SEBASTIAN STAN as MIHAI GHEORGHIU
➤• FJORD (2026) DIR. CRISTIAN MUNGIU
Today's Document
AnasAbdin
Claire Keane
trying on a metaphor
Peter Solarz
hello vonnie

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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
almost home
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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izzy's playlists!

shark vs the universe
will byers stan first human second
Sweet Seals For You, Always
styofa doing anything
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@larissamoon12
SEBASTIAN STAN as MIHAI GHEORGHIU
➤• FJORD (2026) DIR. CRISTIAN MUNGIU
seb ticking his jaw core
TEARS RUN DOWN MY THIGHSSSS
Taming Bullet
Pairing:Racer!Bucky x Ex!Childhood Best Friend!Reader
Summary: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his professional racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and return to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made in his sophomore year of college, is the cause of that.
WC: 13.3k
Contains: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / smut / female reader / childhood friends to enemies to …? / ex!best friend’s brother / miscommunication / misunderstandings / reunion & revenge / street racing (I did some research, but I took some liberties for plot purposes) / bucky is clueless and down bad / illegal activities tied to street racing / not everything is as it seems / lots of back and forth between these two idiots in love / backseat car protected p in v / dream sequence that takes bucky down memory lane / fun cameos / buckys pov so the truth of it all isn't revealed until the end
a/n hi barbies! 💗 this fic is for @stantastic-association's barbie collab! thank you to our darling @miraclediviner for putting this gorgeous collab together 💗 And thank you to the prettiest barbie of them all, my bestie @thelomlbuckybarnes who listened to me yap endlessly about this fic until it was ready for everyone to read. 💞 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist
This was it.
Bucky was home.
Nostalgia should be hitting him the hardest right now. The longing pull to be back in his childhood home with his Ma's cooking, his Pa's laughter, stupid arguments he can only get into with his sister that always end with Bucky giving her the reason. Sleeping in until his body feels like waking up, getting to pick what he wants to do in the day instead of sticking to a tight schedule—being able to just exist instead of only living for the sake of his career. He should be looking forward to all of that and more right now.
And he is, to some extent.
Underneath the nostalgia, there's an persistent thrum beneath his ribcage. Poking at a part of his heart that's been deeply tucked away within him for years. It made itself known the moment he decided to take a break from racing and come home. It followed him through press conferences and meetings, to his apartment while he was packing his bags and preparing to head to the airport. The thrumming only got louder, harder to ignore, the second he landed in his home town.
And it has your name written all over it.
"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.
"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.
He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"
The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.
The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.
"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.
"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.
Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.
Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."
Well that's shocking.
"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.
"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.
"Years ago," she replies simply.
"Becca."
"What? You asked, I answered."
Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.
"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.
Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."
"What do you mean she changed?"
She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"
The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."
"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."
The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.
Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.
When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.
For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.
But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?
That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.
Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.
It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.
Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.
His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.
They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
So much for hoping to take a nap.
Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.
The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.
By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.
"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.
"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."
"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"
"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.
A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."
Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."
"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.
His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"
Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.
His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.
When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.
He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.
He keeps it in his wallet to this day.
Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?
And why does he feel like it's all his fault?
As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.
That image takes him back to where it all ended.
It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.
You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.
Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.
Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.
But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.
The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.
"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."
"Aw, aren't you sweet."
"Shut up."
Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.
Fuck, he's in love with you.
Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.
"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."
"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."
Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."
For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.
And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.
"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."
"Buck."
"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."
Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.
"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."
"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."
With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.
"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.
"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.
"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."
Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.
"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.
"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."
Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.
He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.
He was wrong.
That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.
Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.
Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.
Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.
By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?
Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.
Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]
Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.
On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.
It's you.
Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.
But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?
Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.
Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.
When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.
Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.
And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.
When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.
"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.
Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"
"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."
That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"
Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."
"Dirty work?"
Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.
"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.
The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.
In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.
He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.
He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.
Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.
He finds it impressive.
Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.
You are the one to step out of the car.
You are Blitz.
That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.
Shit.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.
Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"
Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"
"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.
"I know her."
"Who?"
"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.
"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.
"Yeah, maybe…"
"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.
Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.
Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.
The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.
He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.
When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.
"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.
You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.
He really hopes you don't.
"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.
"Like what."
"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."
"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.
"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.
"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"
You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."
"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."
You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"
"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.
He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."
"No."
Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.
"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.
The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.
"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.
"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.
"Don't want to."
"James."
You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.
"Barnes, give me my keys."
"Not until we talk."
"Are you serious?
"Deadly."
You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"
"It's a long story."
"I got time."
"Well I don't."
You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"
You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.
"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.
"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."
"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.
"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.
"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"
You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."
"He is, isn't he?"
Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.
A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."
"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.
"Nothing happened between us."
"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."
"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."
There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."
His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."
His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."
"Bucky, please stop."
He doesn't.
"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.
You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.
His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.
You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.
You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.
One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.
"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.
His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"
You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."
Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.
He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."
That's all Bucky needed to hear.
He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.
"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.
"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.
He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.
You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.
Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.
"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.
You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.
He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.
"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."
"I can go with—"
"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."
He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."
"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."
Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.
"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.
Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.
And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.
Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.
Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?
Could you forgive him?
Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.
a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist | purple divider by @/cursed-carmine ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
ohhhh my goodness, Mel. I've been salivating over this one since you shared the summary and the warnings. Childhood friends to enemies to ?? is GOATED. And we already know how I feel about Bucky being down bad, and I cannot wait to hear about these fun cameos 👀
Please find my live reactions which may include screaming + yearning + rooftop shouting about how much I love Mel's fluff writing
And it has your name written all over it.
Excellent, I'm already a problem lmao
It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.
argh the way you wrote nostalgia and being upset that you're missing things...so real.
it's just dinner after all.
Sure, just dinner. 👀
Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.
ehhhhh idk I am pretty insistent ehehe
"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."
Please this is so sad already 🥺 I've lost my fair share of friendships over the years just because we grew apart and it's always hard to remember what we used to have.
But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?
Poor baby having a midlife crisis already 😭
the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart
Ohhhh James, don't make me yearn already
"She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."
What is Winnifred Barnes doing speaking for me? 🤨
Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing.
Classic Irish goodbye, I am Bucky - Bucky is me
He keeps it in his wallet to this day.
FUCK that's so cute...
"Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…"
JAMES BUCHANAN BAQRNES 😭 such a man about this sitaution
Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.
oooffff I have too many relatives like this
And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.
WELL GOLLY? there's the angst I suppose...unless there's more? there's more isn't there?
"I get it. I was a mistake."
OH THERE WAS WAY MORE. MEL WHY MUST YOU HURT ME SO
MINI FALCON that's the cutest thing ever
But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?
Since I became a BAMF apparently
Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.
Listen...my first boyfriend's car was a Honda Civic. Those things can go. Even without mods
ahhh Bob is here too 🥹
"That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."
Pardon 😭 I'm inferring that Blitz is me and...idk how I feel about it lol
"I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone." "No."
Bruh good on him for being persistent I guess...
"Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth. "Don't want to." "James."
PLEASE the sass from this man
"I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year.
sorry I know I'm being dramatic lmfao
"I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon."
this fuckin' guy (I say with the most Italian accent you can imagine me with)
"Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me."
My heart hurtsssss 😭
"Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."
I need to know why 😭
"I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?"
He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.
OHMYGOD???
"Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much."
I - oh...okay. Don't mind me, just a puddle over here.
He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it. His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?" You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."
WE'RE SO SASSY I LOVE READER.
"You're leaving already?"
mmm. suspicious.
Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that
GAHDAMN 😭😭😭😭
He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things.
poor Bucky baby 😭😭
Could you forgive him?
Mel. Melanie. Melissa. Melithy. (I don't know your full name, pls). I cannot wait to see what this second chance looks like because these two racers need to talk it out 😭😭
I loved this so much, just as I knew I would 🙂↕️ I'm over the moon to hear that a part two is already in the works, because (as we all know) I don't think I could ever not forgive James 'Bucky' Barnes.
absolutely obsessed with this!! Loved the story ❤️ 👏
Don’t Wait For The Sky To Clear
Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!reader
Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?
Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer
Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol
Word Count: 17k
Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵
I’ll leave my window open ‘Cause I’m too tired tonight to call your name Just know I’m right here hoping That you’ll come in with the rain …
Event Masterlist | AO3
His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.
He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.
He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.
And he did it all alone.
When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.
Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.
What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.
A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.
Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive.
His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.
He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.
He walked back into the house.
You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.
With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.
Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.
Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.
And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.
You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.
Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.
The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.
At least now you were sure there was life out here.
You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.
A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…
J. B. BARNES
The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors.
Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.
You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.
Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.
You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.
Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.
The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.
In that moment you didn’t care.
He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.
Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.
But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.
“You lost.”
You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“
“Wasn’t a question.”
Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.
Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—
“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”
And he walked back in without another word.
You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.
The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.
Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you
“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”
His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.
Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.
You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.
He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.
A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.
“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”
You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”
He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.
“What’s yer name?”
You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.
No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.
So you asked, “What’s yours?”
“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”
He cleared his throat.
“Want a beer?”
You nod.
“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.
But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.
Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.
A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.
When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.
Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.
All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.
Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.
The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.
His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.
He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue.
And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.
Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.
Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.
But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.
Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.
So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.
Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.
“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”
Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?
“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”
You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.
Poor city girl.
“Where you headed?”
Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.
He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”
Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.
“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”
“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”
He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.
Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.
Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”
With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.
Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.
If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.
You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”
He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.
Much like its wearer.
“So, what do you do, city girl?”
You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”
His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”
“What do you listen to?”
You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”
“Then probably not.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”
You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.
“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”
He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.
In your mind, it hissed on contact.
“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”
You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
You took a swig of beer anyway.
He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.
“You live alone out here?”
He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.
Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.
“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”
You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.
He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.
“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”
The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.
Then his mouth was on yours.
You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.
You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.
And it was good.
You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”
His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.
You forgot why you stopped kissing him.
“Wanna know me?”
With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.
He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.
And that was just his kiss.
So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.
“Trust me.”
You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”
But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”
His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.
“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”
His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.
Your panties quickly followed.
You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.
His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.
Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.
“C’mere.”
He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“You said yer a singer?”
You could do nothing else but nod frantically.
“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”
You held your breath.
With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.
No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.
You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.
His groan matched yours.
“Taste like sugar.”
Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.
There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.
His fingers crooked and you shattered.
Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.
Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.
He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.
“Hold on.”
Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.
He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.
Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.
He was still fully clothed.
Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.
Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”
Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.
“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.
“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.
But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”
A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.
“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”
And you’d thought him the murderer.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.
The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.
A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.
Bucky swore when he caught your stare.
“C’mere.”
A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—
Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.
With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.
You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.
The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.
Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.
Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.
His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.
Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.
With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring.
His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.
He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.
Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.
You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.
It’s quiet.
The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.
Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.
There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.
He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing.
Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.
Quiet descends again.
“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.
Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.
“Girl came in with the rain …”
But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.
And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.
The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.
They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.
You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.
Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.
A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.
Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.
Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.
His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.
A dream indeed.
With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.
And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.
The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.
“You lost?”
“Nope. Maps go both ways.”
There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.
A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.
He left the flyscreen wide open for you.
Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.
“Hmm still taste like rain.”
Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.
And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.
You were happy.
“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”
You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.
There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”
You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.
“I’m sorry for barging in—“
“I let you.”
“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“
“Can you accost me a few more times?”
“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“
He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.
“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”
He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.
Were you always this scared?
You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.
Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.
Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.
“Here.”
With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.
There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.
“Hungry?”
Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.
“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.
“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”
“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.
“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”
You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”
You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.
Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.
You knew that tune.
It was yours.
“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”
“I didn’t.”
“And now?”
He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”
“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.
You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.
“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”
Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”
Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.
“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”
He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.
“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”
Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.
“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“
“Pop.”
“That.”
You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”
He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him.
Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.
“Egg bread.”
“This is French toast.”
Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”
“Still French toast.”
“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”
“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”
“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.
So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.
It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.
“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.
“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”
“Can I help?”
“Doubt it.”
No malice, just honesty.
“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”
He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.
He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”
And with one last kiss he was gone.
You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.
You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.
Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.
A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.
Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.
And his phone number.
All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.
And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.
Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.
You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.
With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.
It was good to be home.
But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.
A reply came almost instantly.
‘When can you get lost again?’
Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.
You were exhausted.
“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”
Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.
He decides he can.
Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.
You pressed closer to breathe in more.
He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.
When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.
Later.
First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.
You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.
But you couldn’t hate this.
Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away.
There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.
And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.
But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.
So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.
It was nice.
Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.
You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.
Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.
A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.
Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.
Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.
Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.
When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.
He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.
A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.
He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.
“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”
Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”
His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”
“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.
“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”
“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”
Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”
The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”
It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.
“You want me to drive your truck?”
“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”
“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler.
He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.
The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.
No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know.
Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.
The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.
But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.
It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.
Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.
The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.
You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—
“Ready to go?”
With a gulp you nod and climb in.
Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.
You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.
Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.
“What happened to the wagon?”
“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”
Wait a minute.
You knew that voice.
A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.
“Steve?”
He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—
“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”
“Peggy!”
In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.
She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her.
“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”
You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.
“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”
“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”
She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.
Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”
“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.
Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.
“I’m sure he took great care of you.”
“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?”
When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.
“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”
You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.
“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”
“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”
He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.
And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.
A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.
There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.
“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.
“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.
Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.
He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.
Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.
“You got something to say, Rogers?”
“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”
Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”
“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”
Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”
“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”
Bucky shrugged a non-answer.
“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.
He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.
His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”
“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”
It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.
You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.
The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.
“So.”
Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.
“When do I get to return the favour?”
Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“
His bark of laughter surprised you.
“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”
He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“When can I come to New York?”
Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.
“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”
You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.
“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”
You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.
But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.
And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.
“What about the farm?”
“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”
The first visit was a blur of motion.
The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.
When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.
Turns out this was not like those times.
There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.
‘Be there in a song.’
When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.
And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.
“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.
“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.
It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.
“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.
“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.
“Right. Of course.”
“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”
He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.
Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.
You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.
Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.
“So, that’s everything!”
Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.
“Ready for lunch?”
The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.
“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”
He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.
“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.
“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”
His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”
“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.
But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.
As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.
You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.
You should’ve warned him.
Too late now.
The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.
“Who’s your visitor?”
“Seeing someone new?”
“Sir, look this way!”
Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.
“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.
You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”
“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”
“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”
Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.
Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.
“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”
He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”
Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”
You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.
And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.
This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.
It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.
Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.
Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.
Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Yes. You get used to it.”
Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.
Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.
“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.
A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”
And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.
He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like.
He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.
Plus these burgers were darn tasty.
He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.
“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.
His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.
He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way.
“Burger was good?”
He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”
He looked between both your now-empty plates.
“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”
“Sure you do, cowboy.”
A slice was placed down on the table.
As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.
“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.
“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”
Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.
It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.
“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”
Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.
“‘S real good.”
You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.
You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.
“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”
Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.
The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business.
You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.
There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.
Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.
“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”
You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.
This would be a treat.
But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.
No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?
You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.
His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”
His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.
“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”
His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly.
You’d pay for that comment later.
And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”
He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”
You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.
“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”
He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.
Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.
You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.
You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.
Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.
But he didn’t see you coming.
Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.
“Christ, darlin’, what—“
Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”
His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.
Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.
Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.
“Bye, Happy.”
You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.
Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.
“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.
The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.
“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.
You pulled away with an audible pop.
“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”
His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.
“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.
When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.
And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.
He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.
Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.
Gossip.
He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.
Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.
Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.
Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.
He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.
He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.
“Good morning.”
And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.
“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”
You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”
“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”
You thump him lightly with your fist.
Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.
“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”
“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”
“That’s not quite what they say here.”
Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.
He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”
He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.
A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.
The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.
“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.
You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”
“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”
His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.
With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.
The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.
He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.
He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.
He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing.
Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.
“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”
But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.
The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.
He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.
But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?
He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.
What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.
And for you he would.
There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.
But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.
“Yer guarded out here.”
His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.
You hummed. “I’m on display here.”
“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.
Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”
“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”
You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.
“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”
“Where’s that?”
Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”
“Hmm.”
He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.
“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”
Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”
“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”
You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.
He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.
You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.
What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.
Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.
And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.
The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.
The growing distance between him and you.
He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.
He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.
Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.
When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.
He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.
He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.
Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.
He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.
Another month, another country drive.
Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.
His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.
Looks like you had a wait on your hands.
You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.
You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.
Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.
You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.
And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.
You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.
He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.
“Hey there, honey.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.
“Turn around.”
A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.
You turned in his grasp.
“Hands on the fence.”
You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.
He made a tsk sound and you trembled.
“Bottom one.”
Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.
“Good girl.”
He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.
His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.
“You need somethin’, honey?”
You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.
“Use your words.”
It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.
Turned even dumber by this.
When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“
“Please, what?”
You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.
“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”
“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”
A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.
But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.
A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.
He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.
“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”
He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.
And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.
Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.
“Got you.”
But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.
“Bucky, wha—“
When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.
The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.
Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.
He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.
His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.
Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.
“Welcome back, honey.”
In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.
Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.
“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”
His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.
“Got another f’me?”
Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.
He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.
You came with a strangled cry.
Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.
The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths.
Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.
In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.
“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.
Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.
“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”
Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”
You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.
“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”
“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.
“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”
“Bucky.”
You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.
“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”
That’s when you pulled back to look at him.
He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.
You didn’t say it then.
He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.
But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.
“Yeah. I am.”
There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.
So he texted you for another trip.
You called back that night, uncertain.
“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.
He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.
But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.
“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“
“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”
He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.
Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”
“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.
“Can I buy you a suit?”
“I got a suit.”
“Bucky.”
Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”
“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“
You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.
“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.
His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”
He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.
Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.
But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt a little like entering heavens gates.
‘Cause they brought him to you.
And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.
There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.
It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.
“What do you think?”
The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.
If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.
“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”
You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.
“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”
When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”
You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.
“Why do you think I picked this colour?”
You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.
Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.
You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.
They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.
“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”
One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”
She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.
“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.
He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.
“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”
“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.
“Yeah?”
“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”
“You like me dirty.”
There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.
The robe with nothing beneath it.
“I have to dress,” you said quietly.
“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.
Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.
“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”
He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”
Because he hadn’t seen the dress before, having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.
Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.
He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”
This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.
But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.
They turned you into a goddess.
“Do you like it?”
He laughed because how could you not know?
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“
But then he looked.
Really looked.
And his mouth fell open.
The colour. The colour stopped his heart.
Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body
Your dress matched his prosthetic.
For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again.
“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly.
He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.
“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”
He met your gaze then.
He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.
He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.
He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.
“Are you ready?”
They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.
He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.
“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”
Like he could drag his eyes away.
Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.
He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.
And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.
He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.
Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.
When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.
Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.
He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.
“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“
Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.
“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.
He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.
a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like
MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE
haii i was wondering if you could do something involving lawyer!bucky 🥺🫶🏻
apologies, this is the only thing that came to me🫣
---------
Bucky Barnes takes being a lawyer very seriously.
Which is why, when you come home from a late afternoon meeting and find the living room suspiciously quiet, your lawyer husband and your five-year-old daughter are already sitting at the dining table like they’re awaiting trial.
Bucky is in a button-down and slacks, tie loosened from the workday but still on. He has a yellow legal pad in front of him. Your daughter has a juice box and an expression of grave injustice.
You narrow your eyes immediately.
“What did you two do?”
Your daughter gasps like you’ve accused her of treason. “We didn’t do anything!”
Bucky clears his throat, all Brooklyn baritone and courtroom gravitas. “My client pleads the Fifth.”
You blink.
“Your client—”
He gestures solemnly to the tiny person beside him. “Miss Barnes has retained me as her legal representation.”
You look at your daughter. “With what money?”
“She paid me in fruit snacks,” Bucky says gravely. “Very competitive rate.”
You cross your arms. “James.”
He straightens slightly at the full name but doesn’t break character. “Counsel for the defense requests clarification on the alleged wrongdoing before answering any further questions.”
You look between them. Your daughter refuses eye contact. Bucky looks like he’s about to present closing arguments before the Supreme Court.
Suspicion sharpens.
“You went to the ice cream place.”
Your daughter gasps again. Bucky leans forward protectively. “Objection. Speculation.”
“There’s chocolate on her cheek.”
He quickly swipes at it with his thumb.
Too late.
Your daughter caves first. “It was Daddy’s idea!”
Bucky’s eyes widen. “Counsel would like to remind the court that witness testimony from minors can be unreliable—”
“You promised we wouldn’t tell Mommy!” she blurts.
You gasp, offended. “You promised to lie to me?”
Bucky winces. “In my defense—”
“Oh, this should be good.”
He sighs, finally breaking the courtroom cadence just a little. “It was just one scoop. She finished her veggies. I made an executive parenting decision.”
Your daughter nods furiously. “Executive!”
You try very hard not to smile. “The executive decision specifically against the rule that no sweets before dinner?”
Bucky straightens again. “My client had mitigating circumstances.”
“What mitigating circumstances?”
“She looked at me,” he says helplessly. “Like this.”
Your daughter immediately produces the biggest, wettest, lower-lip-poking-out pout you’ve ever seen.
You point accusingly. “Weaponized cuteness.”
Bucky presses his hand to his chest. “Your Honor, the defense maintains that said cuteness constitutes emotional duress.”
You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “So you’re representing her.”
“Absolutely.”
“And what about your own guilt in this conspiracy?”
He sits back, folding his arms with dramatic dignity. “I also require representation.”
Your daughter gasps. “You can’t represent yourself! That’s a conflict of interest!”
Bucky beams at her like she just passed the bar exam.
“That’s my girl.”
You drag a chair out and sit opposite them. “Fine. Court is in session.”
Your daughter squeals in delight. Bucky nods seriously.
You tap the table. “The prosecution would like to submit Exhibit A.” You hold up the empty ice cream cup you found in the trash. “Rocky Road. Double scoop.”
Your daughter covers her mouth.
Bucky leans in to inspect it like it’s forensic evidence. “The defense argues that Exhibit A lacks definitive proof linking it to my client.”
“There’s a pink plastic spoon in the sink.”
He pauses.
“…Circumstantial.”
You lean forward. “And what about the receipt in your pocket?”
Bucky freezes.
Your daughter whispers loudly, “Uh-oh.”
He clears his throat. “The defense requests a sidebar.”
You raise a brow. “Denied.”
He sighs, then softens, the edge of performance melting just enough. “Okay. We went to get ice cream.”
“And?”
“And we stopped at the pet store.”
You blink. “The pet store?”
Your daughter’s eyes shine.
“No,” you breathe slowly. “You did not.”
Bucky immediately lifts both hands. “Before the prosecution escalates—there was no purchase.”
Your gaze narrows.
Your daughter wiggles in her chair.
“…There was no purchase of anything with fur,” Bucky amends carefully.
You stare.
“James Buchanan Barnes.”
He swallows.
Your daughter beams. “We got a fish!”
You stand abruptly. “You what?”
Bucky stands too, instinctively stepping slightly in front of your daughter like he’s shielding her from cross-examination.
“It was educational,” he insists quickly. “She’s been asking about responsibility. We discussed long-term commitment, feeding schedules, tank maintenance—”
“You bought a living creature without telling me.”
“It’s a beta fish.”
“A betta,” your daughter corrects confidently.
Bucky nods proudly. “She did the research.”
You stare at them both, incredulous. “Where is it?”
Your daughter points dramatically toward the hallway.
You march down there, Bucky and your tiny co-conspirator trailing behind.
In your daughter’s room, on her dresser, sits a small tank with a bright blue fish swimming lazily inside.
You blink.
It’s… cute.
There’s a tiny castle. Pebbles. A little plant. It looks… thoughtfully arranged.
Your daughter grabs your hand. “His name is Justice.”
You freeze.
“Justice,” you repeat flatly.
Bucky clears his throat behind you. “We voted.”
You look at him.
“We had a democratic process.”
Your daughter beams up at you. “Daddy said Justice always wins.”
You press your lips together, desperately trying not to smile.
“This,” you say slowly, “is not how family decisions are made.”
Bucky nods solemnly. “You’re right.”
You blink.
He steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist gently. “I should’ve talked to you first.”
Your daughter’s little shoulders slump. “Are we in big trouble?”
You look at her. At her hopeful, worried little face. At the fish. At your husband who clearly already adores this thing because your daughter does.
You sigh.
“The court finds the defendants guilty.”
Both of them gasp.
“However,” you continue, holding up a finger, “the sentence will be light.”
They both lean in.
“Daddy,” you say pointedly, “is fully responsible for tank cleaning and fish maintenance.”
Your daughter cheers. Bucky blinks.
“I am?”
“Yes. You brought him home.”
He nods slowly, accepting his fate. “Understood.”
“And,” you add, “no more secret ice cream.”
Your daughter looks up at Bucky.
He hesitates.
You narrow your eyes.
“Agreed,” he says quickly.
You crouch down and kiss your daughter’s forehead. “Next time, we decide together.”
She throws her arms around you. “We can get Justice a friend one day!”
Bucky chokes. “Let’s not push our luck.”
You stand and look at your husband.
He gives you that sheepish, soft smile that still makes your stomach flip after all these years.
“I really did mean to tell you,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “For the record, Counselor Barnes would argue that this household thrives on a little chaos.”
You roll your eyes fondly. “Counselor Barnes is on fish-duty probation.”
He grins. “Worth it.”
Justice swims lazily in his tank as your daughter launches into an explanation about feeding schedules, Bucky listening like it’s a deposition he intends to win.
And you watch them—your stubborn, dramatic lawyer husband and the tiny client he’ll defend to the ends of the earth—and decide that maybe a little behind-your-back conspiracy isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Especially when the legal representation looks at you like you’re still the judge of his entire universe.
cutest thing written ever 😍 💗
i put a spell on you.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader, salem witch au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, contains smut, angsty, hurt no comfort (men aint shit), pregnancy, graphic descriptions of being burned, witchcraft and religious themes, blasphemy, yearning, touch starved bucky, jealous bucky, semi-unrequited, masturbation, oral (m receiving), breeding kink, size kink, mating press mentioned :tongue:, pet names: "little dove" "little angel"
word count: 14.2k masterlist
a/n: bucky is... lowkey a freak and can't handle feelings. their speech may be inaccurate for the time period (especially during the smut scenes) but i tried my best. please excuse me for errors. dividers
synopsis: Bucky couldn’t understand it. How could a man like him, one who never believed in love, find himself undone by you? He’d scarcely spoken to you, barely exchanged more than a few passing words, yet his heart beat only for your name. He told himself it had to be witchcraft. What else could make a man lose sleep, lose reason, lose himself entirely to the thought of a woman he could never have? And if you truly were a witch, if this torment was your doing… then there was only one way to end it... and that's with fire.
Bucky knew not what had come over him. His heart, once so steady and so sure, was no shaken up like a trembling leaf astray in the wind. Each morning, he prayed for clarity. Each night, he begged for deliverance. Yet still, his thoughts returned to you.
He saw you everywhere. In the market. At the well.
Even when you were gone, he could not escape you. A glimpse of another woman’s hair that slightly reassembled yours made his breath catch in his throat—only for them to turn and his heart falls hollow when he realizes it was not you.
When you were near, it’s like the world around him fell quiet. His eyes would follow your hands, the way your smile softened and the wrinkles around your eyes curled up happily. He would listen, just to hear your voice, even if you spoke only a few plain words, “thank you,” or “good day.”
It was enough to completely undo him.
You didn’t speak to him often. Bucky was just another man in the town of Salem. He was quiet, hard working, and unremarkable.
You, on the other hand, seemed to belong just about everywhere. People smiled when you passed. You had plenty of friends who adored you. Just one little laugh of yours was enough to draw other people in.
Even his friend Steve had once mentioned how pleasant you were.
He tried not to think of you, but it was useless. You were in his head from the moment he woke to the moment he laid down at night. It made no sense. You both had hardly spoke, your paths rarely crossed, and yet you had a hold on him stronger than any prayer could possibly break.
So, how is that you—someone he barely knew—managed to capture his cold and concrete hard with such fragile and gentle hands?
It wasn’t natural. It just simply couldn’t be.
And that thought alone lingered in his chest like a damn sin.
Perhaps, you had bewitched him.
The thought was foolish, he knew. Just the ramblings of a man too long starved of warmth, mistaking kindness for spellwork. But still, with talk of necromancy spreading through Salem, was it so wrong for his suspicions to linger?
He sat alone that afternoon, on a bench near the meeting house. Reading, or trying to read, the worn pages of his Bible. The autumn wind nudged the corners of the paper gently, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through town and to his nostrils.
It should’ve been a peaceful afternoon. It would’ve been, had it not been for the sound of your footsteps approaching.
Don’t look.
Don’t even breathe her way.
He felt your presence before you even spoke. The smoke and pine that had once filled his senses were now replaced by you. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the book, knuckles going white as his heart started to beat faster.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted, voice soft as ever.
Don’t look. Don’t look up.
Bucky gave you a small nod, his eyes fixed on the page he hadn’t read a single word of. “Miss,” he muttered, hoping the clipped tone would send you on your way.
But you didn’t leave.
“May I have a seat?” you asked suddenly, your voice polite.
He finally looked up, and it ruined him. The sunlight caught your hair just so, shining like a halo, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. This must be another one of your hidden spells—if you truly were a witch, that is.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into some sense.
“If you wish,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He moved a little, not enough to be inviting, but enough to give you space.
It was as though every hint he tried to subtly give, every small attempt to keep you away, you ignored. Or worse, you had seen straight through him. It was as if you had slipped inside his mind for the truth—that he wanted you close.
You read his thoughts. Surely, you did.
And what kind of power could do that, if not witchcraft?
You folded your hands neatly in your lap, glancing towards the path. “It’s a fine day,” you brought up. “The chill hasn’t set in yet.”
He grunted. “Aye.”
You smiled faintly, unbothered by his shortness. “You always sit here, don’t you? Reading the same…” you glanced down at the Bible in his hands, “…book over and over again.”
Bucky forced his gaze to stay on the page. “There’s comfort in familiar things,” he muttered so low, as if he was speaking to himself.
“… and yet, you never seem comforted.”
As though pulled by some unseen force, his head lifted. Your eyes caught his briefly, and it took everything in him to not falter under your gaze. It felt as though you could see straight through him. His heart pounded so loud in his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach for you. He hated the weakness of it. He hated the vulnerability that came with simply looking at you.
“I’m fine as I am.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look it.”
He tightened his grip on the Bible, forcing himself to look away, as painful as it was. “You ought not concern yourself with me, miss.”
“I wasn’t concerned,” you said lightly, your voice warm. “Only curious.”
That nearly made him laugh, a bitter and choked sound that didn’t escape his chest. Curious—that was the word for it, wasn’t it? He had been curious once too, until that curiosity grew into something far worse. Until it grew into a fever that burned him from the inside out. A sickness that looked too much like desire—like obsession.
“Your friend is Mr. Rogers, isn’t he?” you asked suddenly, soft and curious.
Bucky froze. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, though the words had long since lost their shape and meaning. The sound of Steve’s name rolling from your lips was like a sharp knife twisting deep in his chest.
He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Aye. Steve Rogers.”
You smiled, the corners of your mouth softening. It made him sick.
“He’s kind. Always polite.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s that.”
“He helped me with some firewood last week,” you continued, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to see—the way his knuckles whitened around the book. “He’s a good man.”
He let out a deep breath. “Aye, he is.”
You glanced at him then, eyes curious. “You don’t like to hear me speak of him?”
So, now you noticed his hints. It almost felt like you were taunting him.
“You speak freely of any man you wish,” he said, though his voice was rough and dark.
He told himself it was nothing—just his foolish imagination again. And yet, the thoughts took hold, crawling through his mind like poison ivy. What if you tried your spell on his dearest friend too?
Would Steve start to see you the way he did? Would his friend’s steady, good heart falter at your smile, the same way his own did? But then again—what if it wasn’t a spell at all? You had spoken to Steve more than you had ever spoken to him. Perhaps Steve was already fond of you, no magic involved.
Bucky didn’t know which thought tormented him more—that you bewitched his friend…
…or that you didn’t need to.
“Best mind yourself around Steve,” Bucky said at last. “Women seem to take kindly to him.”
You paused and blinked at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Are you warning me, Mr. Barnes?”
He didn’t look at you, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “Just stating the truth.”
You tilted your head, and another soft laugh escaped your lips. His stomach churned. “You make it sound as though you speak from experience.”
“Steve’s been charming folks since we were boys,” he muttered, turning a page he didn’t even read. “It’s in his nature.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “And what about you, then?”
That caught him off guard. He looked up to meet your face. “Me?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Surely you’ve someone who’s caught your fancy? A sweetheart waiting for you after prayer?”
There was certainty in your voice, but Bucky was convinced you were toying with him — wickedly so.
“No,” he said, voice tight as he looked down again, pretending to focus on the words before him. “No one waits for me.”
“None at all?” you seemed amused. “A man like you?”
“A man like me doesn’t keep company easily.”
You laughed again. “I find that hard to believe.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. The only reason he had no sweetheart was because you forced your way in and had taken the place of one in his heart. That every woman he met felt like a poor imitation of you.
“I didn’t mean to offense,” you said after a moment, voice going gentle. “I only meant… well, you seem a decent man, Mr. Barnes. Surely someone must’ve noticed.”
“You speak as though you know me,” he said, his voice rough and harsher than he intended.
Your face shifted slightly. At first, a flicker of surprise, then hurt. You blinked, your mouth parting slightly, yet no words came out. The sight of you like this twisted something unpleasant in his chest.
“I… I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Bucky’s heart clenched. He should’ve felt relief, should’ve been glad to see you retreat. Maybe then you’ll get up and leave him alone. But instead, he found himself staring at you, taking in the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in shame.
There was something terrible in it—how part of him liked seeing you this way. Witches weren’t supposed to have hearts, so he took this as a sign of you being human.
“I spoke unkindly,” he said. “Forgive me.”
You looked at him then, your expression softening. A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and forgiving.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Barnes,” you reassured softly. “We all speak in haste sometimes.”
Your voice was so warm and inviting, it struck him straight through the chest. You shouldn’t have sounded so kind, not after the way he had spoken to you. Not after the spiteful thoughts he harbored.
He wanted to look away, but he simply couldn’t. The sunlight caught in your eyes and your smile was breathtaking. He almost believed you truly were what everyone claimed—something otherworldly. Too bright and too good.
He swallowed hard, shutting the Bible in his lap. “I should be getting on,” he announced.
You nodded, rising from the bench, your skirt brushing lightly against his boot. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Barnes.”
When you disappeared around the corner, he let out a low exhale and ran a hand over his face. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts a tangled mess. To you, that conversation might’ve been unimportant—just a passing exchange on a quiet afternoon.
But to him, it was everything.
If you were a witch, you’d done your work well.
And if you weren’t… God help him.
That night, Bucky knelt beside his bed, the single candle burning low. The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.
“Lord,” he murmured, voice raspy, “forgive me my thoughts. Forgive me for the weakness in my heart.”
He paused, swallowing hard. He could still hear your voice in his mind, the soft way you spoke his name.
“I know not what manner of spell she’s cast,” he continued under his breath, “but I ask You, break it. Deliver me from it.”
But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t deliverance that came. It was you.
He saw you as you’d looked on the bench, sunlight in your hair, the soft smile tugging at your plump lips. He remembered how your eyes, how they lit up when you spoke to him, and he couldn’t help but picture how’d they look if they were to roll back in pure, unadulterated bliss.
He lay down at last, turning onto his side, the sheets rough against his skin. Sleep should have come easily, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw you again.
Your laughter. Your voice. It was all like a haunting song, sweet and merciless.
He turned over again, exhaling through his nose as frustration began to boil. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. It was useless. The harder he tried not to think of you, the clearer your face became.
“Stop,” he whispered to the empty and dark room. “Enough.”
But his thoughts didn’t listen, and his body didn’t either.
Bucky palmed himself through the blanket, grasping himself through thin fabric. His dick was already hard and full—he tried to convince himself it was due to the coolness of the autumn breeze that whispered through the cracks of his home, but even he knew better.
He shuddered as he felt his hard length throb against his palm. He was already leaking, staining his blanket with sin.
“Please… forgive me,” he muttered quietly as he started to stroke himself slowly.
His mind couldn’t help but conjure up a picture of you, your hands—soft and warm despite him never holding them—wrapped around him. He imagined your delicate fingers exploring his length with curiosity. He pictured you biting your lip once you discovered how big he was, how hard.
As he lost himself in the fantasy, his strokes became faster, more urgent. He squeezed himself through the blanket harder until he had enough. He needed to touch himself bare. His hand crept underneath the blanket and he allowed his thumb to swirl around the leaking tip.
He was so lost in the image that he hadn’t realized he started to mutter your name under his breath, a litany of desperate pleas and fervent prayers.
“This is a sin,” he rasped as his hips started to thrust up into his own hand as he chased for release. “This is… is so vulgar…”
Even as his conscience screamed that this was utterly wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His hands kept moving, stroking, squeezing as if possessed by a will of its own—as if he was cursed under a spell.
Each thrust of his hips, each clench of his fist around his sensitive flesh, was accompanied by a surge of self-loathing.
“I’m disgusting, touching myself like this…” his breathing grew ragged as his hand turned into a blur of motion. “It’s not enough—it’s never enough, is it? I can’t… can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her…” each word was a confession, a condemnation, a desperate cry that tore straight from his throat.
His whole body tensed, his muscles tightening as his cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand. He was so close. It was wrong, so wrong, but God—he needed it. He needed to cum. He needed to paint himself in the warm slick of his own release, and he needed to do it to the thought of you.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and despite his words, his body was not remorseful in the slightest. “I’m so sorry, Lord. But I can’t… I need…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as he finally, blessedly, found his release.
He dipped his head back against the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he let out a choked cry in pleasure. He felt the hot, sticky proof of his sin coating his fingers. With a shaky breath, he looked down—coming face to face with the mess he’d made. He watched the way his seed had splattered across his abdomen, and he felt a wave of shame wash over him.
But even as he recoiled from the physical evidence of his weakness, his mind was already drifting back to you.
Bucky’s hand—still painted with his own release—drifted up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the musky scent of his own cum. It was wrong. God help him, it was so wrong. And yet, that wrongness only seemed to pull him deeper. He wanted to believe it was your presence that haunted him. He imagined marking himself with your scent, to imagine that it was your essence he carried on his skin, in his hair, in his lungs.
He laid back, the candle burned to nothing as the room swallowed in shadow. His heartbeat finally slowed, but the ache inside him did not.
The guilt sat heavy in his chest. He had sinned, that much he knew. It was all your fault.
And yet, he wanted to see you again.
The next morning came gray and slow. Bucky rose before the sun had fully climbed, though he had hardly slept.
He went about his morning ritual—washing his face with cold water, buttoning his shirt, muttering a quiet prayer that slowly started to lose its meaning. When he stepped outside, the world seemed painfully bright. The market was already stirring—townsfolk trading bread, firewood, and gossip.
Then, his eyes landed on you.
You stood by the well, the morning light touching your hair, the same beautiful smile gracing your lips. But you weren’t alone.
Steve was beside you—his oldest friend, his steadfast companion since boyhood—and he was laughing at something you had just said.
Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.
Steve’s hand brushed lightly against your arm as he passed you a small basket, and though it was an innocent gesture, Bucky’s stomach churned all the same.
He tore his gaze away and forced his boots to move. He wove through the market, pretending to study the stalls, the apples piled in a wooden crate, the neat stacks of folded linen. He nodded to a few familiar faces, though their words slipped past him.
His body was moving, but his mind refused to stay still.
Every few breaths, his eyes wandered back to where you stood beside Steve. Yesterday afternoon, he believed that the conversation you had with him was special—but as he stood there, watching how you two spoke so easily, he felt like he was crumbling.
He tried to focus on anything else. The smell of bread, the chatter of merchants, the scraping sounds of wagon wheels on dirt. But no matter how hard he tried, there you were—like a flame drawing him near even as he knew it would burn him.
And Steve…
Good, honest Steve.
Was it just him, or had his friend looked at anyone else that way? That boyish smile, the tilt of his head when you spoke. It was as if something unseen had already taken hold of him.
Bucky’s throat went dry as the thought came to him.
Had you cast your spell on him, too?
It made sense. Of course it did. Witches didn’t strike just once—they tempted, they lured, they spread their evil wickedness like smoke. He had been foolish to think himself the only victim.
He gripped the edge of the stall so tightly that the wood creaked beneath his hand. The merchant gave him a weary glance, but Bucky didn’t see it. All he could see was Steve leaning closer to you. All he could hear was your laughter, soft and bright like a bell.
She’s ensnared him, just as she’s ensnared me.
His feet began to move before he could stop himself. It wasn’t reason that guided him. One step, then another until he approached the both of you, his pulse thundering in his ears.
You turned your head, noticing him first.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted brightly, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that should’ve warmed him, but only made the blood in his veins run hotter.
He stopped before you, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Miss.”
Then, he turned to Steve. “Rogers. A word?”
Steve raised a brow, caught off guard by the tone. “Now?”
Bucky only gave him a short and stiff nod. “Now.”
You looked between them, your face confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”
Bucky’s jaw worked as if he might answer, but he didn’t trust his tongue. He only briefly glanced your way before turning on his heel.
Steve hesitated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised to you softly before following Bucky towards the edge of the square.
Bucky didn’t speak until they were out of your hearing range. They stood behind the meeting house where the noise of the market lowered to a hum. Steve barely had time to catch his breath before Bucky turned on him.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Steve frowned. “I—what?”
“You’ve not been feeling strange, have you? Lightheaded? Restless?” Bucky’s question came out fast. “You’ve been sleeping well? Eating proper?”
Steve blinked, a bewildered smile forming at his lips. “Buck, what are you on about?”
Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just answer me.”
“I’m fine,” Steve said slowly, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Bucky’s eyes darted back towards the square, towards you where you stood by the apples—God forbid you curse them too—then back to Steve.
“You’ve been spending time with her,” he said quietly. “You ought to be careful.”
Steve’s confusion only deepened. “Careful?” he huffed a soft laugh. “Buck, she’s hardly dangerous. She was only telling me about the sermon this Sunday—”
"And you believe that?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed a little as he leaned closer. “What’s gotten into you?”
Bucky didn’t answer. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms. How could he tell Steve the truth? That he thought you were the cause of every restless night, every unholy thought that had taken its root in his mind and body.
“Just… watch yourself, Steve” he said at last.
Steve let out a sigh, resting a heavy palm on his shoulder. “You’re worrying over nothing,” he said gently. “You should get some rest.”
The sun had long begun its descent.
Bucky walked along the worn dirt path that curved through the field, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as the chill dusk brushed against his skin. He told himself the walk was for peace—a way to clear his mind and the ache from his chest. But no length of solitude could quiet the thoughts that plagued him.
They all came back to you.
How could you do this? A spell cast in secret—on him, on Steve, perhaps the whole town if no one was careful. Because the alternative, that it was simply his own heart betraying him, was too unbearable to name.
He walked for a while longer. And there you were.
You stood by the wooden fence that lined the greenery, a basket in your arms, gathering the last of the wildflowers that grew by the path. Alone, your shawl drawn close against the air.
He could turn back now, vanish before you noticed. But something stronger pulled him forward.
“Miss,” he greeted roughly.
You turned at the sound, surprise shifting into a soft smile. “Mr. Barnes,” you greeted with a gentle tone. “You walk often this time of evening?”
He nodded. “Clears the mind.” But his mind was not clear at all.
You tilted your head slightly, that curious look in your eyes. “And has it worked?”
He hesitated, then let out a dry breath. “Not yet.”
You brought a hand to your mouth and laughed quietly, the same way you had with Steve. The sound was small, but bright against the gathering dark.
Bucky looked away, jaw clenching. “You ought not to be out here alone,” he murmured. “The woods grow dark quick. folk talk of strange things, these nights.”
Your smile wavered, and although he wasn’t looking anymore, you still stared at his face. “Do you believe in such talk?”
“I believe something’s amiss. Something that makes good men lose their senses.”
“Good men…” your eyes softened, one hand rising to your chin in thought. “Such as you and Mr. Rogers?”
He inhaled slowly through his nose, not trusting his tongue. “I think…” he started quietly. “I think I must be going.”
You took a step closer before he could turn away. “Wait,” you protested softly. “Please. I’d like to talk.”
He should have walked off. He should’ve muttered a polite farewell and gone home to pray for forgiveness. But something in your tone, the way you pleaded for him, it hollowed out all his resolve.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.
“You shouldn’t walk alone in this hour,” he pointed out gruffly. “I suppose I’ll see you home.”
You smiled then, gentle and genuine. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”
He gave you a small nod, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s no trouble,” though his voice betrayed him—it was all the trouble.
You both began walking. The path stretched before you, narrow and worn from passing feet. The lantern light from nearby homes flickered dimly through the trees. Every few steps, your shoulder brushed against his arm, and each time it happened, his breath caught like he had been struck.
You were the first one to break the silence.
“You don’t seem the sort to keep to yourself, Mr. Barnes,” you started. “And yet I see you often alone.”
He gave a faint and humorless smile. “Perhaps I’m the sort that’s easier to keep away from than toward.”
You glanced at him, a slight pout on your lips. “I don’t find that to be true.”
He huffed out a quiet and dry chuckle. “Then you’d be the only one.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you say with a soft chuckle.
Bucky looked at you, his eyes watching your shawl slip just slightly from one shoulder.
He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away. “Folk talk too much in this town,” continued. “It’s easier to keep one’s name clean by keeping one’s distance.”
“Then they must talk a great deal of me!” you joked, but your smile didn’t quite each your eyes.
“Do they?” he frowned.
You shrugged. “A woman who keeps company with no husband, who laughs too loudly, who reads more than she sews—they’ll make their stories. It doesn’t matter what’s true.”
Bucky stopped mid-step, and you continued on before pausing as well, looking over your shoulder at him with a confused tilt of your head.
Guilt crept through his veins like cold water. He had thought wicked things of you. He had called you a witch—an enchantress. But hearing you now, so calm and painfully human, that belief began to crack.
Maybe you weren’t wicked.
Maybe all along you were just a woman—kind, bright, and far too good for his suspicion.
But still. What if this was part of your spell? What if your words were meant to draw pity from him, to pull him closer until he could no longer tell right from wrong?
His heart and mind warred, leaving his tongue caught somewhere in the middle.
“I’ve heard what they say,” he admitted quietly. “But… I don’t believe it.”
Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie.
You looked at him then, surprised. “You don’t?”
He didn’t say anything. His eyes were completely locked on yours. All he did was shook his head.
Then, you smiled. Honest and genuine.
“That makes me happy, Mr. Barnes.” you stepped ahead again, nodding your head towards the road. “Come,” you urged gently. “We’re nearly to my door.”
The two of you walked in silence after that, save for the rhythm of your steps and the soft creak of the basket you carried.
When you reached your cottage, you stopped at the gate, pushing it open with a small creak.
“Thank you for walking with me,” you smiled. “It was kind of you.”
Bucky nodded. “Of course,” but he didn’t move to leave. His hand rested on the post beside him. He wanted to bid you goodnight, but in all honesty, he did not want to go.
A faint crease formed between your brows. “Mr. Barnes?” you asked gently. “Is something the matter?”
He swallowed, forcing himself to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Only—” he stopped, uncertain what truth he could give that wouldn’t damn him.
You hesitated, turning your head to your house for just a second before looking back at him. “Would you like to come in?” you asked at last. Your voice was careful and hesitant, but still carried warmth as it always did.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at you, at the hand you rested on the latch, at the door just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t. A woman alone, the town full of watchful eyes…
It would be all it took to seal both your fates in gossip and ruin.
But just the thought of stepping away from you, of leaving you here, all alone and helpless. It felt painful.
“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, though it sounded less like refusal and more like a confession.
You smiled faintly. “Then I won’t press you.”
He bowed his head, his jaw clenched and his body stiff. “Good evening, Miss.”
“Good evening, Mr. Barnes.”
And as you turned, his eyes followed you. The faint lamplight from inside your cottage spilled out across the porch. Each step you took away from him was like a knife driving deeper in his chest—a torture method performed by you. Denying you felt like he was punishing himself.
“Wait.”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The door remained half open, warm light curling around you like an angel being welcomed into heaven. “Yes?”
He hadn’t meant to stop you, hadn’t meant to do anything at all, but the idea of you disappearing behind that door without another word ruined him.
“I—” he stopped, letting out a slow breath in an attempt to steady his heart. “Forgive me. It’s only… been some time since I’ve spoken so freely with anyone.”
“Then I’m glad you did,” you smiled. You turned, preparing to enter your home, but Bucky’s voice stopped you.
“May I come in?”
You turned back to him, face caught in surprise.
He stepped forward, praying he didn’t look like a desperate man aching for attention—but it was far too late for that. He stepped all the way up to the foot of your porch like a man torn between sin and salvation, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.
“Only for a moment,” he reassured, the lie slipping easy from his lips.
And when you finally nodded, stepping aside to grant him passage, it felt as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
“If you wish,” you murmured.
He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The scent of floral greeted him. The whole space was comforting, in a way that nearly unsettled him.
You moved quickly, fussing with the few things on the small table near the hearth. You straightened a stack of books, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting. It was pleasing to watch you scramble.
“Forgive the mess,” you said with a nervous little laugh, brushing your hands down the front of your dress. “I suppose I should’ve tidied up before inviting you in.”
Bucky nodded, setting his hat carefully on the edge of the table before lowering himself into a chair, watching you fuss about the room.
“You’re cute when you fret,” he said before he could think—before he could stop himself.
The words slipped out so naturally, that for a moment even he didn’t realize he had spoken them out loud. When you turned towards him, your eyes were wide, and his face and chest burned hot beneath the collar of his shirt.
“I—” he shifted in his heat. “I only meant… there’s no need to fuss, is all.”
But the damage was already done. You were smiling now, and his pulse jumped.
“Cute, am I?” you teased gently, folding your hands in front of you.
He dropped his gaze to his lap, fiddling with his hands. “It's just a word,” he mumbled.
He thought it’d grow uncomfortable from there, but what began as simple pleasantries—weather, town gossip, the harvest—turned into something comfortable, easier.
Every now and then you laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it did something terrible to Bucky’s chest. He found himself answering more freely than he’d meant to, forgetting the sin that had brought him here at all.
After a while, the candles burned low, the wax pooling near the base. You glanced toward the small basin tucked behind a curtain and let out a reluctant sigh.
“It grows late,” you announced, getting up with a groan. “I should bathe and call it a night.”
Bucky blinked, snapping himself out of whatever thought he was lost in. “Of course,” he agreed quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave—”
“Wait,” you interrupted, stepping towards him before he could reach for his hat. “You needn’t rush off.”
He froze.
You hesitated, suddenly aware of your own boldness. “It’s only… I’ve enjoyed our talk,” you admitted sheepishly. “If you don’t mind the wait, I’d like to continue once I’m done. Just a few minutes.”
Bucky’s throat felt dry, his pulse loud in his ears. Every reasonable thought told him to go—that it was improper, that the whispers would be endless if anyone saw him leave your home after dark.
And still, he sat back down, his hat untouched.
“If you wish,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
When you disappeared behind the curtain, the tension in the air seemed to close around him. The faint splash of water reached his ears, a sound that made the room feel too small and too warm.
Bucky sat rigid in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. His leg bounced restlessly, a nervous motion he couldn’t still. Every part of him screamed to leave, to do the decent, proper thing and walk out the door before his thoughts betrayed him again.
He should’ve done that from the start, and even then, he still didn’t move.
You were dangerous.
He pressed a hand to his knee, forcing it to still. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a fool.”
His eyes drifted towards the curtain again, to where your shadow moved softly beyond the light. He knew you were completely bare under there. Just one shift, one accidental slip, would expose you to him, vulnerable and raw.
“Goodness,” he muttered as his mind raced with images, each one more provocative than the last. He pictured your skin, glistening and wet from the bath. Your damp hair framing your face like a portrait of a water nymph.
He’s a coiled spring, wounding tighter and tighter with each passing second, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Bucky started to feel a growing tightness in his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing that had begun to distract him. But it was no use. His body, once again, was betraying him with his deepest, darkest desires.
And he was powerless to stop it.
He watched the curtain carefully, making sure you were still occupied with your bath. He allowed his hand to drift down to his lap as he cupped his heavy balls through the thick fabric of his pants.
He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself a slow, teasing squeeze. It was not enough—but it was a start. A small release of the pressure that’s building inside him.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you emerging from the bath, your skin flushed and rosy as water dripped down the valley between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, disappearing between your thighs.
He imagined you crawling to him, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face as you straddled his lap, as you take him into your own hand and…
This was bad. He was hard now, painfully so. He palmed himself through the fabric, strokes growing bolder and more insistent as his desire for you consumed him whole.
“I—I should go…” he grunted, hips bucking up into his hand to meet that delicious friction. “I… I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, Miss…”
“I’m almost finished, Mr. Barnes,” you called.
From behind the curtain came the faint sounds of movement—the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. Then you appeared again, composed and calm, your hair damp at the ends and your robe drawn neatly at your throat.
Bucky swallowed hard. You were the sight of temptation.
He pulled his hand away from his lap and rose at once, adjusting his stance and now unsure of what to do with his hands.
“I thought to take my leave, but—”
“I’m glad you stayed,” you interrupted, pleased.
His eyes couldn’t help but linger to your frame, the way the flimsy robe hugged your body in a way that was borderline inappropriate. He tried to force himself to look away, to meet your eyes at least, but he couldn’t.
“I shouldn’t impose,” he managed to say.
“You’re not,” you said. “It’s only talk, Mr. Barnes.”
“Talk,” he echoed.
You tilted your head, studying him from across the small room. The fire popped, breaking the silence, and before he could stop himself, Bucky took a slow, shy step forward.
You didn’t move away.
He told himself it was the candlelight playing tricks, that the warmth in your eyes wasn’t real, that it was some enchantment meant to draw him closer. But his body no longer listened to his reason. His heart beat hard in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was rough-edged.
“You’re…” he stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “You’re beautiful.”
You froze, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re kind to say so,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “And you, Mr. Barnes, you’re quite handsome yourself.”
“You… you think I’m handsome?” he asked in disbelief. “That… makes me so happy.”
He lifted a hand up before he could stop himself, his movement hesitant. His fingers hovered near your cheek, and you shuddered under his gentle touch.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he didn’t draw back. “I don’t know what comes over me when I look at you.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” you reassured as you had before.
You rest your palm against his hand, holding it steady against your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused, a testament to the hard life he’s lived. But it’s warm and strong, feeling a sense of safety and security in just a simple touch.
Bucky leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from your own. His head was spinning with your scent—the sweet aroma of your bath mingling with the unique fragrance of your skin. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted you in this very moment.
As if consumed by a powerful spirit, he closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that quickly ignited into something desperate. You sighed against his mouth, fingers curling around his wrist as you leaned into him.
You kissed him back like you knew that he was lost, utterly and completely.
His free hand came up to cup the back of your fragile neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of your hair as he deepened the kiss. He angled his head, lips moving over yours with a hunger that’s both gentle and urgent.
At this point, he no longer cared if it was a spell. His yearning for you burned too deep, too consuming to be reasoned with. Every shred of longing, every forbidden desire he had buried within himself seemed to rise to the surface, spilling into this single, perfect moment.
Consequences be damned. Prayers be damned.
And he knew he was done for the minute your body shifted against his, the damp fabric of your robe riding up your thigh as you pressed your leg against him. Whether it was intentional or not, it ruined him.
“Miss…” Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your bare skin against his throbbing, clothed erection made him shudder. “I… we shouldn’t—”
“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, his cock throbbing helplessly against your leg. “Do you find this… pleasurable?”
“No,” he grumbled—though it sounded more like a helpless plea. “Not pleasurable—not in the slightest… this—this is torture.”
His voice cracked as his hand wandered down from your cheek, to the curve of your waist hidden by the thin robe. His breath was trembling as though it hurt to speak.
“You’ve taken hold of me, Miss. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I walk through town and see nothing but you. I hear your voice in the wind, in the creak of every door… it’s as though God Himself has sent you in my mind to test me.”
He sucked in a shallow breath, his hand encircling your wrist and guiding it down to his throbbing erection. It pulsed in your hands. “I want to understand it. I want to see you and not lose myself. But I can’t. I can’t, and it’s driving me mad…”
“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Barnes,” you spoke softly, swallowing hard yet your hand didn’t move. “I apologize—”
“No apologies,” Bucky interrupted, letting out a ragged breath. “Just—touch me, please. I beg you.”
You were silent for a moment, and he was frightened that he might’ve scared you. But then, slowly, your hand started to move. Your fingers rubbed and stroked, tracing the large shape of him through the fabric.
He let out a sharp and ragged gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily into your touch—begging for more.
“That feels…” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his body surrendered to your touch. “That feels so good. Please, please don’t stop…”
Bucky’s body trembled with need, his hips rocking urgently into your palm as you continued to stroke and tease him through his straining pants. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh.
“I need… I need more. Please, I can’t…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as a shameful spurt of pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock, dampening the cloth.
You felt the wet spot spreading beneath your fingertips, the evidence of disgraceful arousal. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and curious—yet dark with desire.
“Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, your fingers still stroking, “you seem to be in quite a state. Perhaps you need help getting out of these trousers?”
“I—”
Without waiting for him to finish, you deftly unbuttoned his pants, fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged the fabric down over his hips. As his pants and undergarments peeled away, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, throbbing erection springing free.
“Oh,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his warm flesh. “Mr. Barnes… you’re—well, you’re big.”
“Squeeze it, my dear,” he breathed, body going stiff. “Please. Do not leave me too long, lest I—oh…!”
Bucky’s words died in his throat as you squeezed him gently. You marveled at the way his flesh pulsed in your grip—hot, hard, and heavy. You sunk to your knees before he could order you to, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin, and placed a soft kiss on the leaking tip.
He inhaled sharply, his fingers coming down to tangle in your hair as you lavish his aching cock with tender kisses. “Oh, mercy,” he moaned. “Y-you… you undo me.”
You let out a soft and amused hum, the sound vibrating against his dick. Your mouth parted as you took him in, your lips stretched taut around his thickness as you began to suck, tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock.
“Your mouth…!” he panted as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him.
“It’s… it’s incredible. Please don’t stop, please…” He groaned as his head fell back into pleasure. “Fuck—Lord, for-forgive… me…”
The words left him before he could catch them, shameful on his tongue. Bucky froze, breath ragged, a tremor running through him as the echo of his own voice filled the room.
Blasphemy.
He’d uttered blasphemy in a moment of weakness—of desire.
His throat tightened, his chest burning with guilt. He pressed a hand to his lips as if to seal them shut, to take the word back, but it was too late. How easily sin had found its way into him. How quick he was to forget the Lord’s name in favor of your warm mouth.
Bucky’s hips started to move on their own, rocking gently into the perfect suction of your lips. He was lost in a fog of lust, eyes hazy with desire and sin. He was drowning in the feel of your mouth around him, the way your tongue swirled and danced around his aching flesh.
He knew he should’ve felt guilty, that taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, but the pleasure was too delectable to stop.
His moans grew louder as your mouth worked his tender flesh. He could feel the pressure building, the coil of tension in his gut as his release approached. Just as he was ready to explode into your eager mouth, he suddenly pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly.
“Wait, Miss… stop—” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face a rictus of strain and effort. “We should… we should stop. This is… too much, too fast. This is wrong.” But despite his words, his hips involuntarily continued to twitch and jerk, seeking more of your warm and silky mouth.
You pulled back, your lips glistening with saliva and the first drops of his pre-cum. You looked up at him, eyes hazy with lust and confusion. “I.. I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, starting to rise to your feet. “I didn’t mean to… to push you too far.”
And as you move to stand, your robe slipped down, exposing your bare shoulder and the slight curve of your breast. The sight of your skin—exposed and bare—was Bucky’s undoing. With a strained groan and without a clear mind, his hands came up to grasp your shoulders, pulling you in and letting his lips connect to the soft skin of your neck.
You gasped. “M-Mr. Barnes!”
“Your skin… it’s perfect. Forgive me, Lord, for I am weak…” his hands slipped down your back, the damp fabric of your robe bunching under his touch as he tugged at it impatiently.
Even as he whispered prayers for forgiveness, his body refused to listen—driven by want, by need, by something he could not control.
His hand found the sash of your robe, tugging at it roughly and loosening the knot. The robe slipped down further, sleeves falling off your shoulders, your waist, until the garment pooled around your ankles.
He leveled to his knees, his lips trailing over the curve of your breasts, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin gently as his hands roamed all over your bare body greedily. Every movement felt like worship, each brush of his fingers a confession of how deeply you had crushed him.
Your hands tangled in his hair. “M-Mr. Barnes,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… I thought you wished to… end this?”
But Bucky was beyond the point of no return. He looked up at you—his eyes once vulnerable and confused—now dark and intense, the blue irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.
“I need you,” he growled. “I can’t stop. Not when I’ve seen the beauty of your naked skin, the feel of your soft flesh. I must have you—all of you, or I’ll die.”
Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you looked down at him. There was something dangerous in his eyes—an intensity that both frightened and drew you in. You could see the strain in him, the battle between restraint and surrender, and somehow, you wanted to be the one to unbind him from it.
“Yes,” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper, “yes, Mr. Barnes. Take me. Have me. I am yours.”
And just like that, something wild flashed in Bucky’s eyes—a feral, unrestrained joy.
In one desperate motion, he rose from the floor and gathered you into his arms, holding you close as though he had been starving for the feel of you. His steps carried a strange certainty, as if he already knew the way through your home, as if a stronger force was guiding him—his mind no longer his own.
When he reached the bed, he did not slow. He allowed you to fall back onto the mattress, crawling over you before you can even catch your breath. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him—body trembling with a mix of fear and hunger.
As Bucky settled between your thighs, you felt the hard and insistent press of his arousal against your bare pussy.
“Mr. Barnes,” you hesitated, swallowing hard. “Tell me… have you ever been with anyone before?” Your voice was soft, unsure. You could feel the raw, untempered heat of him, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed in a way that bordered on madness.
“I—no,” he managed, the word breaking rough in his throat. “I am pure. I’ve never…” He faltered, voice low with shame, as though admitting it were a sin in itself.
Your expression softened, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow.
“Are you certain, Mr. Barnes?” you asked quietly. “Certain you’d risk so much… with someone like me?”
“I would risk far worse,” he confessed, voice shaky. “If it meant feeling this… if it meant having you.”
You smiled as you leaned up, your lips meeting his in a soft and tender kiss. As your lips met, you whispered softly against his mouth.
“Give it to me, Mr. Barnes. Give me everything you have. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, around me. Consume me until there’s nothing left but the two of us and this moment.”
Bucky's eyes widened with hunger the minute your words reached his ears. With a hoarse groan, he moved forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss that stole the very breath from your lungs.
As he kissed you, he began to tear at his own clothing with urgency, buttons flying in his haste to divest himself of the barriers between them. He wrenched his shirt over his head, the fabric straining and then ripping as he tugged it off. His belt hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down his thighs.
“Need you,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat around me… to know you’re real and not some vision come to haunt me.”
“I’m not a vision, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his back. “I’m real.”
“That are you are,” he agreed huskily, grabbing his bare cock in his hands and pressing it up against your warm folds.
"Forgive me, Lord," he panted, his body shuddering as dick throbbed against your slit. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. But I cannot resist this temptation any longer. I must have her, must lose myself in her, or surely perish."
The words were a desperate, strangled prayer, a final appeal to divine mercy before he surrendered completely to the devil of his desire.
After his unholy prayer, he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a groan at the feel of your wet heat. You arched your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his swollen head caught.
“Have mercy, Mr. Barnes…” you whimpered, “please, be gentle—”
“I’ll try with all that’s left of me,” he grunted, already pushing past your entrance with a slow roll of his hips. “God help me, but I can’t swear to it.”
And after his unholy promises, he rolled his hips forward, pushing more of his thick length inside you, stretching you around him inch by excruciating inch. He tossed his head back in a moan as your tight, slick walls enveloped him.
“You’re… you’re so big!” you gasped, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can take it all… oh! Mercy, please—”
“You can do it,” Bucky encouraged, his voice almost hypnotic. “Every inch of me is going to fit inside you. I’ll make sure of it.”
His words were a sinful promise, a filthy incitement that only spurred him on.
“Breathe through it, my little dove. Breathe through the stretch, the burn, the pleasure. Take me inside you, all of me, every last bit of my aching, throbbing length. Let it reshape you, mold you… fuck, ruin you… for any other man.”
Bucky grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting them up slightly so he can drive his thick shaft deeper into your tight heat. He moved like a man possessed, moved like he no longer was in control of his own body.
“I can’t…” you whimpered helplessly. “Please, slow down! It’s too much… too fast!”
Your hips bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to accommodate the relentless invasion even as your body struggled to adjust to his considerable size.
But Bucky was a man lost in desire and lust that overwhelmed his last vestiges of control. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled.
“You say that, little dove…” he grunted, “yet your greedy little cunt is trying to swallow me whole. I can feel every bit of it—as if you’re begging for a good, honest man like me to fill you up.”
You sniffled under his crude words, yet it was something about his voice—raw and hungry—that made your body tremble with pleasure, walls fluttering around him.
“Ohhh, that’s it,” he groaned at the feeling.
He tightened his grip on your thighs, pushing them up and back as he leaned over you, his body nearly folding you in half.
He positioned your smooth legs over his shoulders, the back of your knees resting against his chest. In this new position, a sloppy mating press, he’s able to plunge into you even deeper.
“God…” his hips piston relentlessly, the slap of skin against skin filling the room as he took you in such a dirty position. “I want to fuck you and burn for it.”
You could only moan helplessly beneath him. Your hands clutched at his biceps, feeling his muscles as he moved over you—claiming you, owning you. You’ve never felt so utterly filled and defiled—nonetheless on a man’s cock.
It’s terrifying.
It’s exhilarating.
And yet, you want more.
“I want…” he growled, hands tightening around your waist as he fucked deeper into you. “I want to give you my child, little angel. I want to flood your womb with my seed. I want to fill you with new life. I want… God, I want to make you mine.”
Each word was a dark and filthy promise. It was as if he had no control over his own mouth as he declared his deepest and most base desires. With each thrust, he ground deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he panted, his breathing hard. “To be mated with you like this, to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock, begging to be bred. It’s been my longest dream, little angel.”
His eyes—wild and blazing with lust—bored into yours as he loomed over you, hips driving into you faster and deeper.
“I’ve fallen asleep each night, only to wake with the phantom feel of your legs wrapped around me…” he tried to speak between moans and ragged breaths, every word coming out like a desperate whine.
“I imagined your nails raking down my back as I fucked you into oblivion… and now, here we are—fuck, lost in the… the throes of passion—on the brink of creation itself…”
His voice pitched higher as he babbled on, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you uncontrollably. The sensation was growing unbearable.
“I-I am yours…” you moaned, barely getting the words out. “I am yours, if… if you will have me so.”
Bucky’s body tensed above you. “Yes—that’s it, little dove…” his hips started to jerk and stutter, losing their rhythm as the overwhelming sensation of his release consumed him.
“Fuck, I can’t…. I’m going to…” he panted, voice rising higher and frantic as his cock pulsed inside you.
The sensation was overpowering as a delicious, torturous pressure started to build at the base of your spine with each erratic thrust. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his back, your body arching to meet his as he lost himself completely.
“Yes, Mr. Barnes, yes!” you cried, your voice breaking into a moan as your cunt spasmed around him, releasing your own pleasure. “Give it to me, give me everything you have. I want to feel you coming inside me, filling me, claiming me…”
Bucky threw his head back and let out a strangled moan, the poor bed creaking and crying as his hips moved relentlessly—pounding into you deeper, harder. Then finally, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt as his orgasm came—blissful and hot.
You gasped as you felt his cock pulse inside you, releasing thick ropes of his pent-up seed. It felt like an endless flood, like he was saving himself just for you.
For a long moment, you remain locked together, Bucky's hips pressed tight against yours as you both trembled and shuddered. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Your body was still fluttering and clenching around his half-hard cock, as if reluctant to let him go.
“You’re warm,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “I could hold you like this forever and not tire.”
You hummed against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I… like this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing small patterns along his arm. “Just being near you, Mr. Barnes—”
“Please,” he interrupted firmly. “No need for pleasantries, especially after how I’ve undone you.”
A brief silence fell, tense and uneasy, making your heart flutter despite the closeness you had just shared.
You lifted your eyes to his, voice small so small and cautious, as if you were testing him.
“I… I love you, James,” you whispered.
“You… love me?” he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and awe.
“Yes,” you said, pressing closer against him. “I cannot hide it any longer. My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”
A low, choked sound escaped him—part sigh and part laugh. “By God… you’ve undone me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.
“And… what of my friend, Steve Rogers?” he asked quietly, hesitant. “Do you… feel anything for him? Or is this… only for me?”
You blinked, taken aback by the question.
“James,” you started softly, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek, “you have nothing to fear. My heart has been yours for some time. No one else…” your words faltered, but your eyes were steady and full of truth. “…no one else holds it.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your arm.
“I see,” he grunted. A shadow passed over his eyes. “There will be… rumors, you know. Whispers in the streets, questions in every corner of Salem.”
You tilted your head, a faint and defiant smile tugging at your lips.
“Let them speak,” you said softly, brushing a hand along his. “They do not know us. They cannot know what is here, between you and me.”
He frowned. “You’re not afraid?”
“I am not afraid,” you whispered, leaning closer until your forehead rest against his bare chest.
“Not while I am with you.”
The morning light slanted through the cracks of the shutters.
Bucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle mess of shame and obsession. Every thought from the night before clawed back into his chest. Each memory like a needle pricking at his conscience.
He felt… tainted.
A sinner.
Unworthy.
The warmth of your body against his, the softness of your hands, the tight feel of you—it was all lodged in his mind, a sin he could not wash away.
Bucky twisted the blanket around his fists, muttering under his breath.
It is wrong. All wrong. She is a witch, I am certain. No woman could draw a man to her heart so completely without dark craft.
The thought made him shiver. He shivered in fear, in desperate denial. You told him you loved him. You opened your heart to him. And here he was, lying in bed and hating himself.
It cannot be love.
It cannot be me who desires her so.
It must be your doing.
He rose stiffly from the bed, pacing the small room as though movement could dislodge the images from his mind. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, muttering prayers that could no longer help him. “God, forgive me. God, forgive me…”
He hated himself for the longing that still burned in his chest. Every glance he remembered, every confession from the night prior, it fed both the fuels of desire and disgust. He tried to tell himself he had been fooled, that it was all enchantment, yet a small, trembling part of him knew the truth.
He had given his heart willingly, though he would never admit it aloud.
Bucky’s boots crunched against the dirt road. The town had begun to stir—vendors laying out their goods, housewives exchanging greetings—but to him, it all blurred. His hands were still shaking, his breath uneven.
Steve stood near the well, speaking with a few men. He looked as he always did—steady, good, and unwavering. A man untouched by sin.
A man who hadn’t been ruined by a single night’s weakness.
He should know. Steve would understand. Steve would see the danger. He had to.
“Steve,” Bucky called out.
Steve turned, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of his friend. “Bucky. You look as though you’ve not slept a wink. What’s the matter?”
“I need to speak with you,” he said sharply. “Alone.”
“This again?” Steve frowned.
With a reluctant sigh, he nodded and stepped away from the others, following him to the side of the road beneath the shade of an old elm.
“What is it?” Steve asked, almost impatient. “You’re pale as a ghost.”
Bucky dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’ve sinned,” he muttered. “God help me, I’ve sinned, Steve.”
Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing, letting Bucky continue.
“It’s her,” Bucky spat out suddenly, voice shaking. “She’s bewitched me. She must have. There’s no other way—no other way a man like me could…” he stopped himself, choking on the words—on the memory of your touch and the way his heart had broken open for you.
Steve’s face hardened—not in anger, but in warning. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the square where others milled about.
“Bucky,” he said slowly, carefully, “you need to watch your tongue.”
Bucky looked at him, confused.
“Witchcraft talk is dangerous,” Steve continued. “You know what this town does to women accused of it. Even a whisper—just one—can turn a neighbor into a mob. If word got out, she’d have no hope of mercy.”
“But Steve, you don’t understand. It feels like—”
“I do understand,” Steve cut in firmly. “I’ve seen what happens when men let their feelings twist into something ugly. Whether or not you believe she’s bewitched you, keep it to yourself. For her sake. For yours.”
Steve stepped back with a tired sigh. “I should get going. There’s work to be done,” he added, turning to leave.
“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, the name stuck in his throat like a plea.
Steve stopped, looking over his shoulder.
Bucky’s chest heaved as if the very words were clawing their way out of him. “It wasn’t me,” he rasped, hands clenching at his sides. “I swear to you, Steve, it wasn’t of my own will. She… she used her spellwork—she must’ve. She drew me in like some poor creature to the flame.”
“What—”
“She looked at me,” Bucky continued painfully. “Just looked, and I followed. As though I’d no mind of my own. She bid me come inside… and I went. Like a fool, I went.”
The memory of your voice, soft and warm, wrapped around him again like smoke. His throat tightened and his heart started to hurt—as if his own words were torture.
“She whispered to me,” he went on, trembling now, “and it was as though every prayer I’d ever known fled from my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I was hers before I even crossed her threshold.”
“Bucky…”
“She touched me,” Bucky pressed, voice going louder. “She took me in, bewitched me so I couldn’t turn away. And before I knew it…” He let out a sharp, broken breath, his gaze unfocused as the night before bled into the present. “I was in her arms. I was one with her.”
The words were barely free of his tongue before regret crashed through him.
Steve’s face changed—subtle, but enough to knock the air from Bucky’s lungs. The furrow of his brow deepened, his mouth parted ever so slightly, a look of horror flickering in his eyes.
Bucky’s stomach twisted at the sight.
He hadn’t meant to say it like that.
God, not like that.
Those words—they weren’t the truth. He’d painted you as some siren, some witch who’d snared him in your web… when the truth was always there, lingering beneath the surface.
Bucky wanted you.
Every step he had taken towards your door, every shuddering breath, every kiss—it had been his choice. His own hunger. His heart. And yet, here he stood, spitting out lies to his oldest friend because the truth was too frightening to hold.
Because admitting it would mean facing the sin he could no longer call witchcraft.
You fool, he thought bitterly.
You’ve damned her with your cowardice.
And worse—he’d damned himself for loving you.
Steve’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Bucky…”
Panic prickled up Bucky’s spine. “Steve—wait,” he stammered, his hands lifting slightly, as if he could grab the words back out of the air. “I didn’t mean—what I said—it wasn’t…” His mouth worked, but nothing coherent followed.
Steve’s expression hardened, the faint horror melting into something grim.
“Bucky,” he began, “if what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t something we can keep between us. You know what must be done. We’ve got to tell the townsfolk. The minister. Someone.”
“No!” the word tore from Bucky’s throat. “No, Steve, wait. I—”
“You just said she bewitched you,” Steve cut in. “That she took you into her home and… ” he faltered a little, uncomfortable, “… bound you to her will. That’s not something we can ignore. It’s witchcraft, Bucky.”
Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. His palms were slick. “I spoke out of turn,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was confused, that’s all. I—”
Steve shook his head. “You were frightened. I heard it in your voice. The whole town’s been on edge since the last trial. If what you say is true, they’ll want to act before more harm comes to anyone else.”
Bucky felt the world cave in beneath him, the morning air suddenly too thin, too sharp, too difficult to breathe in. The noose of his own making was tightening—no, not a noose. He could see it too clearly in his mind.
It was flame.
It was rope bound at your wrists.
It was a wooden stake planted in the dirt of the square, kindling stacked high and dry at your feet.
The townsfolk didn’t forgive witches. They burned them. They’d burn you.
Bucky swallowed hard, grabbing his friend’s arm in a tight grip. “Steve, no, you don’t understand—”
Steve froze at the desperation in his voice, but it wasn’t the words that made his blood run cold. It was the look in best friend’s eyes.
Wide. Wild. Half-mad.
Bucky’s pupils were blown wide, breath sharp and uneven—looking exactly like a man possessed. He looked less like the boy Steve had grown up with and more like someone under a wicked spell.
“Bucky,” Steve whispered, almost frightened.
Bucky shook his head, his grip tightening. “She didn’t—she didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t tell them, Steve. Promise me.” His voice cracked, raw and frantic.
But to Steve, it only confirmed the worst. The town had seen it before—men caught under spells, their minds turned to ash. His friend’s eyes were full of fever. Bewitched. It had to be.
“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, prying his arm free. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure they undo whatever she’s done. I swear it.”
Bucky’s face went pale. “Steve, don’t.”
But Steve was already stumbling back, fear bleeding through his voice. “I’ll get help,” he reassured. “They’ll know what to do. They’ll save you.”
And before Bucky could stop him, Steve turned and ran—feet pounding against the dirt road, heading straight for the square where a single whisper could set the whole town aflame.
Bucky stood frozen for a breath. The morning air stung like ice in his lungs.
He had lost control of the story.
And now, the town would come for you.
The night air was sharp, the smell of dirt and woodsmoke filling his nostrils.
Bucky walked the narrow path behind the square, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, boots crunching against the gravel. His thoughts were a storm—loud and relentless. His walks were meant to steady his mind, but it was impossible.
“James!”
He froze.
Your voice, breathless and shaken.
He did not want to turn, but his body betrayed him once again. You came stumbling towards him through the shadows, skirt gathered in your hands, hair disheveled from the hurried walk. There was a look on your face that nearly undid him—a look of fear, confusion, and blinded trust that made his chest ache.
“James,” you gasped again, clutching at his sleeve as soon as you reached him. “The town is cruel. People are talking about me!”
Your words tumbled out, scared and shaky.
“Whispers at the market… mothers pulling their children away. They’re saying I—” your breath hitched, “… that I’ve bewitched someone. That I’ve done something wicked.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
You took a step closer, gripping his arm tighter. “James, you know me. You know me. I would never—”
“I know,” he cut you off gently, still looking down. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”
You stared up at him, and although he wasn’t looking at you, you searched his eyes for the warmth that had once made you feel safe. But all you found was a storm.
“We could go,” you whispered suddenly. “We could run away—tonight. Just you and me. No more whispers. No more cruel eyes. Just… us.”
Bucky’s expression softened at your words. A fragile, aching longing broke through the panic—like he wanted to say yes. Like he wanted to take your hand and never look back.
But then, his jaw tensed, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I… can’t.”
Those two simple words made your heart drop in your stomach. “Can’t?”
“I’ve a name here. A life,” he whispered, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bear to see your heartbreak. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. It’ll… only make it worse for the both of us.”
Tears burned in your eyes, your grip on his sleeve faltering just slightly. “James, they’ll destroy me.”
But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes stuck somewhere over your shoulder, looking at anything but you. The evening wind tugged at his coat, cold and cruel, and still he stood there—silent.
“James,” you choked out, your voice breaking around his name. “After all we shared… last night, the walks, the bench by the church—was it all nothing?”
God help him, he almost wished you truly were a witch—so you could cast a spell on his tongue, force the words out of him, make him say something instead of standing there like a coward.
“I thought—” your voice cracked again, “I thought what we had meant something to you.”
His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words so quiet they almost broke apart in the air, almost as if he didn’t say them at all.
You took a shaky step closer, desperate. “Did you love me, James? Even for a moment?”
Finally, finally, he looked at you. His lips parted, the confession falling like a death knell.
“Yes.”
A pathetic sound escaped you—a choked sob, broken and small. The sound struck him right in the heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach you, to hold you, to run away with you.
But then, you let get of his sleeve.
And before he could reach for you, before he could even think to make it right, you turned and ran—your figure swallowed by the night as your sobs trailed behind you like a wound he had carved himself.
Bucky was a hollow man by the time he made his way back towards his small home. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door, drown in silence, and pretend none of it—none of you, ever happened.
“Bucky!”
The familiar voice cut through the dark. He turned to find Steve jogging towards him, lantern swinging in his hand, face grave and pale beneath its flickering light.
“They’ve found her,” Steve said breathlessly when he finally reached him.
Bucky’s blood went cold. “What… what do you mean, they’ve found her?”
“They’ve taken her to the square,” Steve replied, catching his breath. “Said they caught her trying to run. The magistrate’s called for a trial, burning her at dawn. They’ll do the… the preparations tonight. You shouldn’t miss it.”
Bucky shook his head almost violently, stepping back. “No,” he rasped. “No, Steve, I can’t—”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “You have to.”
“I can’t,” Bucky bit out, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me—”
“It’s for your own good,” Steve snapped, firmer this time. “You were the one she bewitched, Buck. You said so yourself. Everyone is expecting you. You can’t just hide away now.”
Bucky’s throat closed up. His own words were being thrown back at him like chains, binding him to something he could no longer control.
Steve reached out, fingers curling around his arm, unyielding. “Come on,” he urged, tugging him forward. “You have to be there. It’s your duty to the town.”
The square was awash in torchlight, a cruel glow that seemed to swallow the night whole. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, cast long by the gathered townsfolk—faces tight with fear, with hunger for someone to blame.
Bucky’s stomach lurched when he saw you.
Your wrists were bound behind your back, rope biting into your skin. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled and loose, haloed in the torchlight. Horror was crawling up his throat like bile. You looked so small against the wood, your face filled with dread. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in your shoulders, the way your chin lifted just slightly, as if refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.
But once your eyes met his, you broke down immediately.
Tears began to streak down your cheeks, catching in the firelight, and your voice was hoarse and raw—likely from screaming beforehand.
“James!”
Everyone turned to him at the sound of your voice.
You struggled against the ropes, shoulders straining, eyes wide and desperate as they locked onto his. “James, please—please, tell them! Tell them I’ve done nothing!”
Bucky froze where he stood, breath punched from his chest. His heart screamed for him to move, to tear you down from that post and hold you. But his legs—his coward’s legs—refused.
The magistrate stepped forward, robes sweeping against the ground, his voice deep.
“Do not heed her words, boy,” he intoned. “Do not let the devil’s tongue sway you. It is all part of her deceit. A witch’s plea is honeyed venom.”
The townsfolk murmured their agreement, and it made Bucky sick.
“James!” you sobbed again, your voice hoarse, trembling. “Look at me—look at me! You know me!”
Your voice split through the square like a bell tolling for the damned.
“Don’t,” Steve hissed, stepping close to him. “Buck, don’t listen.”
Bucky’s wide eyes snapped to his friend. “Steve—”
“Don’t let her words get in your head,” Steve pressed, voice low but firm. His grip on Bucky’s shoulder was iron. “That’s what they do. They twist your heart, make you doubt yourself. You said it yourself, she bewitched you. You can’t fall again.”
Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but just as he was about to…
“Tonight,” the magistrate interrupted, lifting his hand as if presenting you to the crowd, “we bear witness to the corruption festering in our midst. A woman consorting with darkness. A woman who ensnared a man of this town in her devil’s grasp.”
The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers growing louder.
The magistrate turned to Bucky. “James Barnes,” he declared, “you are the one who bore witness. Step forward.”
You finally stilled.
The wailing that had been pouring out of you—your pleading, your begging—died on your tongue. Slowly, your head lifted, tear-streaked face glistening in the torchlight as your gaze found him again.
No.
You couldn’t believe it.
“Witness…?” you breathed.
Bucky’s boots felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he took that first step forward. His pulse was beating loud in his ears, his chest burning as though the pyre beneath your feet was already alight.
He couldn’t look at you—but he could feel your pain.
Your tear-stained cheeks went still. Your shoulders stopped shaking. The frantic, wild panic in your eyes bled away, leaving only something worse.
“James,” you whispered, his name breaking on your tongue.
It wasn’t a plea anymore.
It was disbelief.
It was betrayal.
He dared to glance at you then—and the look on your face carved straight into his chest.
The magistrate continued. “This woman, accused of witchcraft, shall face the Lord’s judgment by flame. Let the fire cleanse her wickedness—”
But your voice tore through his words, desperate, as if it could save you.
“I’m with child!”
The square fell silent.
For a moment, not even the wind dared to move. The flames waiting at the base of the pyre crackled softly, the only sound between you. You weren’t shouting at the magistrate. You weren’t appealing to the crowd.
You were looking straight at him.
At Bucky.
“Yours,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “James… it’s yours.”
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a fever. The magistrate stiffened, his hand tightening on the torch. A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth. Someone whispered “witch’s spawn” like a curse, and soon the words spread in terrified murmurs through the mass of faces.
The magistrate’s face blanched.
“Witch… seed,” he hissed. “This cannot be allowed to live. An unholy union—taint upon the town…”
“Lord preserve us,” someone muttered.
“She and her child will doom us all!
Bucky’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly brought him to his knees. His lungs burned. He couldn’t look away from you—your tear-streaked face, the trembling in your jaw, the desperation in your eyes.
This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t a witch.
This was you. Carrying a piece of him.
But the magistrate’s voice cut through the cold air. “Light it.”
The torch was lowered. The dry wood caught, flames licking upward, crackling hungry and bright.
“No!” Bucky roared, running forward. Steve grabbed him by the arms before he could reach the stake, dragging him back as he thrashed like a man possessed.
“No, don’t—stop!”
The fire climbed higher and higher, smoke curling thick into the air, swallowing your figure in its angry orange and gray glow. Your scream split the square, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Bucky fought harder, his boots scraping against the dirt as he tried to free of Steve’s grip.
You gasped for breath through the smoke, your skin bathed in firelight. And then your eyes found his.
For a moment, for one agonizing moment, you smiled.
Your lips parted, trembling, your soot-streaked face softened at the sight of him.
Bucky believed, in the back of his mind, that you were going to forgive him despite everything. At least, with your forgiveness, he might’ve been able to rest.
“She’s not burning…” the magistrate muttered, voice tight with fear.
“It is true,” you finally confessed. “I am a witch. But I never cast a spell on anyone. Not on you, James. My love for you…” you coughed, the smoke choking your lungs, “it was real. It always was.”
The crowd stirred, panic sweeping through them as the flames climbed but left your body untouched.
You did not burn. You did not turn to ash.
No. You remained.
Your voice grew louder, cutting through the crackle of the fire.
“You betrayed me, James. You took my heart straight from my bare chest and crushed it beneath your clean boots.”
Your smile twisted now—no longer gentle.
“I shall return. And I will seek my reprisal through this town—starting with you.”
Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, and a sob tore through his chest. He clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking as he stared at what he had done.
“I will start with your body—just as you took mine,” you vowed, your promise ringing through the smoke.
“I will take your hands, your left arm, the one that touched me so tenderly. Then I will take your mind—until it’s nothing but a shattered thing. Until you cannot remember your own name… or who you ever were.”
You glanced at Steve. “Until you cannot remember your own dear friend.”
Bucky’s knees trembled, and the heat of the fire did nothing to warm the icy dread in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching towards the smoke, toward the golden glow of your eyes—but there was nothing.
“Please, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I—I loved you! It is true! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The flames hissed and crackled, but the figure they had enveloped no longer stood there.
You were gone.
“She’s vanished!” someone cried.
“Witch! Sorcery!” another shouted, pointing at the empty stake.
Bucky’s legs felt like lead. He could only stand frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking. The fire that had licked at your body minutes before now crackled harmlessly against the empty wood.
All around him, chaos erupted—people shouting, running, collapsing in fear—but Bucky barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the stake.
The place where you had stood, screaming, pleading, burning… was now nothing but scorched wood and lingering smoke.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop seeing you, the golden glow of your eyes, the firelight dancing over the face he once pressed kisses to.
Bucky stood rooted, the embers at his feet and the ghost of smoke in his lungs, unable to tear his eyes from the scorched stake.
He had spoken the words that sent you there.
He had watched you burn.
And underneath the grief, a colder thing took hold—dread.
He had hurt you, the woman he loved, and in the silence that followed your vanishing, he felt your promise pierce through the night like a living thing.
The town scattered into the dark in panic, and Bucky was left alone on the square, palms slack at his sides, heart pounding with the terrible certainty that what he had done would not be forgiven—and that soon, he would know just how you meant to make him pay.
holy hell this was so long. thank you so much for sticking through the end <3 thank you @houseofhyde for this meme because this was literally bucky i fear.
🏷️ — @flockoff-featherface @chateaubarnes @unificsation @firingstars @barnesonly @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @wildflowersandvibranium @its-in-the-woods @iamthatonefangirl @opheliabbarnes @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover @54nboo
Absolutely loved this! It completely made my day ❤️
DIRTBAG BUCKY EDIT !!!!!!!
inspired by “two tickets to iron maiden” by @superbassbuck thank you for creating him i dream about dirtbag bucky
this is amazing 👏 🤩

