot them. In fact, you’re about to turn away from the window to avoid the sight.
Before you can however, Bucky speaks again, his voice harsh. “So?”
Finally, they gain an ounce of sense and urge their horses to move.
“Thank you, sir.” The leader gasps gratefully, turning his horse around.
He’s smart enough to know he’s escaped a bullet, but not smart enough to realise his words only irk Bucky further.
It doesn’t matter now. He and his morons are already racing away like the devil himself is behind them.
Maybe he is.
Bucky doesn’t move from the chair, he simply reholsters his gun and stares after the group as they retreat into the darkening horizon.
You’re lighting candles on the sitting room table when the front door opens.
Straightening up, you assess Bucky as he steps inside and removes his hat, revealing a furrowed brow. He looks deep in concentration, like his thoughts are racing at a mile a minute.
“So,” You begin, stealing his attention “That was...”
It’s in that moment, when trying to find a word that encapsulated what just occurred, that you actually process the event.
Watching Bucky handle the situation, making the four men appear stupid and harmless, had made you forget that they weren’t.
You wouldn’t have found those men harmless if it had been just you here to face them.
It should have been just you.
And if it had? How much protection would the shotgun have offered? Would you have been able to -
“Hey,” Bucky’s deep voice cuts through the terror clawing up your throat - the terror that must be reflected on your face. “You’re okay, darlin’.”
Only because of you.
You vaguely hear Bucky striding over.
“If you weren’t here -”
“I was.” Bucky cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Clasping your face in his rough hands, he tilts your head back until your wide, panicked eyes meet his. “I was here and that’s all that matters, there’s no good in thinkin’ about what-ifs.”
The declaration is spoken gruffly, but the stroke of his thumbs over your cheeks is tender.
“You’re safe,” Bucky continues, his voice growing lighter - gentler, like it sometimes does with you. “You’re safe with me.”
It’s so easy to trust those words.
It’s late at night, the moon high in the sky, when you find yourself standing out on the porch.
You can’t sleep.
Too much transpired today. Too many emotions were brought to the surface, and with them came revelations you’d been trying so hard to ignore.
Ignoring them now seemed impossible.
You’ve never held romantic feelings for anyone. You knew long ago that your future would be a lonely one and you had made your peace with it.
Then he came along.
Rather than falling into your usual place of contentment in the loneliness that ensued each time he left, you found yourself counting the days between his visits, eagerly awaiting his knock on your front door.
Then came the feelings.
At what point did your heart choose to swell and thunder in your chest at the mere sight of him? At what point did you find yourself missing his watchful gaze when it wasn’t on you? At what point did you decide to trust him with your life?
In your relatively short time together, Bucky had somehow managed to carve out a space for himself within you, and you didn’t know how to get him out.
You don’t know if you wanted to get him out.
“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?”
For a second you think you’ve imagined Bucky’s voice during your ruminating, but his presence beside you is real.
“Yeah,” You answer softly. “Was just looking at the stars.”
It was one of the reasons you came out here.
Humming, Bucky leans against the railing to your right, peering up. “There’s no better sight to fall asleep to.”
You remember him once mentioning that most of his nights were spent on the ground, without shelter, in the vast, never-ending desert.
“I’m sure,” You reply. “But I think I’d miss my bed every once in a while.”
Bucky lets out a faint chuckle.
There’s a comfortable silence as you both admire the stars twinkling above, but soon a prickling at the back of your neck has your head turning to find Bucky watching you unabashedly.
“You drive me crazy like this.” He murmurs, almost to himself. “You drive me crazy all the time,” He amends “But especially like this.”
Like what?
You don’t have to find the courage to ask.
“Standin’ in your nightgown, smellin’ like lavender,” Bucky admits freely, repeating “Drives me crazy.”
Your body comes to life at his confession.
Goosebumps erupt over your skin, your heart pounding faster as a warmth settles low in your stomach.
“James...”
“I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since we met. Every day, you’re my first and last thought. Always wonderin’ what you’re doin’, if you’re safe, if you’re thinkin’ ‘bout me.” He shifts closer, ducking his head until you’re eye level. “Wonderin’ what your mouth tastes like, how you would feel under my hands, what kind of sounds you’d make for me.”
Your breathing is shallow and heavy as he leans in closer still.
“Gonna let me find out, darlin’?” Bucky whispers against your lips.
Breathless and desperate, it almost sounds like you’re begging when you say, “Yes.”
Desperate to be touched - loved, by him.
A thought you’ll come back to another day.
Bucky’s mouth finds yours gently, his lips softer than you’d imagined as they press against your own. You’re tentative in your inexperience, but it’s not long before you’re kissing Bucky back with an eagerness he happily returns.
His tongue glides along your bottom lip, encouraging your mouth to open, and when it does he consumes you.
Needing to anchor yourself, you wind your arms around Bucky’s neck while his hands clutch at your hips.
When you break apart for a necessary gulp of air, those hands slip behind you to grip your backside, making you gasp as he lifts you up.
Clasping your legs around Bucky’s waist, you cling to him as he carries you back into the house.
His beard scratches against the smooth skin of your own cheek as you nuzzle against him before pressing shy, light kisses to the exposed skin of his neck. The soft sigh Bucky releases enchants you.
Then you’re feeling the floor of your bedroom under your feet as he carefully sets you down.
Bucky lowers to his knees in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands close around the hem of your white nightgown, his knuckles brushing against your calves.
The only lighting is the candle you left burning on your bedside table and the moon beaming through your thin curtains, but it’s enough to see the desire in his eyes - which is surely mirrored in your own.
You nod at his unspoken question.
In one swift motion Bucky stands, slipping your nightgown up and off.
Your legs press together instinctively and your hands twitch with the urge to cover yourself again as you’re hit with the vulnerability of being completely bared to Bucky.
“No darlin’,” He husks out roughly, grasping your wrists and holding your arms still while his heated gaze peruses your body. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”
The fervour Bucky speaks with has you weak.
Pulling you to him, Bucky’s clothes rub against your skin which for some reason makes you tremble even more as his mouth claims yours in a passionate kiss.
Guiding you backwards until your legs hit your bed, Bucky breaks the kiss to lay you down. Still clothed, he crawls over you, his lips seeking out your neck this time.
You gasp when you feel his calloused hands on your lower stomach, before they’re steadily drawn up your body to cup your pebbled breasts.
For the first time, you moan.
Bucky’s head jerks up from your neck, his expression ravenous as he massages your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples as you feel the wetness pooling between your legs.
He lowers to kiss your mouth, this one slow and intimate as his sinful touch continues, his right hand straying away from your chest to trail down and down and...
Gasping against his lips, your body shudders as you feel Bucky’s fingers push through the curls covering your sex, just millimetres from -
You reach for his wrist.
Bucky stops instantly, his hand stilling as he pulls back from your lips to meet your gaze.
There’s no way he doesn’t already know, yet you still find yourself needing to say “I... I’ve never...”
“I know, darlin’,” Bucky soothes. “I’m gonna go nice and slow. Make you feel so good, I promise.”
You release his wrist.
Bucky’s left hand kneads one of your breasts while his right continues its journey down to where no man has ever touched you before.
The whole time, you watch one another.
You inhale sharply when his fingers graze along your folds, feeling the wetness and warmth coming from your core.
It pulls a deep grunt from Bucky, who dips down for a searing kiss.
“Gonna treat you s’good, sweet girl.” He whispers as he pulls away, moving down your body.
Call me that again.
You’re torn from your thoughts when Bucky’s mouth wraps around your left nipple, sucking and nipping. All while his right hand caresses your sex.
He switches his attention between each breast until you’re a wriggling, panting mess. Then, with a smirk, he moves even further down, planting kisses over your stomach as he goes.
Kneeling between your spread legs, Bucky wraps his large hands around your ankles before skimming them up to seize your thighs. He rests them on his broad shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your core.
Confused, you’re frowning down at him when he does the unexpected. Staring at you, Bucky lowers his head and licks along your slit.
Your hips buck up but don’t go far in his hold, your stomach tightening as you let out a strangled noise at the new sensation.
Bucky makes a sound of satisfaction as he glides his tongue over your core, his hands clutching your inner thighs tightly, ensuring they remain open.
This...
You’ve talked about sex in hushed whispers with some women in town but they never, ever mentioned anything like this.
When Bucky’s mouth closes around your sensitive bud, your hands shoot down and grip at his hair as you let out a moan so coarse you hardly recognise your own voice.
“That’s it,” Bucky praises, licking your clit. “Keep makin’ those noises for me, sweet girl.”
One of his fingers dances at your entrance, collecting your wetness before tentatively pushing in. How long Bucky spends working you over, you have no idea, but eventually he’s plunging three of his thick digits in and out of you.
Your head swirls with the flood of sensations. The flick of his tongue, suck of his mouth, burn of his beard, and stroke of his fingers. It’s so much -
“I’ve got you, darlin’, you’re okay, come for me.”
With one final suck on your clit, your body tenses and shatters.
You cry out in pleasure, tugging on the strands of Bucky’s hair as he keeps licking, basking in your undoing.
It’s not until your sounds turn into something small and pitiful at the overstimulation that he stands from the bed, his beard shining with you in the moonlight as he finally undresses.
You eye him hungrily in your dazed state, watching as his shirt flutters to the floor, followed by his trousers. Your stuttered breath fills the otherwise quiet room.
He’s...
Subconsciously, your legs press together again.
Bucky tsk’s, his hands sliding under your knees and pulling them apart. “Sweet girl, what did I tell you?”
Settling between your legs once more, he hovers above you.
You can only hold his burning gaze for a moment before your eyes drift downwards.
His cock is hard, leaking, and big. You don’t think they’re supposed to be that big. Your hand would probably only just be able to fit around it, so how was it supposed to fit in you?
“Like whatcha see, darlin’?” You hear the smirk in his gravelly tone.
Flustered, you mumble out a breathless “It’s big.”
Bucky groans deeply, like he’s in pain, and swoops down to kiss you, dominating your mouth.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” He whispers against your lips. “It’ll fit in your little pussy.”
Shivering at his wicked tongue, your eyes dart back to it.
“Can I touch it?”
Bucky grunts, watching you from underneath his lashes. “S’all yours, darlin’.”
Timidly, you reach down between your bodies and circle your hand around the base of his cock.
You were wrong. There’s a small gap where your thumb and middle finger don’t - can’t meet.
It’s hot and heavy in your palm as you give it a curious stroke, up then down. You repeat the action, but this time you trail your thumb along a vein you had felt on the underside of his cock.
Bucky’s forehead drops to yours, his breathing laboured.
An upward flick of your eyes shows you that Bucky’s have closed, his jaw clenched tight.
The sight sends a shiver through you and with a burst of confidence you tighten your grip around his cock and stroke him again, thumbing at his leaking head when you reach the top.
Hissing, one of Bucky’s hands shoots down to grab your wrist.
You look up and see more pupil than iris in his gaze.
Pulling your hand from his cock, Bucky rasps “Won’t last if you keep doin’ that, darlin’.”
The statement thrills you.
Bucky positions your thighs so they’re resting over the top of his own, spreading you out beneath him.
Gripping himself in one hand, Bucky’s eyes study you closely as he nudges at your entrance before slowly pressing in. The initial stretch burns, causing you to chew at your lower lip.
Stopping, Bucky dips down to capture your mouth while his other hand seeks out your clit. He gently rubs the bud, the action both relaxing and distracting as he continues to push in bit by bit until you’ve successfully taken him all.
“You tell me when, darlin’.” Bucky pants above you, unmoving.
A few minutes pass, and when you feel like you’ve adjusted as much as you can, you say “Okay, just...”
“I’ll go slow, sweet girl.” Bucky promises again, reading your mind.
True to his word, Bucky gradually pulls his hard length out of you before pushing it back in at the same pace. Your teeth snag your bottom lip once more as he moves in and out of you, the feeling just shy of painful.
Bucky never looks away from your face, catching every emotion that flickers across it. You’re warm and tight - so tight, around his cock and it has him on the brink of madness.
However, it’s only your pleasure he cares about and when your face remains pinched on his fourth pull out of you, his eyebrows crease in concern.
As he pushes in on his fifth stroke, Bucky starts “Darlin’, do you -”
You moan loud and short, the sound a mixture of bliss and surprise as the pain suddenly gives way to pleasure.
Bucky grunts above you, the look on your face seeming to make him even harder as he puts a little more power behind his next thrust, making you moan again.
“There you go, sweet girl,” He husks. “That feel good, darlin’?”
“Yes.” Your hands wind in his hair, bringing his face down to yours for a desperate kiss as Bucky maintains his slow thrusts.
Something’s clawing at your stomach, wanton and feral.
Your right hand untangles from Bucky’s hair to slide down his muscled back, brushing over the bumps of scars as you go.
Breaking apart, you pant against his lips, “Faster.” You don’t know how you know that’s what you need, but you do. “Harder, please.” You implore in a lustful tone.
You haven’t been oblivious to the wild look in his dark blue eyes, to the barely restrained control he exhibits.
Those words, your tone, they unravel Bucky’s discipline for a moment, and in an almost uncontrollable action his hips slam up into yours as he grits out “Fuck, darlin’.”
The powerful thrust claws a breathy whine of shock out of you.
“Gonna kill me, aren’t ya, sweet girl?” Bucky murmurs thickly, reining his control back slightly as he does what you asked and pushes into you at a faster pace, his thrusts harder.
Your head tips back into the bed beneath you as you moan, the nails of your right hand digging into their hold on Bucky’s back while your left clutches his hair tighter.
“Look at me.” Bucky commands in a tone so low it rumbles through you.
You tilt your head down to meet his heady gaze.
“James,” You whimper, the pressure building within you.
“Fuck.” He thrusts a bit deeper, grinds down a bit harder, making you mewl. “I know, I know darlin’, gonna come for me again, aren’t ya?”
He gives another hard thrust, the force of it pushing you up the bed.
It feels so good.
“Say my name,” Bucky groans, rubbing at your clit. “Say my name when I make you come, sweet girl.”
A pleasure so intense it has your eyes rolling back washes through you, making your entire body tense and relax repeatedly as you moan, whine, and pant for James.
The sight of you coming so undone for him - because of him, sends Bucky hurtling.
Pulling out of your pulsing heat, his right hand squeezes around his painfully hard cock and tugs it roughly, consumed by lust. On the third harsh stroke he spills over your stomach with a wrecked moan of your name.
Your heaving breaths mix together as Bucky’s forehead meets yours.
Inching forward, Bucky presses a short, soft kiss to your lips.
“You okay, darlin’?” He whispers.
A drowsy, satisfied nod is all you can manage.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You’re surrounded by warmth when you blink awake and it takes you a moment to realise the source isn’t the sunlight streaming into your room, but Bucky’s body underneath yours.
If heaven was a feeling, this had to be close.
“Mornin’ darlin’.”
Tilting your head up from where it rests on Bucky’s bare chest, you meet his sparkling gaze and feel your face heat.
In a motion too fast for your freshly awoken brain to comprehend, Bucky cusps your hips and rolls you onto your back, hovering above you.
Nudging your nose with his own, he captures your mouth in a tender kiss.
“How are you feelin’?” He asks, pulling back to look at you.
Memories of last night flicker through your mind as you answer honestly. “I’m a little sore, but good.”
Humming, Bucky runs his left hand up and down your side. “Just good?”
You duck away from his impish stare, making him laugh.
“Still shy after last night?” He questions with a smile, not actually seeking a response.
Instead, he leans down and kisses you again.
This one is more hungry, his tongue swiping along the seam of your mouth, requesting access you happily grant.
You feel the air in the room thicken as Bucky’s left hand continues to roam and knead while both of yours stroke through his lush hair.
Despite the soreness between your legs, you feel the desire starting to pool there.
Breaking apart, you both breathe heavily as Bucky professes “Already need you again, my sweet girl.”
Peppering soft kisses all over your face before trailing down to your neck where he rubs his beard against your skin, Bucky whispers “But I gotta let you recover first if I wanna be able to ruin you all over again, isn’t that right, darlin’?”
You shudder at his words as he places one last kiss below your ear and stands.
Stepping into his trousers, his midnight blue eyes swim with desire as they peruse your naked body.
Licking his lips, Bucky husks “I’ll get breakfast started.”
“When will you go see your friends?” You ask Bucky as he takes your plate and his to the kitchen sink.
“Whatcha mean, darlin’?”
“You said you were waiting to meet with them.” You remind him, recalling the conversation you shared yesterday.
Yesterday?
It felt like a lifetime ago now.
His silence makes you frown at his back. “You’re... not meeting them?” You surmise hesitantly.
Why would he lie about that?
“If you just needed somewhere to stay a while...” All he had to do was ask.
Turning around to lean against the countertop, Bucky’s arms bulge as they cross over his still bare chest.
Despite the current discussion, the sight makes your stomach flip.
Bucky regards you for a moment before confessing “I heard there was a new gang causin’ problems ‘round these parts.”
That’s all he says, leaving you to fill in the blanks.
Your heartbeat quickens at the possible implication of his words.
“So...” You prompt softly, daring to hope.
Pushing off the counter, Bucky approaches you, his gaze holding yours as he rests a hand on the table beside you and bends until your eyes are level.
“So... I needed to make sure my sweet girl was safe.” He admits, lifting his other hand, “That she stayed that way.” Brushing his knuckles over your cheek, he concludes with “I’ve got nowhere else to be, darlin’.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 6 DAYS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
For six days you’ve existed in your own little world, you and James.
You knew it wouldn’t last, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment you feel when life comes crashing back in.
Waking up alone for the first time since you surrendered yourself to Bucky, you don’t think too much of it as you slip on your nightgown.
Venturing out into the hallway, you freeze at the sound of conversation.
Alarm tickles at the back of your neck before you force it away.
Bucky would never put you in danger. Of that, you’re certain.
“You sure? The law’s been gettin’ closer than I like.” An unfamiliar male voice states.
“We’ve been plannin’ this for too damn long to back out now.” Is Bucky’s reply.
Sucking in a breath, you know you really shouldn’t be listening to this.
Continuing into the sitting room, you step louder than you normally would, alerting them of your presence.
Two men sit in your kitchen, their hulking figures making the small table between them appear child-sized. Their heads turn and two sets of blue eyes - one light, the other dark - land on you as you loiter awkwardly.
Glancing as long as you dare at the stranger, you note his dark blond hair that brushes against his dirty collar and wild beard which reminds you of Bucky’s the first time he knocked on your door.
You know you’ve seen his wanted posters, but his name eludes you.
“Darlin’,” Bucky crooks a finger at you, urging you over to him. “This is Steve, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”
You could recall the name at the bottom of those posters now.
Steve Rogers.
“Hello,” You greet shyly, offering your name as Bucky’s hands reach for your hips and pull you onto his lap.
Not meaning to interrupt, you look up at Bucky and hope your face says as much. He simply squeezes your hips, silently telling you it’s okay.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Steve declares with a secretive smile. “I’m sorry for barging in.”
“It’s okay.”
“Are you?” Bucky grumbles at the same time, making Steve chuckle.
This one laughs too.
“I’ll give you two a moment.” Steve appeases, standing up and settling a worn, brown hat on his head.
You realise he’s only wearing socks and find it oddly thoughtful that he took his boots off before coming in.
“We’ll have to get properly acquainted some other time.” Steve remarks. Judging by the way Bucky’s grip tightens, he’s only saying it to be a menace, “Maybe you can cook me somethin’ too.”
“Fuck off.” Bucky growls, but Steve’s already slipping out the front door with a grin.
Grumbling, Bucky lifts you off his lap and onto the table, fusing his mouth to yours.
Once he’s successfully created empty space where your brain once was, Bucky pulls back and orders “Don’t you dare cook him or any other man anything, ever.”
“James.” You sigh, smiling.
“You won’t like what happens if you do, darlin’.” He promises in a darker tone.
The thrill that shoots up your spine suggests that maybe you would.
Regardless, you playfully huff “If you insist.”
“I do.” Bucky grunts, kissing you again.
When you break apart, the mood turns solemn.
“You have to go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah sweet girl, I gotta go.”
Forcing a smile, you whisper “Okay,” as if you have any say in the matter.
Rubbing his nose against yours, Bucky reassures “I’ll be back darlin’, like always.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 3 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Sighing, you eye the dishes you still have to dry. You would’ve finished the mundane task by now if you didn’t happen to move at the pace of a snail while daydreaming.
You had spent most of the day in the barn, completing chores. It wasn’t until the sun had almost set that you wandered back into the house and began making dinner.
Once these dishes were away you planned on taking a long bath.
Stacking the last plate, you pick up one of the candles on the dining table and blow out the rest, blanketing the house in darkness.
Using the light source in your hand, you check over all the windows and lock the front door before trudging down to your bedroom.
Stepping into the pitch black room you can’t help but miss the moon and the light it naturally provides as you place the candle on your bedside table, illuminating the small area.
Clutching the bottom of your pale yellow dress, you lift it up and off, leaving you in nothing but a thin chemise when you hear the unmistakable sound of a match striking.
Gasping, you whirl around with your heart hammering in your chest.
“Don’t stop on my account, darlin’.” Bucky drawls, seated in the chair at the opposite corner of your room.
Waving out the match he just used to light a candle on the dressing table beside him, his dark eyes watch you like a hawk. “Go on.”
A shiver races down your spine.
This isn’t your usual Bucky.
In an almost nervous manner you reach for the straps of your chemise, hesitating for just a second before pushing them off your shoulders.
You hear Bucky’s deep inhale as the fabric pools at your feet.
“Come here.”
Your feet are quick to obey the order.
Candlelight flickers over his face, allowing you to take in his appearance. He looks much the same as when he left, just a little dirty, but you can’t complain since you are too.
As soon as you’re within reach, Bucky pulls you down onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him as your naked breasts press into his shirt.
His calloused hands grip your backside roughly, drawing another gasp from you.
Grazing your lips with his own, Bucky whispers “I’ve missed you.”
You’re not given a chance to return the sentiment as his mouth captures yours.
The kiss is ravenous. All you can do is hang on to him, your hands clutching at the material over his thick biceps as you let Bucky take everything he wants, everything he needs from you.
Both of you are panting for air when he eventually drags himself away, his right hand gliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck and urge your head backwards.
Running his nose under your jaw, all the way down to your collarbone, Bucky groans in satisfaction against your skin. “Smell s’good.”
It was merely coincidence that you had been using your lavender oil more often since his comment on the porch.
He bites at the place where your neck and shoulder meet - as if in claim, before licking over the spot, making you moan.
Bucky nips and licks along your collarbone, dipping lower until he can tug one of your nipples between his teeth.
You don’t even realise you’ve started rocking against his hard length until both his hands seize your hips, halting your movements.
Raising his head, Bucky coos “That desperate for me, darlin’? Where’d my sweet, shy girl go?”
Why those words make you whine at him you have no idea, but Bucky loves it.
Smirking, he slowly rocks you up and down on his covered length and hums “Maybe my girl’s not so good, huh?”
You moan as he moves you faster, pressing you down to rub harder against his straining cock. Clinging at his shirt, your head drops to his shoulder.
“That’s alright darlin’, ‘cos I plan on doin’ very bad things with you.” Bucky murmurs in your ear, beard scratching at your sensitive skin.
His words, added with the press of his thumb on your clit, undoes you.
Growling, Bucky stands while you’re still whimpering in pleasure and carries you to the bed, manoeuvring your submissive form until you’re on your knees, face down.
He’s never had you like this before.
The sound of Bucky removing his belt has your thighs trembling.
“Can’t wait any longer.” He grunts, shoving his trousers to the floor before caging your hips. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this perfect pussy every day, dyin’ to feel it wrapped ‘round me again.”
That’s all the warning you get before Bucky pushes in, the intrusion tearing a shout from you, followed by a drawn out moan.
You feel so full. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this.
How badly you’ve been craving it.
“That’s it.” He purrs, your walls clenching around him. “Fuck.”
Pulling out until just the tip remains, Bucky surges back in.
Keening, you claw at the blanket beneath you.
“You are a good girl, aren’t ya, darlin’?” Bucky thrusts into you hard enough to send your whole body pitching forward. Bending down, he husks in your ear, “‘Cos you’re takin’ everythin’ I give ya.”
The way he’s talking is hurtling you towards the edge again.
You don’t respond - you can’t, but Bucky’s not looking for a reply.
Straightening, he begins pounding into you relentlessly. You swear the bed is going to give out with how it creaks as the frame bangs into the wall, competing with the noises coming from you.
When Bucky’s large, rough hand slides under your body to play with your clit, you almost scream.
Chuckling out a groan, he states “You’re squeezin’ the life outta me, sweet girl.”
Bucky’s fingers are as unforgiving as his cock as they rub tight circles on your bud, bringing you to that point.
“Come.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his large body around yours as his fingers bully your clit. “Now.”
You’re helpless to his demand.
“James!” You cry, falling limp as your release slams into you.
Moaning deeply, Bucky pulls out of your spasming core and flips you onto your back. Tugging his cock, he spills onto your stomach, cursing your name.
Collapsing forward, Bucky catches himself on his left elbow, hovering above you.
You’re breathless, eyes fluttering as he lowers to kiss your lips.
It starts out tender but soon morphs into something lustful as you feel Bucky hardening against your stomach once more. Your resulting whimper breaks the kiss.
“Keep those eyes open, sweet girl,” He whispers. “I’m not done with you yet.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷
You wake wrapped in Bucky’s arms, a smile instantly blooming across your face. Lifting your head from his shoulder, your smile only widens when you notice that his eyes are closed.
Bucky always woke before you, yet here he is, fast asleep.
He looks so peaceful.
For a while you simply watch him, listening to his steady breathing as his chest rises and falls underneath your right palm.
Eventually you can’t resist the urge to brush his brown hair away from his face, which prompts your fingertips to dance across his beard, down the slope of his nose, and over his mouth.
Your forefinger traces along his bottom lip before it’s suddenly snagged between his teeth, making you gasp, then laugh.
Bucky’s eyes blink open and lock onto you as he releases your finger.
“Hi,” You beam.
“Mornin’ darlin’.” The rougher tone of his voice upon waking is a sound you’ll never tire of. “What you doin’ up so early?”
Huffing at his teasing words, you slide over him and sit up, straddling his firm stomach.
“It’s not that early,” You glare playfully.
Cupping your hips, Bucky smirks “I just know how much my girl likes her sleep.”
My girl.
Lowering until your nose bumps his, you respond “I like spending time with you more.”
Bucky gives a weak groan, his hands gliding up to cradle your face and pull you down further, until your mouths connect.
It’s a slow kiss, every stroke of his tongue deliberate as he savours the taste of you.
He doesn’t let you go far when you break for air, his nose prodding yours when he whispers “I have to go.”
Your eyes widen in protest, “You just got back.”
Rolling the two of you over so he’s hovering above you instead, Bucky rolls his temple against yours, his forearms digging into the bed on either side of your head.
“There’s a... job I have to do,” He explains vaguely. “But once it’s done, I’ll be comin’ back here for a good while.”
You mull over his words for a moment before quietly reaffirming “You will?”
“Promise.”
Bucky angles his face lower to press feather-light kisses over your cheeks and down your neck, where he then scrapes his beard, well aware of how much it tickles your sensitive skin.
Only when there’s tears pooling in your eyes and you’re stuttering out between giggles for him to stop does he finally relent, lifting his head.
The grin on his lips is much too boyish to belong to the man who spoke such sordid things to you last night.
You suddenly become vividly aware of everything in that moment.
The dust swirling in the morning sunlight filtering through your curtains, the texture of the sheets against your bare skin, the echo of your heart beat.
It’s the moment you realise -
I love him.
“How ‘bout I make us some breakfast?” Bucky suggests.
It’s right then, with those midnight blue eyes shining down at you, that you almost tell him.
Thankfully, common sense rears its head, snatching the words from your tongue before they can tumble out and ruin everything.
You know he cares for you - possibly adores you in a way, but you’re certain men like Bucky Barnes don’t do love.
So instead you say, “That sounds great.”
You’ll take whatever he’s willing to give you before he leaves, because you know his absence is going to be even more palpable this time around, and you’ll wait as long as you must until he returns to give you more.
⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷
Securing Chester’s reins around a post outside the general store, you give his neck a loving scratch as he heartily drinks from the nearby water trough.
Moving around him to retrieve some money from the satchel on your saddle, the thumping sound of running feet grabs your attention.
You look over your shoulder to see four young boys racing past, beelining for the centre of town.
“Hurry up or we’ll miss it!” One of the boys shouts back at his lagging friends.
Frowning, you glance around and realise that most people are heading in the same direction.
Closing your satchel with the money still inside, you stride up onto the general store’s porch, intent on asking Billy what all the fuss is about.
A piece of paper nailed to the store’s front door informs you he’s not inside, the messily written ‘be back after’ only fuelling your curiosity.
Humming in thought, you move off the porch and fall in step with the other folks making their way to the town centre.
It’s an underwhelming reveal.
Your eyes roll when you round the corner and find that the gallows have been erected.
A hanging, of course.
What else drew eager onlookers?
Certainly not one to enjoy such a gruesome sight, you pivot and start back the way you came. You’ll just wait for Billy on the store’s porch.
You take four steps before stopping.
The whole town seems to be gathering - if not more. Only someone with a name important enough to know would attract so much attention.
Fear turns your blood cold.
It can’t be him.
You’re thinking foolishly, you know that.
In what world did law enforcement ever actually catch someone like Bucky Barnes?
The notion was comical.
However, your need for reassurance has you spinning back around and treading closer.
You weave your way between the large, still-growing crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the criminal yet to be led up onto the high platform for hanging.
After a few minutes you’ve only managed to make it halfway through the throng of spectators, the sharp elbows of uncaring men hindering your progress.
Rising up on your toes, you peer around the figures in front of you, focusing on the left corner of the gallows where you know the stairs that lead up to the platform begin.
The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion.
All the bodies in front of you somehow move at precisely the right time, in the right way, to provide you with a perfect, unhindered line of vision to the brown haired man waiting at the bottom of the steps.
Oh god.
The reveal of his face almost brings you to your knees.
James.
His hands are tied behind his back and two deputies flank him, ready to escort him up.
It’s not until your line of sight is broken that the world around you speeds back up, hurtling you into motion.
Like a woman desperate - because you are, you barge through the remaining crowd, ignoring protests and brushing off shoves, until you’ve reached the very front.
Flitting around the unsuspecting deputy stationed to keep the mob at bay, you bolt for Bucky, sliding to a standstill in front of him, the tips of your boots touching his.
“Darlin’,” Bucky speaks like the wind’s just been knocked out of him, his blue eyes wide.
“James, what are you - they’re -”
You can’t speak. You can’t breathe.
Bucky Barnes didn’t get caught, and he certainly didn’t die.
“You promised.” You gasp out, eyes itching with tears “You -”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” Bucky whispers, his gaze mournful.
His new, precious term of endearment only pains you more.
“Don’t say -”
Regaining their wits, the deputies around you spring into action, one of them seizing your arms from behind and hauling you away.
“Hey!”
“Don’t touch her!” Bucky spits vehemently, rearing forward only to be yanked backwards by the deputies either side of him.
Throwing your right heel back as hard as you can, you catch the deputy in his shin, causing his hold to weaken as he lets out a shout.
Lunging at Bucky, you cling to the front of his shirt.
“Please James,” You beseech, like he has any say in this. “I love you, please.”
You should’ve told him. You should’ve told him that morning.
“Listen to me, baby.” Bucky implores, his deep voice gentle for you.
Just for you.
“I want you to know how much I love you, that you’ve given a meanin’ to my life that I had no right to expect, that no one can ever take from me.”
“James.” You choke out, throat tight with the tears that stream down your face.
He loves me.
The beautiful declaration should fill you with euphoria, not anguish.
“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” Bucky declares, lips curling in a smile as his dark blue eyes soak you in.
When the deputy grabs you this time, there’s no chance of breaking his painful hold even if you had the strength to try - which you don’t.
Your body is limp, weak, and fractured as you’re dragged away from the man you love. The only man you’ll ever love.
“It’s alright, darlin’,” Bucky insists over his shoulder as he’s pushed up the stairs, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”
You’re thrown into the crowd - which parts from you in disgust, all while watching Bucky ascend to the high platform, feeling anything but okay.
They stand him beside the noose and your legs tremble as you begin walking backwards through the horde of bystanders, unconsciously trying to escape what’s about to transpire.
“Bucky Barnes...” A big, well dressed man addresses him before reading out his sentence.
A hand shoots up to cover your mouth, the reality truly sinking in.
They’re going to kill him.
Only watching you - always watching you, Bucky’s mouth opens.
You can’t hear what he says, but you make out the words.
“Close your eyes.”
The pain suddenly burns, your shoulders shaking with the force of your tears.
Gasping in a deep, shuddering breath, you look at him one last time.
Hasn’t death taken enough from me?
Forcing yourself to honour his final request, you close your eyes.
You’re barely aware of anything other than the affliction raging inside you, so you don’t even know how you hear it over the jeering crowd, but you do.
A low whistle.
It shouldn’t mean anything to you, but something tells you to open your eyes.
Blinking through your tears, you twist your head to the right, where the sound had been loudest, and zero in on a man who towers over most others.
A white bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he’s staring at you, his bright blue eyes visible as he winks.
Steve?
Veering his gaze from you to Bucky, he whistles again, this time a note that’s sharp and piercing.
People scattered within the crowd around you fling back ponchos, revealing guns that they fire up into the sky or towards the gallows, sending the audience running and screaming as all hell breaks loose.
Just... wow. This is one of the best fics I have ever read in here. Every single word got me absolutely trapped. You have such ability to write a vast amount of scenarios, I felt deeply connected to the world you created. I'm not only marveled but eager to read more of you, more of treacherous, more of anything you can offer. Definitely my favorite cowboy!bucky fic in here! 🤍
"No, seriously, I have a mermaid as a friend, and she is gonna make sure the weather is nice," Kyle said with a laugh. "She controls the weather like her mom can, and to be honest, she’s said that if we weren’t related, she’d drag me down. Wouldn’t say much after that, though, but I believe her."
"You're related to a mermaid?" John said with a huff. "First off, mermaids aren't real, son." He patted him on the back before taking a swig of his drink. The four of them were en route to Jamaica for Kyle's wedding. The layover was just enough time to grab a drink and talk about family and friends who would be there.
"It's true, she'll be there, and she's pretty nice. She told me that if the marriage doesn't work out, she'll ask her friends on the other side to ruin my wife free of charge." He laughed.
Simon snorted. "You sure she isn't jealous about you getting married?"
Kyle shook his head. "Nah, she isn't like that. Like I said, me and her are related through my great-great-great-grandmother on my mom's side, and they don't like mixing maternal lines."
The only one not participating in this silly conversation was Johnny. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since crossing the Atlantic. He waved it off as being plane sick, but really, he was nervous about being near mermaids. He’d heard of them before and had come across a few in the northern waters, but the ones farther south were different. They weren’t hunted, and often, they were the ones doing the hunting. They were known to be worshipped as water spirits and goddesses in the mortal world.
While John and Simon teased Kyle, Johnny worried that his peace offering wouldn’t be accepted. The last thing he wanted was to anger someone in their home waters by not being polite.
"You good, Soap?" Kyle asked. "You’re not still plane sick, are you?"
"Huh?" He looked at the three of them as he was snapped out of his thoughts. "Nae, I’m good." The coolness of his beer tasted a bit bitter from his nerves. He thought about the comb he’d packed and how he’d gone through the trouble of finding pretty stones to glue to it. His ma always said that mermaids were fickle beings, depending on the waters they grew up in. The ones near his home enjoyed messing with boats and luring people to their deaths. They also didn’t care much for the Selkie folk because of differing opinions on humans and other land dwellers.
"Well, anyway," Kyle continued, "don’t go taking anything with cowrie shells on it. Don’t want to cause issues." He laughed.
Johnny made a mental note not to take anything with pretty cowrie shells on it, even if he wanted to add it to his collection of knick-knacks.
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
You hadn’t seen your friend Kyle in ages, not since he moved north. You cried, and it rained for days during that time of mourning. Your mother had explained that even if he had stayed, you couldn’t be with him. Mixing of the maternal lines was frowned upon.
These days, though, you were excited to see him face to face and not through dreams or over a video chat when you were on land.
His family house was bustling with activity as everyone prepared for his marriage. He’d found a nice Gullah woman named Anita, and you definitely approved of her. She’d taken the time to offer you blessed water and thanked you for keeping Kyle safe all these years. She’d said she hoped the two of you could be friends and eventually sisters.
"If it isn’t my baby Kyle!" Nana Garrick shouted with glee. She might have been old, but she moved as if she weren’t a day over forty. By the time you entered the living room, you were greeted by the sight of Kyle being hugged and kissed by his Nana.
"You’re too skinny! I know the military’s supposed to keep you fit, but you look like skin and bones. How are we supposed to get children from a skinny man?"
Laughter filled the room as Kyle ducked his head in embarrassment. "Nana, good to see you too. Is Ma in yet?"
"She’s out by the cove speaking with La’raunt. Something about clearing up bad blood." She shook her head, then caught your eye and beamed. "Don’t be shy, girl."
You didn’t move, though, despite her insistence. Instead, you looked over the three men he’d brought along. Their auras and spirits aligned with Kyle’s, dark and bloody from their line of work. You hoped they were willing to be cleansed before stepping foot on the riverside where the wedding would be held. Your mother didn’t like it when people entered her waters and tainted them.
"It’s good to see you face to face!" Kyle picked you up and squeezed you tightly. He kissed your cheek and whispered, "How long have you been without your tail?"
"Not long, just helping your fiancée with a few things and giving your ma and my cousin some privacy by the cove," you whispered back.
Your eyes locked onto the selkie standing awkwardly nearby. The way he shifted back and forth while talking to Nana Garrick spoke of nerves. His blue eyes flicked toward you every so often, and his cheeks turned pink. He kept running his fingers through his messy hair, trying to find something to fidget with.
"You guys need to be cleansed—"
"I know, I know, aunty won’t let us near the river for the wedding if we aren’t." He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. "Also, that cowrie necklace you gave Anita? Really?" Kyle asked, his voice tinged with embarrassment.
"Yes, it was blessed by my mother. We expect to have a bunch of little babies to spoil," you teased. He ruffled your hair, messing up your braids and jewelry.
"You should worry about your own love life," he said back.
"Also, the selkie you brought?"
Kyle looked over at his friend. He always knew Soap was strange, but he knew enough about water folk not to ask about them—it was rude to bring them up unless they spoke first.
"He’s a good guy. He won’t cause any trouble. I swear it."
You looked back at the selkie. His eyes met yours, and an electric current passed between you. You struggled to look away, fighting the flutter in your stomach.
"Water is water," you said quietly. "As long as he doesn’t go harassing the locals, he’ll be fine."
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
Johnny was in trouble. The mermaid—Kyle’s friend—was beautiful. Ancient magic radiated from her, brushing against him in a way that intimidated him. She had gorgeous brown skin and waist-length braids decorated with shells, gemstones, and gold coils.
He felt a magnetic pull toward her, primal and wild. He wanted to give her shells and smooth stones, nip at her fingers and cheeks, kiss her lips, and trace her cupid’s bow with his tongue. He wanted to leave his pelt for her to pick up and bind him to her forever.
That night, Johnny slipped out once everyone had gone to bed. His pelt was wrapped around his waist in case he was given the chance to greet the waters properly. He gripped the comb tightly in his hand. The moon lit his path toward the river, almost as if she knew what he was up to.
The rushing sound of the river guided him toward the cove. Magic followed him—eyes watched his every move. He heard his ma’s warning about foreign waters:
Not all waters are welcoming to folks they didn’t make, birth, or bless. Always be careful and respectful.
He reached the mouth of the cove, illuminated by moonlight. There was laughter—light and melodic—just barely audible above the water. The second he stepped out of the brush, it all went silent.
Rocks and sand lined the shore, palm trees stretching high toward the stars. Out in the water stood three tall rocks jutting from the sea. She sat upon the tallest one, ethereal under the moonlight. Her fin glowed with pearlescent whites and soft pastel pinks and blues. Magic radiated from her, pulling him in like a moth to flame.
Two younger merfolk watched him from nearby, and in the water, smaller eyes peered at him curiously. Children.
This was a pod’s home. He was trespassing.
The other merfolk quickly disappeared with the children, leaving just her. The wind picked up, whipping violently at him in warning.
"Wait! I brought you a gift!" he called over the wind as he stepped closer to the water.
She tensed, ready to flee or attack. Then, with a flick of her tail, she dove beneath the surface, vanishing.
Disheartened, he stared at the rippling water—until it brushed against his shoes in a gentle welcome.
He was stripping before he could second-guess himself, pulling on his pelt and diving in. The warm Atlantic water was soft and sweet—so different from the rough, foamy North Sea he’d grown up with.
He clamped the comb between his teeth and swam farther out. A flash of pearlescent white and dark hair appeared—then she was before him, eyes glowing softly.
A webbed hand, adorned with gold rings and bracelets, reached out to take the comb from his mouth. She studied it and smiled, showing sharp teeth.
Behind her, her companions and the children watched from a distance. 'Cousins'. A soft voice echoed in his mind—it wasn’t his own. 'Our waters welcome you.'
Her hands framed his face as she blew a stream of bubbles at him. If he could blush in this form, he’d be redder than a tomato. The urge to kiss her was strong, but he held back out of respect.
Then she let go and darted away. When she looked back over her shoulder and told him to come it was with a smile.
Johnny didn’t hesitate to follow.
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
"Your friend Soap, is it?" Anita asked as she lay next to her love. "He couldn’t keep his eyes off your friend."
"Really? I didn’t notice," Kyle said, staring at the ceiling.
"Yeah, I get good energy from him. And the way he wouldn’t stop staring at her? He may just become family."
Kyle said nothing. He knew Soap had snuck out to the water that night—there were some things water folk had to do to be welcomed elsewhere.
Still, he thought back to how his friend had acted during dinner. Soap had talked nonstop about himself—his accomplishments, his talents—and told his best jokes. His eyes always sought her out, checking if she was smiling or laughing at him.
He’d been peacocking, showing off.
And that could be a problem. Johnny “Horn Dog” MacTavish was known in their group as the guy who led women to bed and strung them along—playing with hearts while on leave, with a string of birds at his beck and call.
Kyle had heard him brag about a girl back home in the Highlands—a sweetheart who always waited for him during long leaves. The last thing Kyle wanted was for him to string along [♡] and leave her heartbroken. Her people wouldn’t take kindly to that.
"As long as the weather doesn’t turn violent, I think this week will be fine," he sighed.
Series list
Vanta note: this had been sitting in my drafts since mermay. But I wasn't sure if I liked it enough to post it. All of the chapters are written out, though. So, like, let me know what you think.
It was just a one night stand is what you’d told yourself.
You weren’t Cinderella and your life wasn’t going to miraculously change overnight, you had a job at your families hardware store to attend to.
You were the youngest of six, all girls, all working for the one family business that helps keep your town a float. You’d thought you’d be able to keep a secret to yourself about sleeping with John Price until the town gossiper, Shonda Lewis, stuck her head into the shop window blabber mouthing with your older sister Lisa.
Something about, “Have you heard, John Price is looking for his special lady.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow, “A special lady?”
“Mmmhm! Said he met someone he’s been waitin for his whole life but they ran off! So he’s been goin ‘round town lookin for ‘em. But it’s been dozens ‘f women sayin it’s them, hell, I would too if I wasn’t married. That whole family is rich as shit!” Shonda laughed.
John Price came from a long line of cowboys, from ranchers to rodeo to farm hands— the Price ranch was thee most thriving ranch connected to your small town— probably in the county. Not to mention, Price was the oldest of his 3 siblings, he was a gentleman and took care of everyone and everything. What was not to love?
You, have been hiding in the back of the hardware store all day, absolutely sure there would be no run ins with that Price man and you could go about your business. It’s not that Price would find you anyway, you were sure he was just looking for his real type which was stuck up southern bells. Not you, who didn’t mind getting your hands dirty, begged your parents for a 4 wheeler for your 15th birthday, spent the weekend line dancing and drinking whatever concoction your wild ass cousins could mixed up. 
Your sisters had slowly left one by one, leaving you to take care of the shop by your lonesome. The door chimed just before you were able to lock it. You cursed, shoving the box in your hand on its necessary shelf. “Give me one moment!”
“Will do.” The person replies.
With a huff, you quickly get down the step stool, rushing to the front of the shop. “Hello! how can I help you?”
Fate is really funny isn’t it? You can never avoid what was meant to happen.
A blue set of eyes meet your brown ones, the bearded man quickly takes off his tan cowboy hat once he laid eyes on you. Gorgeous, gorgeous thing. John Price doesn’t know what happened to the air in his throat, “It’s you ain’t it?”
You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you ignore the temptation, glancing away and fiddling with the register. “I got no clue what yer talkin bout sir.”
John can’t help the chuckle, cheeks growing more read as he simply looks at you. He manages to take your hand that was on the counter. “It’s good to finally meet over different circumstances.” He gives your knuckles a kiss, letting his thumb rub over the spot as if to rub it in.
“I’m John Price, ‘nd I intend on makin you mine. Seriously this time.”
And fuck, maybe you were Cinderella and this man was Prince Charming.
And you were tripping and falling in love with him before you even got the chance to properly deny him.
a/n: Cowboy!Price and reader who didn’t stand a fuckin chance (aka Cinderella!reader). I’m sorry I like a headcanon and plot.
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